Chapter 5: Jealousy and Hate

In many ways Ellen is the most important woman in my life. She is not a blood relative, but she was Aunt Ellen throughout my childhood, and had to instruct me to drop the ‘aunt’ when I joined the company at sixteen. Since then, she has been my mentor and friend in what has become an increasingly hostile environment. She smooths things over, not just for me but throughout the factory. She prides herself on never telling lies but admits to prevarication. I looked the word up in the dictionary and it’s just a posh word for lies, as far as I could understand.

If I had been available to take her call in the morning, she would have used her skills to confuse me into believing whatever she wanted, but it was now eight o’clock on a Saturday evening and she will have had a glass or two of wine. She certainly will not blab all her secrets but there is a good chance that she will let something slip. I’ll certainly learn more by calling her at home than I would by phoning her office on Monday.

“I thought you might have got back to me sooner,” were her first words when she picked up the phone. Her enunciation was just a little careful, confirming that she was conscious of having been drinking. Her next words confirmed that she had probably overindulged. “Anne had been with me all day, since she needs to talk to you as urgently as do I.” I made a joke about the responsibilities of a shepherd caring for a hundred expectant mums, but Ellen was not amused. “I thought your friend would have stressed the urgency, Fred.”

“Urgent for you or for me, Aunt Ellen.” It was time to assert myself, cunningly reverting to my childhood name for her to alter her expectation from this call. “I have interests and duties up here that matter more to me at present than the affairs of Robinson Engineering. Now, I’m tired after a full day trudging the moors, so please tell me what you believe is so urgent.” I expected a stern lecture but all I heard was a tiny giggle. “I love it when you try to be masterful, Fred. You and Albert are like two peas in a pod. I’m not surprised that you are tired; you and your great uncle always throw yourselves into things with such enthusiasm, even when you know nothing about the subject.”

I am a planner, making notes and considering contingencies before I commit myself. Before I dialed Ellen’s number, I had developed a strategy based on what I expected her to say. Her giggle and the comparison with Albert left my plans in disarray; I had expected a more or less stern instruction to return to the factory without delay to continue my life of servitude. When in doubt, say nought, so I waited for Ellen to continue. “You and Albert really are at the very top of my masculine hall of fame. Caring for others more than yourselves, strict but compassionate, and, above all, highly intelligent.” There was a pause which I ignored, since I could think of no useful reply to this load of horse manure.

“But you’re only human,” Ellen had stopped talking like a teacher of elocution. “Even you make mistakes, Fred dear.” She sighed, rather theatrically, I thought. “He wants to apologise. He’s an old man without much longer to go and your heart would have broken if you had heard him begging for ten minutes to explain everything to you.” She stopped to sob audibly. “Are you trying to tell me that Great Uncle Albert wants to see me to apologise?” I couldn’t stay silent.

“For a start the old devil has never apologised in his whole life. Then there’s the fact that he cut me off without a shilling, repudiating me in the most public manner since Pontius Pilate washed his hands of Jesus.” There was a clatter and the sound of Ellen crying, receding in the distance. “Are you there, Fred? It’s Anne Gardner. Ellen’s a bit upset at the moment, and I wanted a word with you.” The professor sounded calm, apparently untroubled by her friend’s breakdown.

“I wanted to talk to you too, prof,” I replied, back on script. “I’ve an idea for my doctoral thesis that I’d like to run past you. I haven’t put it down on paper, but the building blocks are forming in my head, and I’ve got pages of notes on the plants.” Not the most articulate beginning, but I had been unsettled by Ellen’s talk about Albert. Anne didn’t seem to care, so we went on to discuss my discoveries amongst the sheep. She insisted that she wanted to see the site for herself before she discussed particulars and we were, quite frankly, running out of things to say to each other when I had a mad idea.

“Does the Chancellor still give you the first dance at the faculty ball? It’s just that there’s a dinner dance up here next Friday and I wondered if you would be my partner.” An idea was forming as I spoke. As I’ve said, I’m a planner, and I should know better than to make a proposal without proper consideration. Anne could drive up for the dance on the Friday, we would inspect the moor on Saturday, and she could drive me back on the Sunday. At some point, Ellen’s tears swayed me, so I resolved to accede to her wishes. Don’t ask me to explain my reasoning, but my heart had lightened when I heard that Albert wanted to see me again. I’ve missed the old bugger.

Anne was easily persuaded, especially when I told her that it was a formal occasion where I would wear a dinner suit and she needed a ball gown. In her first year at university, she told me in confidence, she had been voted Belle of the Ball. She is now in her sixties and her figure is somewhat matronly but for those few minutes on the phone, she became again that gauche young woman on the threshold of life. She reluctantly returned the phone to Ellen who had recovered enough to renew her pleas to me.

Before she could speak, I announced my return to Dumfries on the following Sunday. She tried to persuade me to come sooner, but she was too relieved by my acquiescence to make an issue of it. She made no demur when I demanded that she drive me to the Nursing Home and remain throughout the interview. It was going to be painful, and I saw no reason for her to escape some of the grief. Just before the call ended, she remarked, almost as an aside, that Albert had extended my paid leave to a month.

After the call ended, I sat at the kitchen table and thought about the quarrel with Albert that had sent him into a care Home. It all happened just over ten years before and was right out of the blue. I was a newly qualified engineer of twenty-one, while he was a sprightly eighty-three. Despite the gulf in our ages, we were buddies; I had come to agree with his insistence that a university education would have wasted my time. I had come out at the top of my college class and was fitting into the machine shop like a well-made part. I still remember the first hint of cloud on the horizon.

There was a rumour that Albert, as everyone in the factory called him, was bringing in management consultants. Bob was sitting with us at lunch time when I got on my soapbox about how much Robinson’s needed a makeover. Nowadays, Bob would have a title but then, he dressed like us and worked alongside us. He was the man management went to if they wanted to talk about production and he was the first to be told if we had problems at work or at home. There was a cubby hole off the storeroom with a desk and two chairs that was Bob’s office. Without making it obvious, he moved from table to table in the canteen, so he talked to each of us at least once a week.

With the ink on my diploma still wet, I thought I knew everything, so I was surprised when Bob opined that the consultants were a waste of money and could be disastrous. When I continued to argue my case, he gave me the task of liaising with them when they visited the machine shop. He even lent me his office. I was introduced to a guy in a suit, carrying a clipboard with a printed sheet attached. His first question was about the number of computer-controlled machines: answer zero.

Then he asked how many engineers were employed. I replied that I had a college diploma, and he made another tick, muttering ‘no engineers’ under his breath. “Why would we need graduates,” I bristled. “We train all our own operators.” He looked up from his clipboard for the first time and told me, with a patient sneer, that graduates were trained to be adaptable. We argued for several minutes until I asked if he had an engineering degree. He paused for a moment before carefully answering that he had a degree. Sensing weakness, I asked how someone without engineering qualifications had the nerve to preach to us about the way to run a machine shop. He flushed and beat a hasty retreat.

I don’t know who helped him tick the rest of his boxes, but I didn’t see him again. I had anticipated that the consultants would recommend leaving people alone while we replaced every obsolete machine. Even Bob had not expected their advice to be so damaging. We kept every worn-out museum piece, while the whole of upper management was replaced. Pete, our managing director retired to be replaced by a CEO not long out of university. We also acquired a COO and a CFO. ‘Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.’ as Bob remarked.

I was enraged when the news circulated, so I stormed into Albert’s office to tell him that he had destroyed the company and my heritage. I had prepared a document for the management consultants that they had never looked at. I took with me the fair copy I had labouriously typed out when I went to see Albert. We stood on opposite sides of his desk, red-faced and shouting at each other for what seemed like many minutes. Then there was a sudden lull, before Albert spoke in a conversational tone that was immensely more damaging.

“Your no nephew of mine. Never speak to me again and expect nothing from me when I pass on.” With that, he dropped my report into the waste basket and collapsed onto his chair. I turned to storm back to the shop floor. I was still cooling down, when the whisper went round that an ambulance was at the door to take Albert to hospital.

They would not let me visit him and my letter of apology was returned unopened. I fretted for weeks, but my feelings began to harden when the effects of the changes to the structure of the company were felt. In the ten years since then, Robinson Engineering has been haemorrhaging. Almost every decision of management seems to make things worse, like the appointment of Madelaine, my graduate assistant. My problem has been that I have lost my drive to save what I once thought of as my inheritance.

While I had been musing, my fingers were fiddling with Dave’s mobile phone. When I looked down, I saw his list of favourite numbers and I noticed that the first on the list read ‘Pat.’ I could say that I didn’t intend to be nosy, but you wouldn’t believe me. I had half-risen from my chair, when a thought occurred to me. I pressed the button to connect, and it was only as it was ringing that I considered how common the name is amongst men and women. I was almost ready to cancel the call, when it was answered, and I recognised the background noise of the busy café.

“I’m a bit busy right now,” Pat answered, sounding harassed. “If it’s not important ring me back in the morning.” I told her it was Fred and she shrieked. “The invisible bloody man. Jim’s been going frantic trying to get you and he’s not the only one. I just hope you’ve got a good excuse, you bugger.” There was the sound of a door banging and the background noise faded to a murmur. “Seriously, Fred, we’ve all been worrying about you. Off you went in that lorry and then nothing for ten days. Did you get those sheep delivered safely?”

I explained that I was till caring for the flock and might never return. She went very quiet for several seconds. “I can’t say I blame you, lovey, but there’s a lot going on here and you really need to deal with it. This is not a good time to talk. One of the twins is poorly and I’m covering for Liz. Can you call me tomorrow?” For the second time in an hour – and perhaps the third time in five years – I made an instant decision. “Anne Gardner is driving up on Friday for a dance. Could you come with her? Then we could talk all the way driving back on the Sunday.”

There was a rather ominous silence at Pat’s end, which I filled with chatter. I had made no plans, so I was forced to abandon subterfuge in favour of the truth. I mentioned that I had noticed the spark of intertest she showed in Dave during our brief visit; I reminded her that she had given him her telephone number; and I disclosed that hers was the first number on his list of favourites. She began asking for some clarification, but I was fighting a losing battle until I told her that formal dress was mandatory.

Men and women are very different creatures. Tell a man that he must wear a dinner suit and he blanches. Tell a woman that she must wear a ball gown and her eyes light up. Even if she already owns the gown, she can see vistas of new shoes and handbags, visits to spas for detoxing and to salons for hair and nails to be ‘done.’ Pat didn’t go so far as to say yes but she did agree to take a call from Dave on Sunday morning to confirm the invitation.

I skipped down the road as proud as if I’d discovered a cure for cancer. As soon as I got inside, I asked Mary if I could buy four tickets for the dinner dance. After Andrew asked if I planned to take Flubber and two ewes, I told them about Anne and Pat driving up for the weekend. Mary immediately took charge. All the rooms in the Invermor hotel were taken but she booked two rooms in the Farquhar Arms in Coudh. Despite it being now almost ten o’clock on a Saturday night, she managed to contact her beautician to book the ladies in for a full work up on the following Friday afternoon.

Dave was anxious to leave, probably to interrogate me about my call to Pat, but Mary insisted that we would have to spend a second Monday in Glasgow being fitted for dinner suits. Dave was almost as sceptical as Pat when we talked on the way home, and I went to bed with some serious doubts. It was only as I was falling asleep that I recalled that no one during either phone call had mentioned Glenda.

The next morning, I was woken at ten minutes past six by a vigorous, if off-key, rendition of Some Enchanted Evening from South Pacific. The phrase ‘Once you have found her, never let her go.’ Was repeated with special gusto. I assumed that Dave had called as soon as the café opened and that the result had been favourable. I explained that I would be returning with the ladies on Sunday. I was out on the moor shortly after first light, but I think Dave spent the day consulting Mary on things to do in the Trossachs on a first date with the woman of your dreams. Andrew’s contribution was to list secluded lay-bys where they could snog – he even offered to ask the police patrols to guarantee their privacy.

Early on Monday we were in a tailor’s shop on Buchanan Street at the corner of Royal Exchange Square where Mary was greeted as royalty. The manager brought us coffee while Dave and I were being measured, constantly apologising for the absence of the owner. He and Mary had played together as children while their fathers shot grouse on the moors. The hay loft became a magical kingdom for the youngsters. As we left, we were assured that the suits would be delivered by Thursday.

“Don’t be surprised if the owner brings them himself,” the manager said as he ushered us onto the street. I happened to be looking at Mary as he spoke, and she was blushing. She took my arm as we walked away, whispering ‘I’ll tell you later.’ It was still early, so she suggested that we return to Balloch and take the car to the Goose Bay Marina for lunch. Dave was still compiling a list of places to take Pat after the dance. Andrew met us there, continuing his rather heavy-handed teasing from the previous evening. Dave was, I think, too keyed-up to notice but it seemed to me to be in questionable taste.

We spent the remainder of the week planning for the visit of the two women and for my absence throughout the following week. The biggest problem was deciding what to do with Flubber. Her mother and sister were never allowed inside the house since this was supposed to spoil their ability as sheepdogs – don’t ask me why. Flubber was, in my opinion, a better handler of sheep than either of them but she lay at my feet before the fire every evening. Mary offered to have Flubber as a house guest while I was on my travels, with reluctant agreement from Andrew.

Dave was now spending most of his time away from the farm setting up deals, whereas Mary is at home all day, almost every day. She always appeared to be cheerful, but I sometimes wondered. She and Andrew had lived near Falkirk before he retired, and she had mentioned in passing that their social life was lively. I have known both of them for a little more than a week, but I feel that I have already reached the full depth of Andrew’s character. Mary, on the other hand, remains an enigma.