Too poor. Too wee. Too stupid.
That's what it all boiled down to, really. That was the message he'd kept hammering home, over and over again.
Theirs had always been an odd relationship. Bitter enemies. Reluctant allies. A partnership where only one partner really had any say. But with enough tokenism and backhanded gifts to maintain the illusion of equality. A pat on the head. You can make your own decisions, really. Just leave the big stuff to me, sweetheart. Don't worry your pretty little head about the Middle East, or the nuclear warheads that I'm keeping in your back garden. Hand over your resources and stop whining about child poverty or the Glasgow effect...why would you bite the hand that feeds you? Tsk...I'm sick of bailing you out. Subsidy junky. Can't really make a go of it on your own.
But we're a team, aren't we?
It was no surprise really, that "English" and "British" were used interchangeably by the rest of the world. It was her job to smile for the tourists. Tartan and shortbread. Haggis and highland dress. Age old rebellions couched in harmless, twee nostalgia. One language all but wiped out. Another relegated to laughable nostalgia, spoken alternately by the "ignorant" and the "poorly educated", only given credence once a year in January as a nod to misty eyed patriotism.
Nobody really expected her to seriously consider it. The idea of getting up and walking out. She'd threatened it over and over again and he'd laughed every time. Ruffled her hair like she was a child who'd pitched a particularly amusing tantrum against eating her vegetables.
Could she really do it? It would be as simple as "yes". Yes, I want out. Yes, I want my vote to actually count for something.
He'd laughed. "What do you think is going to happen? You're going to fuck off and build the socialist paradise you keep whining about? You don't even have any money of your own."
Too poor. Too wee.
"Europe won't want anything to do with you," he'd warned her. "You're only relevant because of me. I'm the one protecting your place there."
Too poor. Too wee.
And that had given her the most pause. She thought it might be worth putting up with him as long as the others were there. Being a part of that club was the only thing that seemed to keep the worst of it in check. But still, the idea grew more and more tempting. More and more tangible.
"You're not serious, are you?" She saw the panic in his eyes as he stood, poised at the threshold.
"You're fucking right, I'm serious," she'd told him.
"OK...OK..." He'd spread his hands wide, a gesture as though he was placating some kind of wild creature. "Let's talk about this. What do you want? Change? Self determination? You can have it." He took her hands in his. "I should have listened sooner. We can change this. We can make it work. You want a voice? You can have a voice. You can make more decisions. Things that matter to you. I'll listen. We'll work together. I promise."
He'd sighed then, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked worn out. Tired. "I just don't want to see you fall. If you go down, I go down. I'm just trying to stop you from hurting yourself. That's all. We're better together. You know we are."
Too poor. Too wee.
He had a point, she thought. It would be a messy divorce. It would be hard. She would suffer, at least in the short term. He was holding so many of the cards.
And wasn't it true? That she was too poor? And too wee? That her voice would be drowned out on the world stage without him there to amplify it for her? But then, had he ever really acted in her best interests? Or was it only when their interests happened to coincide anyway?
She eyed him with suspicion. She took another step towards the door.
"I promise!" He'd blurted out. "I promise things will get better. You can take it as a vow. My vow to you. Just...stay. Don't isolate yourself. You know you won't make it without me. There's a whole world out there that will eat you alive. You think Europe is great now, but without me, they'll all take advantage of you. Assuming they even let you stick around. And you don't have any cards to play. The oil is almost gone. You have nothing to sell."
She had fish and farmlands, she thought. She'd had ships and factories...once. Maybe she could have them again. Other people got by with less.
He looked crestfallen. "I don't want to see you embarrass yourself. Nobody will care about you, once you leave. Once I'm not there to protect you. You'll be stuck whoring yourself out for tourists. It's all you have left without me." His voice was gentle. "I don't want to see that happen to you."
The part of her that was young and vibrant and hopeful wanted to tell him to go and fuck himself. The part of her that was old and tired and scared thought that he had a point. She was torn in half.
"All right." She said eventually. "If you promise...promise...me that things will be different. Then I'll stay." She felt a little sick as she spoke. But it seemed like the right thing to do. The safe thing. Stick with the devil you know.
She thought she caught a flash of triumph cross his face, just for a moment, before he rearranged it into neutrality. She stepped away from the door and he locked it. The sound of the key turning echoed with finality.
"You've made the right choice," he said, the picture of sincerity. He paused for a moment and sighed. "And actually, while you're here...since it's only fair...I think we need to talk about how much of a say you're getting in things that really have nothing to do with you..."