Ch1: Spelt 'Ecclefechan', but pronounced 'Kirkcudbright'
Because I have been watching "dinnerladies" recently and forgot how much of a genius Victoria Wood was, and how missed she is. Here is my poor imitation of her writing, continuing on from when Tony and Bren move to Scotland to run the pub. If I have enough inspiration to get to the present time, I will - please review, and I hope you enjoy.
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Easter 2000
"Bren!" Colin, Tony's schooldays friend pulled open the passenger door and held out his hand. Bren smiled, and let the ex-para, now pub owner and held out a hand. Brenda Furlong unclicked her belt, and accepted his welcoming gesture as the sun reflected brightly from the tarmac road. How different the town was since they had been there since Christmas, lit up in the spring light.
"As beautiful as ever I saw you."
"Give over," Tony put in, grinning at his best friend as Bren felt her face blush. "Good to see you, mate."
"Good journey?" He pushed his walking frame along as Bren got out of the car, taking Tony's hand.
"Great, great. No snow this time." Bren saw Colin's face light up.
"I'm so glad you're doing this, Tone, and you, Bren," he added nodding at her too. Colin Tulloch had been in the Falklands, demobbed through injury from an Argie bullet to the base of his spine, and had used his compensation to buy a pub up in Scotland in the late eighties. Health deteriorating, Colin had employed a manager, who had left the year before to move to America, and rather than sell up, Bren and Tony had managed to get together enough money for half of the money to pay off the manager from Tony's flat sale and Bren's money from Petula. The opportunity was fantastic, and Tony had been at pains to ensure that the deeds were in all three of their names, reflecting Bren's third share. How had she fallen on her feet with this man? Since Tony had taken over as catering manager in the year that Italy had hosted the World Cup, Bren had developed increasingly stronger feelings for Tony, He was who she looked forward to seeing every morning, as he ran the canteen; she had worked as well as she could in the sanctuary of the kitchen, where her mother's eccentric and impoverished lifestyle, where her husband's drunkenness and violence could not touch her.
And now, they had managed more than she could ever hope for. They could work for themselves in a prosperous trade, with established contacts. Tony did not assume they would marry, did not assume that her inheritance - for want of a better word - from her mother was his. In short, was in no way like her husband. Ex-husband now. The decree absolute had come through just before they had moved up. That had been a month ago, and this was her new life, with the man she had grown to love and who had, unbelievably, grown to love her.
In Fossellerault. It had taken only a few days and a delayed order from Irn Bru to learn that the town was pronounced Fosslley.
"Nor Kirkcudbright," Tony had gently ribbed her, as the irate van driver had emerged from his cab and lectured her on her faux pas.
"But ironically," put in Colin, gathering up his walking crutches, "Faux Pas" is how "Falkirk" is spelt."
Most mornings as the summer developed into wide-skied, mellow late nights Bren had to hold off from pinching herself that this was all a dream. How could it be that, back in the last minnellium she had nothing, less than nothing: a mooching mother, an estranged, violent husband, a bedsit whose rent she was struggling to afford. And, had she not let herself develop her relationship with Tony, probably homeless and jobless. Then it would have been her looking for a place to park a caravan and fantasising about the famous people she had never been involved with, just like her mother.
"What do you think about a whisky tasting evening?" Tony was staring at the specials board. "And how do you spell "cullen skink"?"
"Ef-eye-ess-aitch," Bren replied, glancing at a leaflet that had come in the post. "Ess-oh-you-pee". She watched his face soften into a smile.
"No, I don't want to pee," Tony grinned, reaching over to kiss her, before looking back at the blackboard, chalk in hand. "Fish soup. So, a whisky tasting evening?" Bren got up from the bar stool and crossed the carpet to stand by him. She took the chalk and sketched a stylised fish underneath.
"Isn't it a bit like coals to Newcastle?"
"Eh?"
"Coals to Newcastle. Ostracism in Coventry..." She looked at his confused face. "Pointless?"
"No, look, Colin's going to run an advert in the internet superhighway, to get the word about for the B and B."
"Good idea."
"And he has some contacts in the islands."
"Which islands?"
"The Scottish islands, the Hebrides, you know, where the different whiskies are made." He turned to the bar, and looked over the letters. "I need to ask them for samples in return for promotion at our event." Tony rubbed his chin. Bren smiled. She might not have learned much at school, but she could write a letter. Shorthand and typing was one of the only lessons she enjoyed, because it gave her hope that there would be a job she could do when she left.
"I can do those. I like writing letters. And I've got one to send to Jean, anyway." Bren tapped her apron pocket. "You know, I had a dream about her?"
"Last night?"
"Yeah, I dreamed that we were working together."
"At the factory?"
"No, with my mother and Philippa...in an antiques shop!" She giggled softly at the ludicrousness of the idea.
"Are you sure the cheddar's in date?" Tony asked, handing Bren the letters and kissed her forehead. "Thanks, mate."
"Did you dream last night?" Bren asked, as he strode behind the bar.
"I never dream," Tony replied, smiling at her. "Right, I'm going to sort the cellars out."
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Bren had located an old bicycle that had been rusting in the derelict barn that was part of the property and she had spent nearly two months getting it into a condition that she could ride it. Tony had said more than once he hated her using it - the lanes were narrow and some of the cars drove fast. But he had got her a bike helmet and watched her with grudging pride as she circumnavigated the town, and a basket and lights had followed the helmet. So it was on "Mavis" that Bren rode across to the next town, Culzean - pronounced "Cullane", which had a post office.
Bren had visited the post office several times before, and a man, tall like Stan, with greying black hair and steely blue eyes, had served her. This time, a petite, diminutive woman was behind the counter, and on spying Bren, had narrowed her eyes to her.
"Yes?" she asked in crisp accent. "Do you want anything?" Bren smiled, and proffered the letters.
"Stamps, and, uh, ten B and H, if you have them?" Dont bring Marlborough Lights, though, Tony had said, when she asked if he wanted any fags, they're like breathing in sweaty socks that have been under armpits."
"Are you English?" she asked, suspiciously. Bren considered this. It seemed an incorrect answer might result in no stamps and no cigarettes.
"Uh, I'm from Oldham." The woman behind the post office counter brightened.
"Oh, she said, happily, "That's OK then, because if you were English..." Her sentence trailed off. Bren was tempted to finish it for her.
...because, if I were English, the sky would have fallen in...? ...Tories might have become voteable for again...? ...Alastair Darling's eyebrows would have become fashionable...?
"Oh, you're an SNP supporter?" The woman, looked at the envelopes destined for the islands, then palmed her hand towards a window full of election posters.
"That's good, is it? A requirement? Over in Fossley?" Bren glanced at the envelopes, unable to make the connection between them and the Scottish National Party.
"We meet at the telephone box, on a Tuesday," the woman continued, passing over a leaflet.
"Because it's big enough for you all here in Culzean?"
"To plan the campaign!" Behind her, the man who had sold Bren stamps the last few times frowned down at the woman.
"Look, Alex Salmond isn't going to visit, no matter how many posters you put up, Barbara." The man behind her shook his head. He glanced over at Bren. "Salmond...Sturgeon...all sound a bit fishy to me." At this, the little woman turned on him.
"Just becaue you voted for the Labour party, husband! I'll stick to freedom, if you don't mind." She looked approvingly at the SNP poster. "He came down to Ae."
Bren glanced at Barbara. "Eh?"
"Yes!" she exclaimed, "Ae, it's ten miles west of here." She leaned forward, conspiratorially. "Were you there?"
But before Bren could think of something to say, the woman's husband folded his arms. "You're a fool, Barbara. We've got it well, in the Union, same opportunities, same money..."
"Different money!" she said, proudly. But he ignored her and looked across to Bren.
"You and your husband, you've just taken over the Dram Shop, have you? At Fossellerault?"
"Yeah, that's right," said Bren, not correcting the man. "Bren Furlong. Tony has big plans, wants to turn the barn at the back into a B and B."
"Sandy Farlane," the man replied, nodding at the introduction. "And my wife," he added, with a glint in his eye, "practically perfect in every way."
"You'd be better off calling it a retreat," said Barbara, handing Bren the SNP flyer. "It'll attract more socialists."
"Champagne socialists?" Bren asked. If the woman didn't know where Oldham was, she probably had never heard of that phrase.
"They can drink what they like, as long as they pay you well," Barbara replied, proving Bren right. "Then, you can spend it here, in Culzean, in Fossellerault, in our country, and keep the economy going."
"So, rich, New Labour party supporters can come to Fossellerault and give us the money and we can spend it in Troon?"
"Not proper socialists if they have money," Sandy shook his head. "Don't you think that's hypocritical, Barbara?"
"As long as they're spending it in Dumfries and Galloway, they can be as capitalist as they like!" his wife replied, pleased with herself.
"You're a barmpot, woman," Sandy shook his head.
"Well, you never know, people from Oldham do vote for the SNP, you know." Bren suppressed a smile as Sandy strode away, shaking his head.
"Stamps," Bren said, bringing the conversation back to the point. "I don't know the area well: what if I'm sending this to Islay?
"Islay, Staffa..." Barbara looked at the large poster behind her. "They are actually lower than us, here, in the Galloway Highlands. In fact, all of Scotland - Alba, if you will - is higher than England - " she spat the word, " - geographically, spiritually, culturally, morally - "
" - ecumenically?" Barbara smiled at her.
"I knew I'd found a kindred spirit," she said, taking the letters. "No, it costs no more, but takes a little longer."
"And that'll be the fault of the English then, what with spreading them islands all out and making them all taller, so it takes longer for everything to get there?" Bren waited for Barbara to catch on. But instead the old woman beamed from ear to ear.
"I knew you understood! I can always tell!" Barbara exclaimed, tapping the SNP leaflet. "You think about it: keep the English out! We all have to do our bit."
"To keep the English out?" Bren asked, cynically.
"Exactly, Brenda Furlong, exactly!"
"Unless they're socialists come to spend their share dividends," Bren added, making to go. As she put her hand to the post office door, it occurred to her that Barbara reminded her a lot of Dolly Bellfield.
"I knew you were one of us!" Barbara called, as Bren started off on her bicycle in the glorious sunshine.
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And you don't dream, Bren thought that night, as Tony turned over. An owl had been hooting, which had woken her up. Or, at least, it was probably the owl. It might have been Tony.
He said he didn't dream, but she had been living with him for six months, and he had never talked in his sleep before. It had begun since they had arrived in Scotland; his flat sale had gone through very quickly and they had arrived in Scotland just after Easter. Tony had already sent a removal van of belongings on ahead before collecting Bren from her bedsit one sunny, early-April Sunday. Lying in bed, watching the duvet rise and fall with Tony's rhythmical breathing, she thought about the day they came up.
"I'll get those," Tony had said, carrying down two of Bren's cases, as she posted the key back through the letterbox. "I've posted your redirection letter, and paid for it," he added as she held the tower block door open for him. He placed them by the boot of his already well-stuffed car, opening the rear passenger door and moving a box of his own things out of the way before lifting both cases into the back passenger seat. "Give me the key and I'll get the rest."
"The rest?" asked Bren. "That's it." Tony glanced at the two shabby cases and then back to Bren.
"That's it? All your belongings? What about your telly?"
"Mr. Singh said he would take it back to Radio Rentals for me tomorrow. All the rest of the furniture belonged to the flat." Tony closed the door of his fifteen-year-old Vauxhall Astra and stepped towards her.
"It's going to be brilliant, Bren," he said, pulling her close.
"I know," she whispered to his chest. "I know. It's just...the divorce...my mum's gone...your cancer..."
"The divorce is over; you did good with your mum's funeral."
"I half expected her celebrity friends to turn up," Bren had sighed.
"You got Harry, from Packing," Tony had replied, taking her hand. "He's a TV star in all of the four Yorkshire counties now, and that's not easy for a Lancastrian to do." He had kissed her forehead. "And now, we've got our future together."
And that was what she was telling herself - Bren and Tony, a new start in Scotland, financially secure, no ties, all the dinnerladies sorted out. So why, since they had got to Fosellerault. had he muttered in his sleep one word?
Sandra.
The owl hooted again, and a shuffling down in the bushes indicated it might have been successful with a rodent.
His wife's name. Sandra was happily married to a triple glazing salesman in Bury: Tony had showed Bren the photo she had sent him.
"She's a vindictive cow," he said once, pushing away the letter he was holding. A week before the canteen closed for good, as he undid the two letters that had arrived for him. The other had been a reference request for Twinkle who had not, contrary to her insistence, become a prostitute. Instead, it was from the council: Twink had applied to become a social worker. As for the letter from his ex-wife, Tony crumpled it up and threw it into the bin. "She's trying to tell me she did better than being with me."
But you're doing better than her, now, Bren thought. Why is she in your dreams? Then, she fought the thoughts from her mind and instead focused on the jobs ahead of them to renovate the barn, so it could be turned into a B and B, or a retreat - Tony had liked the idea. Their future. Which she was excited about. Martin was out of the picture. So, why not Tony's ex, too?
The sun was rising fast, its rays filtering through the curtains. Leaving Tony in bed, Bren got up went downstairs, still in her nightie, pulling her dressing gown on as she went. Switching on the television, hope for the new minnellium filled the bar as the opening ceremony for the Sydney Olympics began.
Would Jean phone, Bren wondered, as Armenia proudly led in its team. She had been at pains to write down the pub phone number. Twice.
As the parade went on, Bren glanced up towards their bedroom. I wonder how long it'll be til we have the olympics in Britain again, Bren thought, before disappearing off into the kitchen to make two teas.