She found herself hoping that he was dead. That would be different from him losing his job. She could get her widow’s pension, and when the third child, Sean, was of school age, she could maybe work a shift at the new hotel if she could get someone to look after the baby. Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, had challenged her with the unsympathetic, “You must have known he was a drunk when you married him,” but she had not. Certainly he seemed to like his dram like a lot of Highlanders. She had met him at a wedding in Inverness. He had said he was an accountant and working over at Dingwall. He had courted her assiduously. It was only after they were married and he had moved into the cottage she had inherited from her parents that it transpired he had no job and was a chronic drunk. It also transpired he really had been an accountant, but he had seemed to take a savage delight in becoming the village dustman. Then she sensed, rather than saw, his approach.
She swung round, her back to the parapet of the bridge. He came shambling towards her with that half-apologetic leer on his face that he always had when he had sobered up between binges.
“Looking for me?”
“Aye, a woman from the council in Strathbane called. Wants to see you in Strathbane on the morrow.”
“Whit about?”
“Didnae say. She left her card.”
“You should’ve asked.” Fergus had become wizened with drink, although only in his in mid-forties. He had a large nose and watery eyes and a small prissy mouth. He had rounded shoulders and long arms, as if all the lifting of dustbins had elongated them. It was hard for Martha to think that she had loved him once.
“I’d better go and see her,” grumbled Fergus.
Martha shivered although the evening was balmy and warm. She had a feeling the bad times were coming. Then she chided herself for her fancies. How could the bad times come when they were already here?
♦
Clarry slid a plate of steaming bouillabaisse in front of Hamish Macbeth. “Try that, sir,” he ordered. “Nobody can make the bouillabaisse like Clarry.”
“Aye, you’re a grand cook, Clarry,” said Hamish, thinking he would settle for fish fingers and frozen chips if only Clarry would turn out to be a good policeman instead.
But the fish stew was delicious. “Did you ever think of going into the restaurant business?” asked Hamish. “A genius like you shouldnae be wasting your talents in the police force. The Tommel Castle Hotel could do with a good chef.”
“It’s not the same,” said Clarry. “You go to them grand hotels and they would want ye to cut corners, skimp on the ingredients to save money.” He ate happily.
“There was a woman here from the council in Strathbane. Wanted to see Fergus.”
“The drunk?”
“Himself. Maybe you could do something for me, Clarry. I’ve tried, God knows. I’m pretty sure he beats that wife o’ his. Go along there tomorrow and see if you can get her on her own, and tell her she doesn’t need to put up with it.”
“Domestics were never my scene,” said Clarry, tearing off a hunk of bread and wiping the last of the soup from the bottom of his plate.
“You’re a policeman,” said Hamish sharply. “We don’t leave wives to be battered by their husbands anymore.”
“I’ll give it a try,” said Clarry amiably. “Now when you’ve finished that, I’ve got a nice apple pie hot in the oven.”
♦
Fergus drove over to Strathbane the following morning in the garbage truck. He was dressed in his only suit, a dark blue one, carefully brushed and cleaned by his wife. His sparse hair was brushed and oiled over his freckled paté.
He could feel anger rising up in him against the villagers of Lochdubh. One of them must have reported him for something. He would try to find out who it was and get even.
And so he drove on, one sour little cell of blackness hurtling through the glory of the summer Highlands, where the buzzards soared free above and the mountains and moors lay gentle in the mellow sun.
In Strathbane, he parked outside the square, concrete Stalinist block that was Strathbane Council offices. He gave his name at the reception desk and asked for Mrs. Fleming.
A secretary arrived to lead him up the stairs to the first floor. Mrs. Fleming had commandeered one of the best offices. Fergus was ushered in. His heart sank when he saw Mrs. Fleming. Like most bullies, he was intimidated by other bullies, and in Mrs. Fleming’s stance and hard eyes and by the very way those eyes were assessing him, he recognised a bully.
“Sit down, Mr. Macleod,” said Mrs. Fleming. “We are to discuss the greening of Lochdubh.”
Fergus’s now sober brain worked rapidly. This woman was one of those Greens. Very well. He would play up to her.
“I’m aye keen of doing anything I can to protect the environment, Mrs. Fleming.”
“Splendid. Why then, however, did you not collect the garbage piled up outside the church hall?”
“If you take a look down from your window, missus, you’ll see my truck. It’s one o’ thae old ones’ with the sliding doors at the side.”
Mrs. Fleming walked to the window, and he joined her. “Now, I hae to lift all the rubbish into that myself. No help. I’m getting treatment for my back. I can manage fine if I keep to the collection day, which is Wednesday.”
Mrs. Fleming scowled down at the old truck. Not photogenic.
She strode back to her desk. “Sit down, Mr. Macleod. That truck will not do. I plan to make an example of Lochdubh.” From beside her desk she lifted up a black plastic box. “Boxes like these will be given to each householder. Waste paper, bottles and cans will be put into these boxes and not in with the general garbage. Wheelie bins will be supplied.”
Fergus thought of those huge plastic bins on wheels. “I couldnae lift those,” he protested.
“You won’t need to,” said Mrs. Fleming triumphantly. “Your new crusher truck will have a mechanism for lifting the bins in. We will also put large containers on the waterfront at Lochdubh. One will be for wastepaper, the other for cans and the third for bottles.”
“But if they’ve tae put the cans and bottles and stuff in the black boxes, why will they need the extra bins?”
“So that they have no excuses for not separating their garbage if they’ve got extra stuff. The hotels and boarding houses will need to use the larger bins.” She leaned forward. “We are going to put Lochdubh on the map, Mr. Macleod. How much do you earn?”
Fergus told her. “We will double that. You are now promoted to Lochdubh’s own environment officer. What do you wear while working?”
“Overalls and old clothes,” said Fergus.
“No, that won’t do for the television cameras.”
“Television cameras?” echoed Fergus.
“Yes, when you have succeeded in making Lochdubh a model village, I will come with the provost and various dignitaries. Press and television will be there. You must have an appropriate uniform.” She looked at her watch. “Now, if you will be so good, I would like you to wait here. I have a meeting with the other members of the council.”
♦
Clarry, with his broad pink face sweating under his peaked cap, ambled up to Fergus’s cottage. He knew Fergus had four children because Hamish had told him, and because it was the school holidays, he expected to see them playing around. There was a baby in a battered pram outside the door. He waggled his fingers at the baby, who stared solemnly back. Clarry knocked at the door.
Martha answered it and stepped back with a little cry of alarm when she saw his uniform. “Just a friendly call,” said Clarry. “Mind if I come in?”
“I’m just getting the children their lunch.”