"Fergus, you're a Tory. When Tories say freedom they mean money; the freedom to send your child to a private school means the money to send your child to a private school. The freedom to invest in South Africa means the money to invest there so you can make even more. And don't tell me you're interested in freedom unless you support the freedom of blacks to come here from abroad, which I know you don't, so there." Kenneth clinked his glass against Fergus's. "Cheers. To the future."
"Huh," said Fergus. "The future. You know, I'm not saying your lot won't win, but I hope it doesn't happen in my lifetime. But things really are going to the dogs." Fergus sounded genuinely morose, Kenneth thought.
"Ah, you're just peeved your lot have elected a woman leader. Even that's good news… even if she is the milk snatcher."
"We got rid of an old woman and replaced him with a younger one," Fergus said, mouth turned down at the corners, staring over his whisky tumbler and across the room to where his wife was talking to Antoma. That's not progress."
"It is, Fergus. Even the Tories are subject to change. You should be proud."
Fergus looked at Kenneth, a wealth of sombre disdain in his slightly watery-eyed look. Kenneth gave him a big smile. Fergus turned away again. Kenneth looked at the other man's heavily jowled, prematurely aged face and shook his head. Chiang-Kai-Shek and Franco dead, Angola independent, Vietnam free at last… Kenneth thought it had been a great year. The whole tide of history seemed to be quickening as it moved remorselessly leftwards. He felt vaguely sorry for Fergus. His shower had had their reign, he thought, and grinned to himself.
It had been a good year for Kenneth personally, too. The BBC, bless its cotton socks, had taken some of the stories from his first collection; a whole week of Jackanory to himself, just six weeks before Christmas! At this rate he could start thinking about giving up teaching in a year or two.
"I wish I shared your enthusiasm for change." Fergus sighed, and drank deeply.
"Change is what it's all about, Ferg. Shuffling the genes; trying new ideas. Jeez, where would your damn factory be if you didn't try new processes?"
"Better off," Fergus said. He looked sourly at Kenneth. "We're just about making enough from traditional paperweights to keep the Specialist Division afloat. All this hi-tech stuff just loses us money."
"Well, it must be making money for somebody; maybe you weren't able to invest enough. Maybe the big boys'll take over. That's the way things go; capitalists all want to have a monopoly. Only natural. Don't get depressed about it."
"You won't be saying that if we have to close the factory and put everybody out of work."
"God, Ferg, it isn't that bad, is it?"
Fergus shrugged heavily. "Yes, it is. We've told them it might come to that; the shop-stewards, anyway. Another strike, or too big a pay rise, and we might go under."
"Hmm," Kenneth said, sipping at his whisky. He wondered how serious the other man was. Industrialists often made that sort of threat, but they rarely seemed to be carried out. Kenneth was a little surprised that Hamish hadn't said anything about the factory being in such dire straits, but then his brother did seem to put the church and the factory above family and friends.
"I don't know." Fergus shook his head. "If we weren't tied to this bit of the country, I'd almost think about chucking it all in and heading off somewhere different — Canada, or Australia, or South Africa."
It was Kenneth's turn to look sour. "Yes," he said. "Well, you'd probably get on fine in the RSA, Ferg. Though that's the one place I wouldn't recommend if you want to keep well away from the red tide."
"Hmm," Fergus nodded, still watching his wife, now talking to Shona Watt. "Yes, you may be right." He knocked back his drink, turned to the bottle-loaded table behind and poured himself another large whisky.
Antonia clapped her hands, singing out: "Come on, you boring lot; let's all play charades!"
Kenneth drained his glass, murmured. "God, I hate charades."
"Henriss… never liked him either; fat lipped beggar… queer, y'know; thass wha he's singing you know; d'you know that? 'Scuse me while I kiss this guy… disgussin… absluley disgussin…»
"Fergus, do shut up."
"'Scuse me, while I kiss this guy'… bloody poofter coon."
"I'm sorry about this, Lachy."
"That's okay, Mrs U. You no goin to put your seat belt on, no.
"No; not for short journeys —»
"Lachy? Lachy… Lachy! Lachy; I'm sorry about your eye really really sorry; never forgave myself, never… here, shake…»
Fergus tried to lever himself up from the rear bench seat of the old Rover, but failed. He got as far as lifting his head and getting one shoulder off the seat, but then collapsed back onto the leather, and let his eyes close.
The car rumbled about him… even more restful than the noise of train wheels in the old days; he tried to remember the old days…
"You sure you don't mind doing this, Lachy?" Fiona said, swinging the car off the main road and onto the drive that led to the castle. The headlights made a tunnel of the trees and rhododendrons. "Na, it's okay."
Lachlan Watt had been about to leave Hamish and Antonia's party when Fergus had fallen over and Fiona had decided it was time to take her husband home; she had offered Lachy a lift back to his brother's house, but when they'd got there Fergus had seemed fast asleep, snoring loudly and taking no apparent notice of Fiona shaking him and shouting at him; Lachy had volunteered to come back to the castle to help get Fergus out of the car and upstairs to bed; Fiona would run Lachy back afterwards.
"God that man's a nuisance," Fiona said, as they turned the corner in the drive and the lights of the castle came into view against the coal-dark night. "Like I say; I could have got the baby-sitter to help me with him, but she's just a skelf… not our regular girl. She's built like a rugby player, could probably put Ferg over her shoulder, but not this girl. Leanne's her name… that's her car there; doesn't look old enough to drive if you ask me…»
Fiona brought the Rover to a halt behind a beaten-up mini, standing on the gravel in front of the castle's main entrance. "This really is awful good of you, Lachy."
"Aye, it's no problem, Mrs U."
Fiona turned to him. She smiled. "Lachy; it's Fiona. You make me feel old when you call me Mrs U."
"Sorry; Fiona." Lachy grinned.
He had been a thin, light-framed boy, and he had grown to become a lean, wiry man; the years of life on merchant ships, and then in Australia, had left his skin looking well-used, like soft and fine-grained — but slightly distressed — leather. His hair was unfashionably short, and both eyes glittered. It was a spare, uncluttered, characterful face, especially compared to Fergus's.
"That's better." Fiona smiled. She turned and looked in disgust at the body in the back seat, just as Fergus started to snore again. "Well; better get this lump out of the car, I suppose."
Fergus had gone back into a deep sleep. They couldn't wake him. Fiona went in to tell the baby sitter she was free to go, while Lachy tried to rouse Fergus.
"Hoi you; Fergus. Ferg; wake up, man."
"Aarg… Henriss, bassard."
"Fergus; wake up, Fergus." Lachlan tried slapping the man's cheeks; his heavy jowls wobbled like jellies.
"Hhnn..:
'Wake up," Lachlan said, slapping Fergus's cheeks again, harder. "Wake up," he said quietly. "Ye upper class cunt ye." He fairly walloped Ferg on one chop.
Fergus awoke suddenly; arms waving about, eyes wild and bright, making no sound other than a faint gurgling noise. Then he rolled off the seat into the footwell and immediately started snoring again.
"Any luck with the sleeping beauty?" Fiona said, coming down the steps alongside a slim, blonde-haired girl who was zipping up an anorak.