I woke up and wondered in passing if I was still dreaming.
I swore that I had just been told by a dry old accountant that I was filthy rich...

Get A Life!

By Susan Brown

Chapter 18
Previously …

‘Sorry to interrupt My Lady but you also asked what you are worth personally.’

‘Haven’t you just told me?’

‘Well no; the company is technically an entity in itself. It has its own legal identity and...anyway, the gist of what I am saying is that you can draw on its available funds if you wish. Now regarding your personal wealth, after the paperwork and legal side of things are sorted out, you will be independently very wealthy. You know already that you have properties around the world, those are owned by you personally as is much of the island, the rest being estate property. The values of these properties soon to be in your name have been estimated to be in the region of seventy million pounds. You have, as of Friday’s bank balances in your various accounts, funds totalling fifty-two million, seven hundred and twenty seven pounds and thirty-two pence, give or take a hundred thou and a similar amount in bonds and shares. Of course, deductions have been made already to account for death and other duties, so you can see that you won’t have to worry where the next meal comes from...My Lady are you all right?’

I didn’t think that I was all right, because at that moment, I fainted.

And, och aye the noo; the story continues…

I woke up and wondered in passing if I was still dreaming. I swore that I had just been told by a dry old accountant that I was filthy rich...

‘Chloe, are you okay?’

I realised that I was on the floor and I looked up to see a concerned Claire and an accountant with a rather bemused look on his face peering down at me.

‘I’m not dreaming then?’

‘No; it’s all for real,’ said Claire with a smile, ‘let’s help you up.’

She took one arm and Mark took the other and they helped me onto one of the settees that were dotted about the room.

I was given a cup of strong tea and that seemed to revive the brain cells that had refused to function for a while.

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Claire, her voice full of concern.

‘Numb, shocked, out of my head, traumatised, but other than that, fine.’

‘That’s good; The McKay blood is much thicker than water, much like treacle in fact and I’m pleased to see that you are not one of the those fainting violets...oh you did faint didn’t you?’

‘No, I was just resting on the floor and sort of fell asleep.’

Mark snorted out some tea for some reason.

I sipped at my tea, my hands shaking slightly, and felt the strength gradually returning to my body, as the magic drink’s restorative qualities weaved its magic.

Soon I was able to string more than one sentence together without drooling.

‘So erm, Mark, were those figures you gave to me accurate or do you like to give people heart attacks?’

‘Oh, they are fairly accurate; perhaps on the conservative, cautious side, but you can treat the figures that I have given to you as the minimum.’

‘So, I could be worth more then?’

‘Yes, due to the diversity of your investments, you earn hundreds of thousands every week without doing anything yourself. It’s true what they say, money makes money.’

I took a deep breath.

‘How much control do I have over the estate and my finances?’

‘You have absolute control; although there is a board of trustees to help with the estate and aboard of directors responsible for the day to day running of the group of companies, but those are answerable to the Laird or in this case now – you.’

‘How much interference would I get from the various departments at Holyrood, Inverness and I suppose London, if I want to make changes?’

‘Angus and Sally McDougal would know more about this,’ said Claire, ’but, I believe that we are left very much to our devices most of the time. Being a sort of hybrid crown dependency, we don’t have much in the way of funding from the mainland. That is the problem and why much of the island is run down. Jersey, Guernsey and the Isle of Man, the other dependencies, have an income from tourism and banking amongst other things. We are small and more dependent on hand-outs. Since The Laird became ill and then subsequently died, our hands have been tied regarding most things financial. Indeed we have had to go cap in hand to London and Holyrood for financing. We have applied to the E.U. but we do not have any real standing with them and well, you can see how your arriving is something of a godsend to us.’

‘I’m surprised that the UK government have not tried to take over the running of the island.’

‘Oh they have, but their hands are tied due to the fact that the lands were given to your forefathers by the Stuart King and it would be extremely difficult for the UK parliament to take over without the consent of the islanders. They did hold a sort of referendum here twenty years ago, but the islanders are fiercely independent and it was thrown out nine to one.’

‘So the British Government are not liked here?’

‘No, and the Scottish one fairs little better.’

‘It looks like we will have to do things ourselves then. Can I make decisions now or do I have to wait for the paperwork?’

‘What decisions would that be?’ asked Claire and Mark in unison; it was like listening to stereo.

‘To put things right and to help the community.’

Claire sighed.

‘I can see that we are going to have interesting times around here Chloe. Tell us what you want to do and we will tell you what you can and cannot do.’

I sipped at my tea, now getting a bit cold, but no less potent, as it gave my brain a kick-start to make some decisions.

‘Right, I want a Disney Theme Park, complete with a Thunder Mountain type steam railway that goes up our mountain and all around the coast. I want free fish and chips for all visitors and most importantly, I want to have a championship golf course and hotel complex where Halestead is. The town is run down and won’t be missed and I always wanted to play golf. We could…what? ’

Claire and Mark looked shocked.

‘But...but...’

I couldn’t hold back and I started giggling.

‘Got you both going, didn’t I?’

‘Chloe, you’ll be the death of me. I hadn’t thought that there was insanity in the family...’

‘Are you calling me nuts?’

‘Erm...’

‘Sorry, I should be more Laird like. Perhaps I should grow a beard and have more gravitas...perhaps not; I don't want to be called the bearded lady.’

Mark looked bemused by all this and kept opening and shutting his mouth with an excellent imitation of a halibut.

‘Very funny,’ said Claire, trying not to grin, ‘so what serious ideas do you have and what do you want to do?’

I took a deep breath and was about to tell them, when I had a thought – I do have them, you know.

‘Can we ask Angus and Sally to come up to discuss things, if they are free? I have a feeling that they have their fingers on the pulse of the community and I would value their input.’

‘That’s a good idea, we often talk over the problems,' replied Sally, getting up and going over to the phone.
I looked at Mark.

‘Have you lived on the island long Mark?’

‘Yes My Lady...’

‘Mark.’

‘Ma’am?’

‘Drop the My Lady and ma’am stuff please, it makes me feel ancient and I’m not the queen. Call me Chloe or I might just take my business away from you.’

He smiled, knowing that my threat was an empty one. I think that he knew instinctively that I wouldn’t do that; I’m too nice.

‘Alright, M...Chloe; you asked how long I have lived on the island; all my life.’

‘Do you like it here?’

‘I love it; although my office is on the mainland and I get to spend only a little time here, my heart is and always will be on Muckle.’

‘So you approve of my wanting to drag things into the twenty-first century?’

‘It would be an improvement if you would be able to drag the island into the twentieth century.’

We both laughed.

Claire returned and sat down.

‘Angus has gone fishing with a couple of his drinking pals. He has a small day boat and they often go out when the weather is fine enough. Sally will come up straight away and should be with us in twenty minutes. She can’t wait it hear what you have to say.’

‘She’s sweet; I like her and Angus, a lot.’

‘They are fine people,’ said Mark.

‘Can I use the loo?’ I asked.

‘It’s your loo,’ replied Claire, smiling.

‘I suppose it is? Erm, where is it?’

‘Which one? There are fifteen of them the last time I counted.’

‘Gosh, the nearest one would be nice.’

‘Out of that door, turn left and it’s at the end.’

I left them chatting as I made my way out to find the neccesarium, which turned out to be about a hundred yards down an ornate hall with walls encrusted with portraits. It took a bit of time to realise that most of these glum faces were probably my ancestors; none of them looked particularly happy and I wondered why the painter didn’t ask them to say cheese; a small smile can go a long way.

Just as I reached the end of the near endless corridor, I heard a small cough coming from the side. I nearly jumped out of my skin and wet myself as a man walked out of a side corridor.

‘Can I help My Lady?’

I instantly recognised the man to be none other than Caruthers, the butler.

‘Trying to find the toilet.’ I said through gritted teeth, my legs by now almost crossing. It took an iron will not to hold myself in...

‘Just at the end Ma’am.’ he said pointing.

‘Thanks.’ I replied as I shot along the corridor wrenched open the door, slamming it behind me and then ran several more yards before I was able to drop my knickers in blessed relief.

‘I will have to get a map of this place, either that or Google map it!’ I thought. A couple of scooters on each floor wouldn’t be a bad idea.’

Then I giggled as I imagined the starchy butler tearing along on a scooter!

After attending to my toilette as we posh girls say, I was ready to face the world once again without distraction.

Returning to the room from whence I had come, as we aristocrats are wont to talk like, I found that Sally had arrived.

‘Hi Sally,’ I said giving her a hug. I was getting to be a huggy-feely person in my old age.

‘Hi to you too. Have you been drinking the cooking sherry again?’

‘Only the tea,’

‘Powerful stuff; anyway what’s all this about; Clair was a bit mysterious on the phone.’

We all sat down and made ourselves comfortable. The ball was in my court and so I took a deep breath and started spelling out a few ideas.

‘As you know Sally, I have come into a bit of money…’

Clair and Sally laughed and Mark snorted like a horse for some reason.

‘Enough of the interruptions already; anyways, where was I? Oh yes, I appear to be well off and I wanted that well-offness to translate into helping others and getting this place up and running, so that we can all benefit. I want to use the money generated by the estate and the various other businesses to do this. Any objections?’

No one said anything so I ploughed on.

‘I understand that there is a charitable trust in place already and we can channel funds into that. We need to get suggestions for projects such as road improvements, a proper bus service, smartening up the quay and sea front areas, so that any visitors feel more welcome. Every shop, restaurant and pub needs a bit of a facelift and some of the houses could do with more than a lick of paint. I’m sure that there are many other things that we can do, but that will be good for starters. On an individual level, Sally, are there any residents that are suffering hardship at the moment?’

‘Yes, some are, especially the elderly and a few of the families with young children. We do what we can but its hard.’

‘We have to set up a sort of needy fund to help people in that situation. I don’t want this to be a free cash for all fund and it has to be for people who genuinely need help. Not others who try to take advantage of the situation. Is that possible?’

‘Yes, we already have something in place at the moment and it’s run by a committee under the leadership of the ministers wife, Agnes. Its very underfunded though…’

We talked further about what could be done and many decisions were made that I won’t bore you with. Suffice to say we went a long way to establish a framework to sort out many of the problems that Muckle and its residents had had to put up with.

After Sally and Mark had left, full of enthusiasm and hope for the future, Claire and I sat outside overlooking the lawns and the lake and spoke of more personal matters.

‘Claire, I want to move in straight away, if that’s possible.’

‘Of course, its your place to move into.’

‘I also need a car. Pinkie is not in a fit state to ride and sometimes I just need four wheels instead of two.’

‘We have several cars in the garage and a number of estate ones. Take your pick.’

‘You don’t happen to have a red sports car, I suppose?’

‘Sorry no.’

‘Oh,’ I replied, sighing with disappointment, ‘a girl can only wish…’

‘There is a silver one though…’

‘Gosh!’

Later that day, the bank manager turned up at the door, cap in hand, grovelled before me and did a good impression of Uriah Heep. He wasn’t quite as bad as that, but he was a lot more deferential than our previous bank manager and once he got over his misplaced inferiority complex, I found him to be a rather nice, if quiet person who could do with a good woman behind him (he was, according to Claire, a confirmed bachelor).

‘Hmm,’ I thought, ‘maybe we need some sort of dance or ball up at The Manor and we could invite eligible and available young people to come. Emma Woodhouse* has nothing on me and anyway, we needed to increase the population. Servants don’t grow on trees…’

I giggled; I was getting silly in my old age. Uriah, I mean Duncan, the bank Manager was speaking and I had to pay attention...

The transfer of the various bank accounts were set in action and I was told that our new bank would sort out the details and that I wouldn’t have to have any dealings with Marley, our previous, evidently, now disgraced bank manager. I would also have what he called a platinum plus credit card which meant that I could pop into the local Rolls Royce car dealer and buy one if I flashed the card. The only trouble being that I would have to pay for it at a later date. There’s always a snag.

After finishing with all the boring financial stuff and leaving the finer details to Claire and Duncan to sort out, I decided to get things rolling regarding my change of accommodation.

I hitched a lift with Douglas, my now friendly gillie and went into town. I wanted to go to Aunties’ to collect my things. Staying with her had been interesting, but I needed a bit more freedom than she was able to provide and anyway, I realised that it would be better if I stayed at the mansion, as that would now be the hub of my activities as the titular head of Muckle and now unpaid tourism guru.

Looking out of the car window at the wonderful scenery, I tried to get my head around all that had happened to me in such a short space of time. My circumstances had changed so much, it was almost like a work of fiction, but they say life is stranger than fiction and that was certainly true in my case! I was very conscious of the fantastic luck and chance that brought me to where I now was and I promised myself that I wouldn’t let it all go to my head.

Douglas waited for me as I went into Aunties house and got my things together. After putting my case and nick-nacks in the Range Rover, I went back I and knocked on Aunties sitting room door.

She opened it and peered out.

‘Och its you Helen. You’re off are ye?’

Auntie’s accent varied between broad Scots and Cockney, making me wonder whether she had a chequered past. I gave up trying to correct her common mistake of mixing up people’s names.

‘Yes Auntie; do you remember, I phoned and told you that I’m moving and you told me that you were going to stay with your sister Morag and she’s coming to pick you up soon?’

‘Yes, I know. My memory is as good as yours, young Helen.’

She paused for a moment.

‘Is Morag coming?’

‘Yes.’

‘When again?’

‘Soon.’

I looked at her and sighed.

‘Auntie, I’m parched, can I have a cup of tea?’

She smiled.

‘Of course Helen, I’ll put a wee drop of something in it to keep out the cold.’

‘I’ll just have a word with Douglas, I won’t be a moment.’

I went out to the car.

‘Douglas, sorry to be a pain but can you pick me up a bit later. I need to stay with Auntie until her sister comes to pick her up.’

‘No problem ma’am. Just give us a call on your wee mobile. Mind you, that Morag is as nutty as a fruit cake.’

I groaned.

Morag turned out to be just a little bit eccentric, rather than fruit cake challenged and I was relieved that Auntie was going to be looked after, as she was getting more that a bit forgetful and needed protecting from herself. According to Morag, things came to a head when Auntie put the electric kettle on the gas stove and lit the gas…

I was pleased and relieved when I finally waved the two elderly ladies off.

Before finally leaving, I had gone back into the house and made sure that everything that should have been turned off, had been.

I left my key on the telephone table in the hall and then I was ready to go to my new home – a small cramped place, but sufficient for my needs, (joke).

Douglas came to pick me up shortly after Morag and Auntie had left.

‘Thanks Douglas.’ I said as I scrambled in the seat beside him.

‘No problem ma’am.’

‘Call me Chloe,’

He looked shocked.

‘I will do no such thing ma’am, my Da would turn in his grave if he heard me referring ter ye in such a manner.’

‘I thought that your father was still alive.’

‘He is, but if he were dead he would turn in ‘is grave.’

From then on, my life was very different for me on Muckle. I had arrived on the island looking like someone who had just been washed up on the beach – it would take a while to get over the trauma of my epic sea voyage – Angus and Sally had welcomed me and made me feel at home. Alistair and I were now officially an item and many of the eligible ladies on Muckle hated me for some reason.

Some of the residents resisted change, as I knew they would, but I hoped that once things started to get better, we would bring them around to our way of thinking. Two residents in particular would not add me to their Christmas card list, but all in all, I had found the islanders to be a friendly, welcoming bunch and for that, I was truly thankful.

It turned out that Finlay Cameron, the sheep lover and wastrel was the one responsible for defacing and harming Pinkie, my scooter. He bragged about it after the fourth pint in his local pub.

He refused to apologise and to make good the damage and for that, I felt less than inclined to recommend to the council that he take back the tenancy of the cottage down by the sea. I did find out that the cottage was in fact mine. The estate had loaned the cottage together with many others to the council so that they could help the homeless. Part of the agreement was that we had the right to refuse tenancy of anyone not considered suitable and he wasn’t, as far as I was concerned, in any way shape or form, suitable.

The only nice thing that I did regarding Finlay was to not press charges. It turned out that he was considered to be a social pariah for what he did and was banned from every pub in the island. It was suitable punishment for someone so fond of the liquid amber.

The next week was relatively quiet for me as we needed a framework set up for all things we hoped to do. I won’t bore you with the details as it bored the heck out of me. Suffice to say, Claire was in her element and her and Sally in particular helped get the ball rolling with the setting up of various committees and work groups needed to administer the day to day workings and administration of the now revamped charity.

I wasn’t very good at delegating, being a hands on sort of gal, but I soon realised that I wasn’t cut out for all the meetings sort of stuff, so I left them to it and just nodded and shook my head when required.

One thing I did need to do was to employ someone to look after my side of the paperwork and to field phone calls for me. Regretfully, I began to receive many begging letters and phone calls asking for money for this, that and the other. Some of these calls were not from Muckle residents but quite often from many parts of the UK and even other places of the world. How the news had got around that I was rich, I never did find out, but the result was that I was a target for the less reputable elements. Hence the need for someone to filter and field these for lack of a less polite word, enquires.

I put an advert in The Muckle Times and got back a total of seventeen replies. Eleven were begging letters, two for double-glazing, another one telling me that a Nigerian chap wanted details of my bank account so that he could transfer funds to me. I also received an interesting one from Auntie who said that she was seventeen and raring to go; another came from Finlay Cameron requesting (read demanding) funds to set up a sanctuary for lost and fallen sheep and finally one from a girl called Megan Blair aged 16 and three quarters who thought that working for me would be a blast.

I made suitable replies to Megan and Auntie, the others I ignored.

I waited a few more days in the hope of finding someone, anyone to help me. I was so surprised as I was sure that people would be keen, but no, there wasn’t a sniff at a reasonable offer.

I was sitting in the study one day, looking through some papers and wanting to be out and about rather than do what I was doing, when there was a knock on the door.

‘Come in.’ I called.

One of the footmen came in (yes, we have footmen, get over it!)

‘Ma’am, there is a young lady to see you.’

I was intrigued.

‘What does she want?’

‘It was about the position.’

‘Position?’

‘The advertisement Ma’am, about the job.’

‘Oh that position; right, wheel her in.’

A few seconds later a girl was shown in.

It took a moment to take her in. She was wearing a mixture of clothing. Starting with her head, she had a green beanie hat on, but I could see ginger hair poking out from underneath together with large silver loop earrings dangling from her lobes.

She had a thick cream coloured Angora jumper on, despite the heat of the day. Her skirt was so short, it could have been mistaken for a belt. On her feet were some blue, orange and green ankle socks and shoes that looked more like boots.

‘Erm, hello,’ I said.

‘Hi.’

‘You are?’

‘What?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Megan, Megan Blair.’

‘Meg…oh, you wrote to me.’

‘Aye.’

‘About the job?’

‘Chust so.’

‘Take a seat.’

She walked over and slumped down.

‘I though that I wrote to you about the position.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The job.’

‘Didna get the letter.’

‘Oh, right, well I was looking for someone maybe a bit older.’

‘What’s wrong with me age?’

‘Nothing, I wish that I was still your age, but that’s by the way. Are you related to Tony Blair?

‘Who?’

‘Never mind. Why do you want the job?’

‘Its work init?’

‘Yeeees, but specifically, why do you want to work here?’

She seemed to struggle with the question and then looked up.

‘Left school at sixteen, seventeen now. Not got any money. Heard that ye were a good person an’ I want te make something o’ meself.’

She looked uncomfortable and I could see under all that makeup, that she was blushing and her eyes, behind the mountain of mascara, looked somehow, intense. Perhaps there was more to this girl than I thought?

‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ I asked.

‘Tea’s for olduns, got a coke Miss?’

I smiled, much preferring to be called Miss rather than Ma’am.

‘So, what you are saying Mr Douglas is that Pinkie, I mean my scooter may be out of commission for several days, if not weeks until a new seat is delivered?’

‘Aye, an; its no good yer comin’ here every day and askin’ aboot it. I told yer yesterday that it will be fixed all in good time.’

I drove back up to The Manor in a foul mood. I had missed Pinkie and all the good times we had together. I would just have to be patient and wait. I was using my Grandmothers green Morris Minor; I had wanted to blend in and going about in a silver Maserati would not have been very blendfull. Also, call it silly, but I didn’t want to flaunt my wealth about.

Arriving back, I met Claire in the hall and told her the bad news about Pinkie.

‘Your scooter isn’t a family pet, Chloe; its an in animate object that gets you from A to B – slowly.’

‘Wash your mouth out with soap and water. Pinkie has a soul…’

She laughed.

‘If you want to go about on two wheels, why don’t you use a bike? We have several at the back of the garage. Some of the staff use them to get about the estate and it’ll keep you healthy. Pick one your size and have a go.’

‘That’s a good idea; I could do with the exercise. The big meals I’ve been having here do not help my figure.’

Twenty minutes later, I was down in the garage picking out a bike. They came in all shapes and sizes and I found a mountain bike that would fit me like a glove – well not a glove, but you know what I mean. There were also a few helmets lying around, one brand new one, still in its box. I wasn’t one of those people that felt that cycle helmets were for wimps, as I valued keeping my brain inside my scull, so I unboxed it and put it on. After adjusting the straps, I was ready for my cycle ride.

I hadn’t been on a cycle type bike for years, but its something that you never forget and I was soon peddling like mad down the lanes of Muckle. I was quite proud of myself and loved the speed I was going.

Until I hit my first hill.

My bike turned from something jet-propelled to snail paced in the space of ten seconds flat and I now knew that Victoria Pendleton** was in no danger from me. I got off and walked to the top of the hill and then cycled down it; something repeated several times until I had had enough and then turned for home, my legs feeling like wibbly-wobbly jelly.

I was cycling gently down one hill singing ‘raindrops keep falling on my head,’ a fact as it had started drizzling, when I heard it; the sound of an engine coming my way. I went around a bend and I saw a tractor coming toward me. The tractor had a trailer. On the trailer was a sheep. Driving the tractor was Finlay Cameron who, rather than paying attention to the road, was swigging something from a bottle.

I knew then that I was not in a good place, as the tractor came hurtling towards me…

---

 
To Be Continued?

I’m sorry for the delays in posting. Real life gets in the way sometimes!

Please leave comments and/or maybe a thumbs up thingie, cos its nice to hear from you.

*Emma Woodhouse is the 20-year old protagonist of Jane Austen's novel Emma who loved to match-make.

**Victoria Pendleton, Olympic gold medallist – cycling.