For Faughie's Sake (9 page)

When I went into the shop, Jenny was busy serving a young girl, or what looked, from the back, like a young girl. Up close it was clear she was a rather more mature lady with an overperky boob job and lashings of botox. To complete the look she also had a fluffy wee puppy in her huge Dolce and Gabbana handbag. They were obviously discussing the pup, or at least the woman was. Jenny seemed, by her body language, not to give a toss.

‘And there are quite a few interesting crosses,’ the woman lectured Jenny, ‘a poodle and Labrador, that’s a labradoodle. A Bichon Frisé and Jack Russell, which I have to tell you is absolutely adorable, they’re called Jacky Frost. Isn’t it cute? I nearly got one of those but then I found my little Vivienne; she’s the best, aren’t you, darling?’ she said, pulling the dog out of the handbag. ‘She’s half-cocker spaniel and half-poodle. She’s my beautiful little Cockapoo.’

‘Eh?’ said Jenny, barely managing to keep a sneer at bay, ‘cock a what?’

‘Cockapoo. She’s a designer breed. I’m not sure if you’d have designer dogs this far north.’

‘We have a different name for them in the Highlands.’

‘Really?’ said the woman, dangling the Cockapoo above her face. ‘D’you hear that Vivienne? You have a Highland name. So what would you call her then?’

‘Ach,’ said Jenny, ‘we just call it a mongrel.’

She slapped an expensive brand of cigarettes on the counter and smiled sweetly. ‘Nine pounds thirty please.’ With a designer yelp Vivienne was shoved back in the bag, the cash was handed over and the woman flounced out of the shop.

I waited a moment and said, ‘Thank God I stopped smoking. Nine pounds thirty! Is that how much it costs for a packet of fags now?’

Jenny burst out her malicious tee hee laugh, ‘It is if you buy them here.’

I gave her a disapproving stare and then joined in with the tee heeing.

‘She won’t be back, you know.’

‘Pffff,’ said Jenny, ‘I’m the only place that stocks her fancy fags.’

‘You’re the one who told me we have to be nice to the visitors.’

‘She’s not a visitor, she’s filum company, can you not guess? And anyway, how else am I supposed to have any fun around here? Yes, can I help you, sir?’

A crowd of customers had come in. Jenny’s shop was going like a fair. I hung about in one of the aisles, pretending to be interested in her latest marketing wheeze, a ‘Brussel sprout event’, while she serviced the lunchtime rush.

‘And what exactly is a Brussel sprout event?’ I asked her, between customers.

‘Och, it’s just a bit of nonsense. For the tourists and filum people, it’s more what they’re used to. Posh shops don’t have a sale, they have an “event”.’

‘You mean like a blue cross event?’

‘Exactly. Except mine is sprout themed. D’you want a kilo? They’re 20 per cent off.’

‘Eh, no thanks.’

‘Nah,’ she said, making a face, ‘I can’t stand them either.’

While I lingered, customers came and went and in almost every case Jenny was able to extract information from them.

‘Are you still working on the old village up by the lochan?’ she asked some of the Global Imperial workmen. ‘Nice to be out in the sunshine. Och well, I hope this lovely weather keeps up for you,’ she chirped, ‘cheerio for now. Laters!’

When the men left and the shop was empty again Jenny began restocking her cold drinks fridge, a sure sign that she was ready to recommence gossiping.

‘Well, don’t torment me,’ she said, ‘who did you get for your B&B? Anybody famous?’

‘Six combat performers, but they seem nice enough.’

‘Handsome?’

‘Nah.’

‘Still, six fellas all to yourself. Your Jan will be getting jealous.’

I smiled, but I still wasn’t taking the bait. Time to change the subject.

‘I’ve walked Bouncer up to the wee lochan a few times and I’ve never seen an old village. Where is it?’

‘Well, it’s not a village any more, there’s only ruins now.’

‘D’you mean those oblong walls?’ I asked.

‘Aye, that’s it.’

‘I thought they were old-fashioned cattle pens.’

‘Nope.’

‘But, Jenny, I’ve seen those oblong pens other places in the Highlands,’ I argued, ‘they’re everywhere.’

‘Maybe they became sheepfolds after they burned the villagers out, but before that, they were family homes.’

‘So what are Global Imperial doing?’

Jenny rolled her eyes.

‘The magic of Hollywood,’ she sighed. ‘They’re recreating the village. They’re making a terrible mess up there. I hope they’re going to restore it but I suppose those lads will do what Global Imperial tells them. Like the rest of us.’

I wasn’t comfortable with Jenny’s bitter tone, not when Global Imperial were paying me enough to buy an exit visa and a flat in Glasgow. Another swift change of subject was required.

‘Why did you say “laters” to that workman?’ I asked.

‘Och, just a bit of banter. They’re good lads those workmen, and he’s from my old manor, Pimlico.’

‘Tell me more.’ Since she’d given up louche London years ago and returned to be buried alive in Inverfaughie, Jenny had
lived her life through other people in the village, other younger, more exciting people. People like me. But London was always an excellent topic of conversation. She’d hinted darkly about her life there, in the fleshpots of Pimlico, and had claimed she
wouldn’t die wondering.
I shuddered at what kind of weird experimental sex that might mean. It was hard to imagine Inverfaughie’s postmistress in love beads and a mini, ash from a fat spliff dropping onto her naked breasts. Breasts that were now, and had been for years, safely encased within a dark blue polyester overall.

‘Och aye, in Pimlico I was a free spirit.’

‘Really? I thought you were the manageress of Woolworths.’

‘That was just my day job. By night I turned on, tuned in and, eh, what was it again?’

Still fixated on Jenny’s bosoms I sniped, ‘Drooped down?’

During the day I hardly had time to be lonely. Every morning I walked Bouncer, cooked breakfast, washed up, changed sheets and towels, washed and cleaned, walked Bouncer again and popped down to Jenny’s before it was time to cook dinner, but something was missing.

‘Hi son,’ I said, trying to communicate a smile down the phone.

‘Who’s calling?’ said Steven, apparently for real.

‘How many mothers have you got?’ I joked.

He didn’t laugh.

Since our tiff over his boating incident I’d phoned Steven every day and always got a lukewarm reception. I wanted chummy conversation, a bit of light relief, but it became interrogation: me asking him question after question and getting nothing back. He was hiding in his dunno cave and nothing, not even that fact that I had a film star living right next door, would winkle him out. I was forced to continue as if my monologue was a dialogue.

‘The Claymores have worked with him loads; they all play poker together. They’re talking about having their poker nights here in Harrosie. That’s going to be a laugh, a house full of big rufty-tufty men and Hollywood stars. He’s a nice guy, dead down to earth. You know who Tony Ramos is, don’t you?’

‘Dunno.’

Steven had to have been impressed, it wasn’t everyone who had a film star next door, but he forced himself not to be.

‘Is everything alright, Steven?’

‘Quality.’

‘Is Gary still giving you all that overtime at the warehouse?’

‘Dunno.’

It’s simply a yes or no answer! I wanted to scream.

‘Because if you want to earn money, there’s plenty of work up here.’

Silence.

This was getting me nowhere; if I asked him any more questions he’d do his usual: start huffing and puffing and then say he had to go. The only avenue I had left to me was to give him my news and hope to sell him the wonderful benefits of living in Inverfaughie.

‘Talking of earning money, I’ve turned into quite the business-woman. I’ve even joined Faughie Council, well I had to really. D’you remember I told you about Betty Robertson?’

Nothing.

‘She was the one who came round for the inspection, you know, the one who got the rose bowl at the gala day?’

‘Please, I’m begging you, not the rose bowl story again,’ he said, ‘let it go.’ I ignored the impertinence; at least he was responding.

‘Well, she’s on the council. Betty says that with the movie in town we’re all going to be millionaires. There’s full employment in the village, lots of opportunity. Oh, and the big news is that a local girl got a part in the film.’ I tried to keep my voice light. ‘Morag Fenton, she’s playing Tony Ramos’s wife. I don’t know if you’ve met her yet?’

I hoped a reminder of the creamy-skinned, auburn-haired beauty might provoke a response, but he left this hanging in the air unanswered. At least he wasn’t denying it – that was a good sign.

‘Global Imperial want to give villagers work, put something back, that sort of thing, so if you were here for the summer you’d have your pick of jobs. Even acting, they’re looking for extras for the film. D’you not fancy trying your hand at acting? You could end up a big star like Tony Ramos.’

‘Nah … bsolutely.’

At last, I thought, an affirmative response!

‘Seriously, d’you fancy acting? I could speak to Jenny about getting you a part in the …’

‘Y … unlikely,’ he scoffed.

Steven sang this in such a tormenting taunt as to convey to me that I’d been duped by his earlier reply.

‘Even though I have a house full of cool Highland warriors and a film star next door; even though I’m up here all on my lonesome and missing you more every day, you still won’t come. Will you, Steven?’

Silence.

‘Steven?’

‘What?’

A ratty impatient ‘what’.

‘Nothing,’ I sighed.

After that there was a very long silence where we listened to each other’s angry breath.

Eventually Steven spoke. ‘That’s Gerry at the door for me, I have to go. Nice talking to you.’

‘Quality,’ I said sarcastically. ‘Let’s do this again soon.’

Jan contacted me, not for a dinner date, thank Jehovah, but to help out with the guitar group again.

I gladly agreed. It was another fundraiser, but this time the kids wouldn’t be playing their guitars. The parents had signed the contracts – Global Imperial were paying the guitar group big money for the kids as ‘supporting artistes’ in a big scene they were shooting and Jan had asked me to chaperone the girls.

The film company had already tried to recruit from the school but the headmistress had had to refuse on health and safety grounds. It seemed that although Global Imperial had plenty of supporting artistes, they were short on oldies and children. They were now specifically seeking vulnerable types and had sent scouts
round the village picking off anyone who was limbless, toothless or glaikit-looking. Jenny teased Walter remorselessly about being targeted until the scout came for her. She saw him off with her broom and literally swept the guy out the shop. I was surprised that Walter was up for it; he was becoming increasingly anti-G.I., but he said he wanted to see at first hand ‘what the sneaky bodachs were up to now’.

I expected we would be taken up to the lochan and ruined village but the bus stopped at the bottom of the hill. Parked on both sides, creating a dark narrow canyon, were the mammoth production vehicles we had become so used to seeing around the village. Beyond, the road was single track, so the film company had set up base camp here, ferrying crew and equipment up and down in one vehicle. Although it was now nearly midnight and as dark as it was likely to get, the crew moved around at an industrious mid-morning pace, working like profit-share bees. Even the air was busy with the smell of hot electrical cables, fried food and hairspray.

Jan took the boys and I took the girls as we were quickly hustled into ‘wardrobe’.

Inside there were heavy rails of elaborate period ball gowns, lush silks and velvets in every flavour of pink and green. Sadly, on this shoot everyone was to be dressed in nightclothes, so we were issued with uniformly drab, long collarless shirts.

Jan bounded off the gents’ costume bus to meet us with a big smile on his face. He wasn’t in a grubby nightshirt like the rest of us; he was in an old-fashioned top coat, knee-length boots and breeches. The breeches didn’t have a fly fastening, they buttoned down either side. Which kept drawing my eye to between the buttoned area. It could have been worse; it could have been a codpiece.

‘He’s playing one of the factor’s henchmen,’ explained Walter, ‘the dirty traitor.’

The kids laughed at Walter’s get-up too: a long goonie and a night cap. They taunted him by singing ‘Wee Willie Winkie’, which he took in good part, turning quickly towards them to scare them
and make them giggle. Walter, with his skinny blue-veined legs, looked like something out of Dickens. We all did.

‘What factor?’ I asked.

‘Patrick Sellar,’ said Walter, ‘the Duke of Sutherland’s factor for the most brutal of the Highland Clearances. Wait and see what happens here tonight,’ he said portentously, ‘just you wait.’

The Claymores were next to emerge. Most of them were in dark-shirted uniforms, like soldiers, but Danny and Will were in the same grubby nightshirts as me and the kids.

We were sorted into groups, our nighshirt group being led up to the lochan by a guy with a clipboard. It had been raining on and off for days and the bracken was soaked. I had to keep a close eye on the kids. One of them, Rachel, wandered off the path and nearly lost a welly in the bog. As we breasted the hill and caught sight of the village there was a collective gasp.

The village was completely restored, the houses rebuilt. Blackhouses, with thick stone walls and thatched roofs, now covered the ruins. Highland cattle were tethered outside. G.I. had even planted vegetable gardens in front of the houses, but when we got closer we saw the reality.

The dry stane walls of the houses were fibreglass facades. Held up with wooden frames, there was nothing behind; they were two-dimensional. Some of the grassed areas were actually artificial turf – even the cabbages they had planted were plastic. Amidst the lighting and camera hardware set out in front of the village, the crew, in fleeces and Gore-Tex jackets, stood staring back at us.

Clipboard Guy stationed groups of extras behind each of the fibreglass facades, sorting us into what seemed to be families. Me and the kids along with Walter, Danny and an old lady, became one
such unit. Rachel was perhaps not the first person to notice our demographic but she was the only person to comment. Developing her theory out loud she explained that Walter and Jean (the old lady) were grandad and granny, she and the rest of the kids were the kids, obviously, and, lastly, to my huge embarrassment, Danny and I were daddy and mummy.

‘Ok folks,’ Clipboard Guy – whose name turned out to be Tristan – said placidly, ‘take it easy for now; it’ll be a while before the scene’s ready to shoot.’

I wondered why they had brought us up if they weren’t ready. We could easily have waited on the buses. It was sheltered down there. Up here a sharp breeze blew across the hill.

‘Now,’ said Tristan, ‘can everyone see that man over there?’ He spoke to someone through his earpiece and a figure behind the cameras began to wave at us. ‘Ok, keep your eye on him and when he gives you the signal, take your shoes off and leave them here.’

The kids looked to me for clearance on this. I looked to Danny – he was, after all, a seasoned film actor – but he shrugged lightly. It must be ok. I nodded.

‘Keep watching him, and when everything’s ready, he’ll give you another signal. This time you’ll run out through that doorway and down towards the cameras. Don’t stop; keep running until you’re told to stop and whatever you do, don’t look at the camera, ok?’

I mulled this over, but everyone else agreed it was ok.

‘Remember, you’ve just woken up, you’re tired.’

The kids, used to playacting, began yawning and stretching.

‘That’s it,’ he said, ‘but your house is on fire so you have to get out quick. You’re screaming, you’re crying. You’re running for your lives.’

At this the kids began to squeal and rush around.

‘You’ll be great,’ said Tristan, moving off to the next house, ‘just don’t look into the camera.’

‘Danny,’ I whispered so that little ears wouldn’t hear, ‘what did he mean by “your house is on fire”?’

Danny laughed and shook his head. ‘No. There won’t be any actual fire. It’s shot digitally.’

‘Aww, not fair!’ Rachel and Michael grumped simultaneously.

‘CGI?’ Walter asked, showing off.

‘Yeah,’ said Danny, ‘they’ll add the flames post production.’

Taking their cue from the bigger ones, all the kids sighed and slumped in disappointment. I sighed too, with relief. With Jan off elsewhere, swanning around in his fancy breeches, I was on my own. Solely responsible for the safety of these eight small children. Up a hill in a soggy field. With no shoes on. Running around electrical equipment. In the dark.

But at least we weren’t required to pass through a flaming building. I had a horrible image of one of the kids catching fire, their skin bubbling as their long flowing nightshirt turned them into a human candle. Thank God for CGI. There wasn’t going to be any actual fire, everything would be fine…