Ma McTavish was standing at the door of her delightful (not) B&B. She didn’t look very happy.

She was holding a heavy wooden rolling pin and it looked like she meant business...

Get A Life!

By Susan Brown

Chapter 5

Previously …

In the shed was a tent.

The lawn at the end of the garden wasn’t too overgrown, as Dolly the Sheep had kept it down. I would camp overnight and make fresh arrangements in the morning.

I went to the shed, grabbed the tent bag and then, after several minutes of unladylike cursing, I managed to put the tent up. It was one of those bendy pole type tents, which was relatively easy to put together if you had a degree in engineering. I had a degree in N.A.L. (not a lot), so I had more than a few problems. But I was ready, willing and able and despite breaking yet another nail, the tent was finally up and I had accommodation for the night, all be it a bit wonky and not exactly symmetrical.

The washing facilities comprised of an outside tap and the toilet was behind a bush at the back of the garden. It wasn’t ideal, but it was much better than Ma McTavish’s house from hell.

The ground was fairly soft and that would have to be my mattress for the night.

I didn’t have much to eat, but I did have a few crumbly crackers and some cheese left from my sea journey, which seemed like ages ago, but was only a few hours ago. I ate them sitting in the entrance to the tent.

‘I will have to look for a takeaway tomorrow,’ I thought.

It was peaceful there in the garden of the cottage overlooking the fine beach and the darkening sea beyond. The sound of the sea lapping on the shore and the gentle breezes all made me feel more contented and calm than I thought that I would be after the day that I had just experienced.

As a child, I went camping a lot with the cubs so I had a fair amount of experience sleeping under canvas, or nylon as this tent was. I wanted to be in the brownies, but I wasn’t allowed…

I yawned as the sun met the sea and reflected gold and red on the water.

I had had a strange day, full of incidents and angst, but despite that, my optimism was returning.

With one final look at the setting sun and the clear darkening sky, I decided to have an early night. I had no clothes other than what I was wearing, but I would manage and then sort myself out in the morning.

As Scarlett said in Gone with the Wind, ‘Tomorrow is another Day.’

And now the story continues…

The dream was quite vivid and real, as many dreams are.

Ma McTavish was standing at the door of her delightful (not) B&B. She didn’t look very happy.

She was holding a heavy wooden rolling pin and it looked like she meant business.

Her foot was tapping, the curlers in her hair looked huge and her long pink winceyette nightdress, with yellow flowers, was painful to the eye. She had some sort of gunk on her face that was a sickly green colour. If she was hoping to improve on her wrinkly skin, no face cream in the world would do that.

‘What time do you call this?’ she asked with that whiny shrill voice that set my teeth on edge.

It was only ten in the evening.

‘Sorry, I got caught up.’

‘Sounds disgusting, we don’t want your deprived ways on our beautiful island.’

‘Don’t you mean depraved?’ I asked flippantly.

If looks could kill, I would be pushing up daisies.

‘How dare you contradict me!’

With that, she came closer and closer with that deadly rolling pin.

I turned and ran, or tried to. I was wearing a long white diaphanous dress, for some unexplainable reason and my legs got tangled up in the hem. I tripped up and fell headlong down the steps.

As I lay there, face to the ground, eye to tentacle with a passing slug, I suddenly felt a blow on my bottom where the mad woman hit me with her rolling pin…

‘Ouch,’ I shouted as I woke up suddenly, I had a distinct impression that I had not been hit with a rolling pin, but pinched on the bum…

Looking at the side of the tent, something or someone was pushing against the side. It was daylight and I could see an indistinct shape, pushing, pushing, pushing, against the side of the tent. I wondered in my vague befuddled state what it was that was pushing up against the side of the tent in that rhythmic way…

I had no weapon except my torch, which wasn’t much good as it was a small one. I had a knife and a fork my backpack, but that was outside, as my tent was smaller than a snails shell and I could only fit little me inside. I did have a teaspoon with my cup, but felt that it wasn’t going to go very far in protecting me against someone who might want to do evil and unspeakable things to me.

‘Go away you pervert,’ I shouted bravely.

I could hear nothing except some heavy breathing that seemed deep with menace. I wondered if he was deaf or something or was he some sort of psycho who got his jollies out of scaring poor defenceless people like me.

It was no good, I had to be a brave girl and go out there and confront him/her or it.

I took a deep breath and screamed ‘rape,’ fumbled with the zip, pulled it up as fast as possible and scrambled out, promptly tripping on a guy rope as I did so.

I found myself on my back facing the clear blue sky. Before I could scream again, a face appeared before my eyes and I nearly lost it.

I may or may not have mentioned it before, but I wear contact lenses, not those ones where you can wear for a month or two without changing them, but daily ones, which I have to take out every night. Well, the previous night I had taken them out.

My eyesight without lenses or glasses was worse than a myopic mole.

The face was vague, but hideously ugly.

‘Baa,’

‘Pardon?’

‘Baa,’

It was a sheep, even if my eyesight was a bit poor, even I could tell that it was a sheep.

I crawled back into my tent, fished around for my bag and then put on my glasses. Why I didn’t do that before, I wasn’t sure, call it stress if you like.

After the world got back into focus, I exited from the tent and there was the sheep, just standing there, chewing grass and looking faintly bored.

‘Hello Dolly,’ I said, ‘ how did you get in. I’m sure that I shut the gate…’

I glanced over to the gate and it was open.

Standing behind the gate, leaning on it was a man. Through the broken bars of the gate, I could see that the man was wearing a kilt and that he had rather knobbly knees. He looked about seventy and had that craggy, hills-man, look about him. I bet that he used salt with his porridge, rather than the Sassenach, softy sugar…

‘Who the hell are ye?’ he said gruffly in a Scott’s accent, which wasn’t surprising as we were technically in Scotland.

‘Erm Chloe.’

‘What sort of name is that? Ye not from then lowlands are ye, or maybe Engerland?’

He said it as if he had just stepped in some doggy poo.

‘I was born in London…’

‘I knew it. I can always tell. Sassenach’s…coming up here and ruining our lovely peaceful island and trespassing on me rightfully legal property…’

A little light went “ping” in my head.

‘Are you Finlay Cameron?’

‘Aye, that’s me. Bloody English…do ye know me?’

‘I have heard of you. I was told that you don’t live here any more, the mayor…’

‘…him and his interfering wife. Know it all’s, they are; thinking that they can run a poor man oot of his home. Anyway, my sheep is here grazing all the time and ye can’t evict her or me’

‘I don’t think that sheep have any legal rights regarding squatting and anyway, you didn’t pay your rent.’

‘That’s beside the point. How can a pooor man like me, without any pennies ter rub tergethor…’

‘I understood that you have plenty of cash in the bank.’

This was a wild shot but I had a feeling ¬—call it almost female intuition—that he was telling porkies*.

‘That’s a bare faced lie. The only money I have is for my old age.’

As he was already old, I wondered when he considered that he would qualify as being old enough to draw on this money, probably when he reached at least three figures, I assumed.

‘Well, I was told that you no longer lived here and that I was to be using it as a base for my job.’

‘And what job is that?’

‘Tourist Officer.’

He laughed derisively.

‘Another one?

‘What do you mean?’

‘We don’t want to be overrun with nasty wee tourists, takin’ up all the roads, fillin’ up the beaches, leavin’ litter everywhere. You’ll fail just like all the rest of em.’

‘Don’t you want improvements in services, decent roads, jobs for the people and money coming onto the island?’

‘What was good enough for our fathers is good enough for us.’

‘And what about the people who need jobs and haven’t got enough money like you for instance. If you had had decent income, you could have afforded to pay rent and be able not to default on payments for months?’

‘I don’t need telling what should and should not be happening here by some slip of a girl from England…’

‘I’ll have you know that my full name is Chloe Isla McKerrell and my parents, grandparents and all my ancestors are all Scottish born and bred. I was asked to come and help out because the island is struggling to keep up with the rest of the world. Kids grow up and move to the mainland as there are no jobs and the community is growing older and older, without the young people to keep the place alive. In a very few years this lovely island will have no one left to look after the aging population and that means you Mr Cameron.’

‘I’m not old; I'm in the prime of my life. I can lift a sheep above me head…’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Would you lift a sheep over your head?’

‘Because I can. Anyway, I’m away now to talk to that interfering busybody of a mayor and his stupid wife.’

With one more look at me that was full of disgust and loathing, he turned away.

‘Haven’t you forgotten something?

‘What?’

‘Dolly.’

‘Dolly?’

‘Your sheep.’

‘That’s not Dolly, its Agnes.’

‘Oh, right. Are you going to take Agnes?’

‘No, she’s happy where she is.’

‘But this is my garden now.’

‘Not if I have my way, hen!’

We a smile full of contempt for me and all that I stood for, he went off, whistling something tunelessly.

Agnes looked at me thoughtfully, while chewing some grass, seemed to sniff and then did a number two on the poor excuse of a lawn.

‘Charming,’ I said, ‘and you a lady too!’

I was in need of a loo too, but as I didn’t want to follow Agnes’s example, I wondered where I could “go”.

I looked over at the cottage and shuddered. I wasn’t going in there again without a full SWAT backup and a decontam squad.

I knew that I still had my little male hosepipe, but on a matter of principal, I wouldn’t and couldn’t just whip it out and go behind a bush or something. I could have squatted of course, but as I needed to go number twos, I didn’t much fancy that.

So, giving Agnes a wave goodbye, I picked up my ruckie and pink helmet, went out to where my pink scooter was and went in search of a public loo.

Being a seaside place, there should have been plenty of toilets available for the public use. I went up and down lots of lanes and minor roads in search of relief, but I could find no rest rooms around. It was early on the morning still ¬—about seven in fact—so I couldn’t even use a pub or café. I was starting to get desperate, but then I arrived in Halestead, the only town of note on the island. I made my way to the quay and there it was. The Ladies Toilet, open for business, although the place was still deserted apart from a few disinterested sea gulls.

I got off my scooter and ran, helmet still on, to the toilet. Modesty and good taste forbids me to go into a blow-by-blow account of what occurred inside the privacy of the toilet but suffice to say, the relief was palpable!

Now that my most pressing needs had been sorted out, I took the opportunity to have a quick wash at the sink. It was, surprisingly, not bad for a public toilet, with white tiles on the walls, clean sinks and big mirrors, there was even one of those hot air dryer thingies on the wall.

Who said that Muckle was prehistoric?

Anyway, I almost wished that there weren’t any mirrors as I looked at my reflection.

I sighed at the state of my clothes. I needed to change but I had left my things or most of them anyway at the B&B from hell. I would have to pluck up my courage and go and retrieve my belongings at some stage, but not now. I also grimaced at the look of my hair. It looked like it had been dragged through a hedge backwards.

I dragged the small brush through my hair and longed for a salon to make me look pretty or prettyish again. Even my nails, painstakingly painted before leaving London, looked like they belonged on a brick layer.

I dabbed on some foundation and applied some lippy and that made me feel a bit better. Smiling at my reflection, I decided that I would be positive, if it killed me. Chloe was a positive person and I wouldn’t let minor things like being chucked out of my accommodation and being assaulted by a sheep put me off being the best tourist Officer that Muckle had ever had.

After finishing my ablutions, I was raring to go. I was also starving hungry and I didn’t think that anywhere would be open. I was dying for a latte from Costa’s and I nice sticky bun or Danish. That was as unlikely as Finlay Cameron wearing boxer shorts under his kilt. Still, this girl was not for quitting and after leaving Pinkie the scooter where it was — lets face it, who was going to pinch a bright pink scooter? — I went for a walkabout.

I found myself on the quayside, which wasn’t very big, but had several fishing boats and small craft bobbing gently on the water. There were two pubs, a café and a rather shabby looking gift shop on the quay. Not much to work on as a tourist attraction, but I was an optimist by nature and maybe I could persuade the owners of those establishments to put a lick of paint here and there to make them look a bit more attractive to the punters.

Just then, the café door opened and a woman walked out, looked up at the sky, then licked her finger and put it up in the air rather suggestively and maybe even insultingly in other circumstances. She looked doubtful but then shrugged and then went back in the café and changed the closed sign to open.

This was all the encouragement I needed and I went over to the café and walked in.

Sadly the café’s interior reflected the outside in its shabbiness. If this was London, the health inspectors and style police would be hammering at the door with warrants and other legal stuff in order to have the place condemned and closed down.

It was a reflection on my state of mind and hunger situation that I didn’t just turn around and flee for my life. As it was, I just found the least dirty table (complete with plastic table cloth) and sat down.

A few minutes later, the waitress or owner, came out from behind some swing doors, wearing a rather out of date and slightly worn flowery dress under a stained pink check tabard. To add to her charming appearance, she had a cigarette hanging from her mouth.

She was a rather florid, plump woman, who was, I thought, quite pretty under the badly applied makeup caking her face and making her look older than her years. What she needed was a bit of exercise and to stop smoking. It would help a lot, but I wasn’t going to suggest it.

She seemed a bit surprised at actually having a customer, but she didn’t hesitate for long and she came over to the table.

‘Hi,’ I said brightly, ‘are you doing breakfasts?’

‘Aye, this is a café, that is what we’re here for.’

‘Riight, do you have a menu?’

‘No.’

This was a woman of few words. Maybe she was the strong silent type.

‘So what do you have to eat?’

‘On yon wall,’ she pointed to the wall and there in chalk it had what was on offer, which appeared to be everything fatty and chips, (baked beans optional).

I opted for a simple meal of eggs bacon and erm, chips and hoped that I wouldn’t get salmonella or raging tummy ninja’s.

I also ordered a cup of tea and I sat and drank it whilst waiting for my culinary feast.

I was in a reflective mood. Since coming to the island, things had not gone very well. I was, by nature, a glass half full rather a glass half empty type, but I was beginning to wonder if my metaphoric glass had cracks in it.

I had arrived on the Ship of Hope and I wondered if I would go on then Ship of Despair, a failure once again.

The people I had met on Muckle, apart from Angus and Sally all seemed hell bent on making my life difficult and were almost to a man and woman, objectionable, rude and self opinionated. They didn’t want change, they laughed at change. Change was something they had in their pockets and not in their souls.

Were all the people like that on Muckle, or had I just met the bad ones? I was doubting my abilities. It all seemed to be an ideal way to change my life around and do something worthwhile and rewarding. Perhaps I wasn’t cut out to be a tourist officer, charged with changing the ideal island into somewhere that attracted lots of visitors and maybe revive an economy that, even to me who struggled with my two times table as a child of fourteen, could tell was in dire need of cash injection and a kick up the proverbial backside…

‘He ye are lass.’

The plate was put down and I looked up. She actually had a smile on her face!

‘Thank you,’ I replied.

‘You’re welcome hen.’

With that she went back into the kitchen and I surveyed the plate before me.

It looked okay.

It smelt all right.

The plate was clean.

I did a few Hail Mary’s and crossed myself, which was strange as I wasn’t a Catholic, and then I took a tentative bite.

The food was delicious and I regret to say that I wolfed it down in double quick time. The place might be a disaster, style wise and the service a little off putting, but at least the meal was delightful.

After finishing, I sat back in the plastic seat and sighed. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all.

A few minutes later, the woman came back up to me. I looked up and smiled.

‘That was really nice. Thank you.’

Once again I got that brilliant smile that transformed her face completely.

‘Glad you liked it hen.’ She said picking up the plate, ‘do ye want anything more?’

‘Can I have another cup of tea please?’

‘Coming up.’

A few minutes later she arrived back with the tea. I decided to get into work mode.

‘Have you got a few minutes to chat?’

She looked around and smiled sadly.

‘I’m no overrun with customers hen. I’ll sit with ye a wee while, hang on a mo.’

She went over made herself a cup of tea and then sat down opposite me and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

‘Right, first of all my name is Chloe McKerrell…’

‘I guessed.’

‘How?’

‘Sally McD came in the other day for a snack. She told me that you were coming and why. She said that you were pretty and came from London.’

‘Lots of girls are pretty, not that I am,’ I hastened to add.

‘I say how I see. Anyway, we don’t get many visitors here and you fit the bill. So, Chloe McKerrell, what do you want with me?’

‘You said it. We don’t get many visitors here and I have the job of changing that. Can I be honest with you?’

‘Tell it how it is. I canna abide people who don’t do that.’

I took a deep breath.

‘I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, but your café isn’t exactly welcoming to the visitor. The outside, quite frankly looks shabby and the inside doesn’t look nice either…’

‘What’s good enough…’

‘Sorry, I know what you are going to say. It’s always been like that and why change things? Let me ask you a question, do you get many customers?’

‘Quite a few.’

‘And they are all locals?’

‘Aye, we don’t get many visitors to the island.’

‘If you went on holiday to another island say and you came across your café, would you go in it?’

‘Well…’

‘I can tell by your face that you realise what I am saying rings true. You wouldn’t go in it, and why? I’ll answer that one too and you can tell me if you agree. Because the appearance would put you off. Am I right?’

I could see that she was struggling with some sort of reply that would make her feel better. I had just told her that her café was a dump. I think that I would be a bit short of my own words if someone, a complete stranger at that, had told her.

‘But my food is good!’

‘I know, I have just eaten and its delicious, but nowadays it isn’t enough to have good food, it needs be eaten in a nice setting, where people feel comfortable. Sorry but this isn’t nice or comforting…’

I could see a tear fall down her cheek and I felt awful.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Me and my big mouth…’

‘No lass, you’re right. I kept moaning at Sally that we don’t get enough visitors and I obviously canna see beyond the end of my nose…’

We talked for an hour, had several cups of tea and I had a sticky bun, because I needed fortifying. Beneath the rather unkempt exterior, I found that Molly (we got on first name terms rather quickly) was an intelligent person with a shining personality who had been down for some time since her husband left her a few years back, hence her appearance and the fact that she had let her business slide. It was interesting to note, that she only had three customers in that time and that told me everything I needed to know. She needed help and hopefully, I was the girl to do that.

If only other businesses would follow her lead.

By the time I left the café, with promises of returning to give her a hand once she decided how far she could afford to go in transforming it to a desirable place go and eat, it was mid morning and there were a lot more people around.

I had wanted to visit a couple of other businesses, like the pub, which, if anything outshone, if that’s the right word, the shabbiness of the café, but I had things to do and places to go and I would have to forgo that pleasure until another day.

The next thing to do was to go to County Hall, which turned out to be little more than a large house just off the quay front and see Angus and or Sally. I wanted to have a look at my office and also tell them about my run in with the landlady from hell and Mr Cameron.

As I walked in to the town hall, I noticed a lack of activity and I did wonder if it was closed but someone forgot to lock the doors.

Here was I thinking that this would be a hive of activity, with people running around and getting stuff sorted. This place seemed so laid back; it was in danger of falling over!

I turned a corner and saw a desk. Behind the desk there was a sign saying Enquiries. Needless to say, there wasn’t anyone around. On the desk was a bell push. It said Please ring for attention on a little plate by the side of the button.

I pressed the bell but heard nothing. There would have been more activity in a sealed crypt than the Town Hall of Muckle.

I wondered around trying to find somebody, anybody to ask where I should go, as I wanted to do other things that day and I was trying my best to be proactive.

I went up some stairs, along a corridor. There were plenty of doors, a few with names like Rates, Housing, Refuse and things like that on them. All the doors were locked and I thought that a bit funny, but we were, after all, in working hours and therefore everyone should, I thought, be beavering away, nose to the grindstone and all that stuff. At the end of a corridor, I noticed door with Tourist Information Officer on it.

‘Ah,’ I said enthusiastically, ‘My new office,’

It wasn’t locked and I opened it with anticipation.

Something was blocking the door. I pushed harder and I could hear a scraping noise. I managed to squeeze through and into the office. There were boxes and junk everywhere. It looked like my new office was being used as a dumping ground and storage area for everything unwanted. There were boxes, old desks and chairs a couple of ancient, steam driven computers, several typewriters that may or may not have been new in Victorian times…you get the picture.

The room beneath the clutter wasn’t exactly on the large side, I would say 12-foot square give or take an inch or so. However, it had a nice window looking out on the road.

I pushed a few things out of the way and saw a heap of boxes that stood higher than the rest. Fighting my way over, I moved some of the boxes and beneath was what I assumed would be my desk and behind it an office chair.

I was getting somewhere now.

I was about to do some more exploration when I was interrupted.

‘Hello Chloe, found your office then?’

I turned and there was Sally in the doorway with Angus hovering behind here looking a bit stressed.

She waded in, moving this, that and the other until she was standing beside me. She smiled and then turned to Angus.

‘Be a dear and go and get us some coffees, white with one wasn’t it?’ she asked turning to me.

‘Yes please,’ I replied.

‘Off you go Angus,’

‘Yes dear,’ said the mayor sounding a bit world weary for some reason.

Well, Chloe, what do you think of your new office.’

I looked around.

‘A bit cramped.’

She laughed.

‘It won’t be when our maintenance department clear it out.’

‘Your maintenance department; do you have a big team?’

‘Yes, Hamish McAllister is very big. He eats three Weetabix and tosses a caber every morning and…’

‘Sorry to interrupt, what about the rest of the team?’

‘Team?’

‘Yes, the maintenance team: I assume that you have others working at maintenance. You know, mending roads, keeping verges down, fixing building problems, stuff like that.’

‘No, its just our Hamish. Funds are limited and we ask everyone to chip in and help, but I must admit, the roads have more potholes than I would like…

I looked at her and wondered if I had bitten more than I could chew in taking this job. What more could go wrong?

I was soon to find out.

---

 
To Be Continued...

*porkies - slang for lies, porkie pies = lies.