THE WOODCHOPPER'S BALL
NO doubt sometime in the past it was a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a husband. Sadly, Mother had hocked the family silver and fled to South America for her final year. And I was in search of something more permanent than a husband. I was seeking immortality - or the next best thing.
Dickie Foreshaw had chauffeured us here in his Landrover and I'd been rather put out. But my complaints about the lumpy seats and overpowering stench of wet canine fell on deaf ears. Beattie MacPherson and her brother, Freddie, were too busy canoodling in the back to notice the lingering smell of dog and diesel fumes.
In a way I enjoyed the distraction. Dickie was a bit of a prig but he was the only one I knew within a hundred miles of Inverness with enough fuel vouchers to burn. And I needed to speak to Uncle Angus as a matter of urgency.
Heavy snow had been forecast and the skeletal trees funnelling the driveway to 'Glendowrie Hall' were already tinselled with frost. Mother had been Assistant Forester here until, on a whim, she decided that conifers were no longer de rigueur. The dowager duchess, Angus's mother-in-law, never forgave the devastation she wreaked with her Mita chain-saw and lopper.
I was wearing wraparound shades, my black Halloween wig and mother's red Rigger boots. The Crenshaws had been black-listed by Highland Society for the last three years, hence the need for disguise.Yet Cousin Fiona had no trouble recognising me as we made our entrance.
'Clarrie, darling, glad you could make it. And I love the new hair. How was St Andrews?'
I'd been studying Law and somehow got through uni without besmirching the family name despite the streak of rebellion I'd inherited from Mother's side of the border. The only incident of note had involved a clockwork vibrator set loose at morning Mass. But that was long forgotten. Mother had threatened to blackmail the Dean with Polaroids from his own college days if he even suggested sequestration. Photographs from '79 of him wielding an ornamental phallus inside the bishop's bed chamber. Mother had always been a sublime mistress of the subversive arts.
'It was an absolute hoot. How's your old man enjoying being home?'
Uncle Angus had spent eighteen months at Barlinnie for a series of Prohibition violations - the 'Scourge of Strathspey' according to the Highland Free Press. He'd only been home for a couple of weeks - hence this bash. His 'Get out of Jail Free' party, a pre-Christmas get-together and his forty-ninth wake combined.
'I need to have a quiet word with the old coot, if you can fix it.'
Strange looks - but I'd become accustomed to those since I'd started wearing a variety of wigs. One for every occasion.
'A word with father? You'll be lucky. He's making up for lost time. Drowning his sorrows. Not really looking forward to his fiftieth. All downhill from here and all that jazz.'
Uncle Angus was slumped across the kitchen table, massaging the flanks of his favourite gun-dog. A half-empty bottle of sacramental malt stood at his elbow. All strictly legal, of course; restrictions lifted two weeks either side of Hogmanay.
'Clarissa, darling. Hell, it's good to see you again. I don't know what I'd have done without your barrister pal. I'd still be inside, I imagine.'
I planted a kiss on his cheek.
'No problemo.'
'A little bird tells me you've dragged the MacPhersons along. How's our newest MSP behaving?'
A belch of contempt, but I didn't have a meaningful word of defence to offer in response. Freddie's bizarre elevation from head boy at Fettes to a seat in Holyrood was only the latest in a series of national scandals.
'Like a pit bull let loose in a china shop.'
'He's barely old enough to vote for himself, the brat. There's even talk he's being considered for some Cabinet role. Defence according to the papers.'
I rolled my eyes. Freddie couldn't be trusted with a box of safety matches let alone Scotland's stock of long-range missiles.
'Darwin help us.'
'You realise he only got selected in the first place because he's the spitting image of that pop star. Justin Bieber, right? All those teenage girls wetting their panties to give him their vote. Hardly democratic, if you ask me.'
He was right, but I wasn't asking.
The dog sidled closer to sniff at my crotch before proceeding to wrap his forelegs around my thigh in anticipation of coition.
'Oscar!'
'Leave him. He doesn't know any better. You'd behave exactly the same if I let you.'
I shooed him away and cut to the chase.
'I need to show you something. But first you have to promise to tell no one.'
I unbuttoned my silk blouse and popped open my brassiere. His mouth unzipped into that grin I remembered so well from my teenage years.
'You always had an unhealthy obsession with metalwork, Clarrie. The hours I spent in my cell dreaming about. . .'
'Stop right there. It's much more serious than pierced body parts.'
His gaze widened as he realised he wasn't looking at an ordinary nipple stud.
'Is that a bliss?' he gasped.
'Give that man a cigar. Of course it bloody is.'
My own Biometric Living Implant Security Sensor. Removed from my cranium and perched there like a miniature, unprimed warhead.
'But whose is it?'
'Don't worry. I haven't killed anybody. It's mine, you idiot. Why the hell would I risk getting caught carrying two, for Darwin's sake?'
He nodded.
'Double readings. Aye. Might be hard to explain.'
Once implants had been introduced to control decommissioning, compulsory registration at birth became unnecessary. But the change attracted several attempts to beat the new system. Thousands were caught carrying an extra implant on their person - presumably the bliss of a younger family member. Removed by whatever means necessary. The DNA match was close enough to fool the sensors. But double signals from a single source were easily spotted and the perpetrators were swiftly brought to justice. Infanticide - the curse of the late Nineties.
'I appreciate you trying to cheer me up; playing a joke on an old man. But I'm not in the mood.'
He fanned a dozen or so envelopes across the kitchen table.
'Look at all this sh1t.'
I stood behind Angus and gave him a hug. He was obviously very drunk, and feeling rather lost. He'd been inside when the duchess was removed to Raigmore for decommissioning. Claiming her 'humane rights' as a member of the peerage. Fiona had texted me all the gruesome details.
Mother in ambulance at last
Demanding a shag before they cart her off
Randy old bat (lol)
Young Horniman, the gardener, had been given copulation duties. He never spoke about it, give him his due.
I picked up the mail and scanned the contents. The usual junk. Impersonalised birthday cards with the familiar black border and embossed logo on the front. 'Die with Dignity'.
I squeezed his shoulder.
'It shouldn't be allowed. Hounding people to the grave like this.'
He took another slug of malt.
'All I'll hear for the next twelve months is that queue of vultures at my side, clearing their throats as they wait to pick through my carcase for anything that's left.'
I wasn't in the mood for tears or drunken self-pity.
'They're only doing their job. Making sure your estate doesn't pass to the government by default.'
'Fecking lawyers. No ethics. All they want is for me to change my will in their favour. I've got poor Fiona to think of.'
I felt mean but I was a 'fecking lawyer' now, fully qualified, and I was on a mission.
'They're only making sure your legacy lives on. If you let me look over the paperwork I can see that Fiona inherits 'Glendowrie'. And you'll get to redistribute the family fortune before those bastards at Holyrood tax it all. Remember who stood by you. Helped you in your time of need.'
But he didn't take the hint - so Plan A wasn't going to work.
'I've even got an appointment with an Exit Therapist,' he slurred. 'Some goody two-shoes social worker. Fresh out of college and suddenly she wants to prepare me for 'the final frontier'. It's like I'm living inside some bloody Bon Jovi song.'
He showed me the letter then poured himself another scotch to top up the angst.
'I blame Brussels. Telling everybody how our audacious policies have become a global template for fiscal and social harmony. No more welfare problems. No more housing or healthcare or employment worries. Two score years and ten and a telegram from Wills and Katie then. . . pfft.'
He turned his pitiful gaze to mine like an abandoned puppy.
'I don't even qualify for the Reagan Ticket.'
When the EEC introduced demographic easement Thatcher had sneaked through a bill at Westminster for special dispensation. Granting her cronies and anyone else in privileged positions a further twenty years grace. Despite the protest marches on Whitehall and all manner of social unrest Britain became a two-tier society.
But once Maggie shut down all the hospitals following the 1985 Doctors' Strike her days were numbered. Labour won by a landslide and to appease the young electorate all medical research was abandoned. Natural selection was allowed to replace healthcare. Darwinism taken to the extreme.
Following the advent of cheap micro-processors in the 90's it was only a matter of time before implants became mandatory for all newborns. Britain became the first 'kindergarten' nation and within twenty years the same methods of demographic control had been copied worldwide.
'The Reagan Ticket had been Maggie's only hope of a fourth term but the new regime slammed shut that escape hatch.
Angus pointed to the small metal capsule.
'I can't imagine how you managed to dig that bloody thing out of your head, if it really is yours, or why you even bothered. Whether it's inside your skull or stuck to your left tit you still have to keep it with you at all times. If you get rid, they'll eliminate you as soon as they spot no signal on CC. You can't avoid decommissioning when your time's up.'
'I've still got another twenty five years, but you know me. I was never a fan of Darwinism. I think it should be survival of the sneakiest not the fittest.'
I took off my wig and showed him the scars.
'Ever heard of trepanning?'
Juniper Jellicoe had brought up the matter in our dorm one night. She'd been researching Stone Age medical practices and was convinced they would cure her premenstrual tension. She'd browsed on-line, and of course there were more quacks than ever out there now the medical profession had morphed into Homeland Security.
Her boyfriend, Korky, was an engineering student specialising in Holistic Architecture, and he quite fancied the idea of a little impromptu surgery. Anything to get JJ flat on her back.
I'm not squeamish so I offered my services as nursing assistant. I shaved her head, held her down as he injected the morphine, then watched in fascination as Korky peeled back the skin and the ceramic blade excised a perfect circle of skull exposing the brain. There was hardly any blood. And it quickly coagulated once I switched my hair drier to full power. Juniper was conscious throughout the procedure - high as a kite and hyperventilating - but suffering little discomfort.
Korky pointed out her superior frontal gyrus and the parietal bone. Then he uncovered her implant.
'There's the wee bogey.'
Strangely, its titanium sheath resembled a pearl.
'Can't you take it out?'
'Don't you dare,' JJ squealed.
'No worries, hen,' he whispered. 'Besides, it's grafted to your cranium. I'd need to cut out a piece of bone the size of a Jammie Dodger to make sure. . .'
He explained to me about fontanelles and coronal sutures and intracranial bleeding.
'One slip and she could end up a vegetable.'
I debated whether sharing a room with a Maris Piper was preferable to suffering Juniper's monthly histrionics but I bit my tongue. Instead I slid my hand down the front of his cargo trousers.
'How about doing it for me?'
'Doing what?'
'So you got a nerd with a Black and Decker to saw the lid off your skull and take out your bliss? You're even madder than your witch of a mother.'
I manoeuvred myself between Uncle and the kitchen table and settled into his lap.
'Mhmm. But you had a soft spot for her, didn't you?'
I pressed a hand against his chest and could feel him rearranging his vital parts as I juggled my weight from one butt cheek to the other.
'Same as you still do for me.'
'You both had a certain talent.'
That's when I put Plan B into action - revealing just how talented we had been.
All the air seemed to go out of his body as I played back the video footage on my iPhone and explained what I wanted in exchange for my silence. The fact that he'd only suffer a year's humiliation was immaterial. I knew long-term family pride was at stake. He would never be able to endure the thought of Fiona bearing his shame for the rest of her days then passing it on to her progeny.
He pushed me off his knee.
'You're just another blood-sucking leech. I can't believe you'd deprive your cousin of her rightful inheritance. I tell you now, all the money in the world won't alter the fact that you're still going to die once you turn fifty. You're tied to your bliss the same as the rest of us. Unless you're planning on removing some poor wee bairn's head. . .'
I rummaged inside my bag for a pen.
'What kind of heartless b1tch do you take me for?'
I didn't bother telling him what else I had in mind. I'd endure a life of complete debauchery until my late forties, get pregnant while my ovaries were functional, then carry out an implant swap before the baby's fontanelle closed completely. According to Korky I had an eighteen month window of opportunity. I'd watched him with Juniper - it was no more complicated than opening oysters. I'd take over my sprog's lifespan and he or she would get a couple of years in exchange. I'd put it up for adoption once the switch was done, obviously, and head for somewhere exotic like Acapulco. People make such a big deal about the maternal instinct. I blame Darwin for all that Hallmark sh1t.
Once he'd signed the cheque I kissed Uncle Angus gently on the forehead and made my way into the grand hall. The usual crowd was in attendance, chattering away about the following day's pheasant shoot, nibbling oatmeal crackers and smoked salmon.
Something shuffled up to my side and sniffed my nylon hair. Montague Fitzroy, the new laird to the 'Cromannagh' estate, wearing his hereditary grin and tartan suit.
'Game for a bop, Miss Crenshaw?'
'Fvck off, Monty.'
His grin tightened to a sneer. Another sniff.
'Is that Cocker I detect?'
Dickie was already hovering at my shoulder, and sprang to my defence. 'Collie, actually. Why do you ask?'
'Just curious, old man. Wondering which of the dogs you'd brought along tonight.'
There was a momentary pause then Dickie's fist connected with Monty's nose. He collapsed against the bar, scattering crudités in all directions as his dress shirt blossomed spectacularly.
There was barely a lull in the music while the four of us were ushered to the conservatory. Bradlock, the butler, returned Dickie's scarf and gloves and my Army greatcoat then escorted us off the premises.
It was blowing a hooley outside and we struggled to wrap ourselves against the blizzard. Beattie's gaze seemed transfixed upon the glittering lights inside. I could hear the muted tones of the Woody Herman Orchestra. We stamped our feet to the rhythm, waiting for someone to bring the Landrover to the main gate, but it made no difference. The snow was already up to my ankles and rising.
'Frigging weather.'
I was chilled to the bone.
'Yeh,' Freddie muttered. 'Nice one, Dickster.'
He chewed his cigarette nervously as he watched the flakes swirling down then tried to slide his hand inside his sister's culottes.
'Cold fingers, Freddie!'
No one commented on the state of mother's boots.
- - -
H
Apologies in advance to those non-Brits who might find parts of this difficult to follow. It's only pretend btw.
