PART
ONE
THE
BACK STORIES
CHAPTER
TWO
THE
MAN FROM THE BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS
You
know I told you how my life went pretty crazy? Well here's how crazy.
I had my row with the publishers and finally I got them to sign off
on the idea of starting out with the back stories of the men and
women who made all the difference. I wanted to know about the moments
in their lives which shaped their views. What made them choose a
side? What made them resolve to make a stand? After thinking about it
for a while, I decided as good a way as any would be to go through
things chronologically.
And
all of a sudden my publishers had a very major change of heart. By
now I had Brad as my nominated 'contact officer'. Yeah. Really.
'Contact officer.' For goodness sake. He had a carefully cultivated
world weary air when he waved me to the visitor's area of his office.
Coffee, Sam? Yes, please. A biscuit? Anything to eat? No thank you.
Coffee is fine.
He
sat down carefully making sure the creases in his trousers continued
to fall in the correct directions. He speed read some notes on his
tablet and then eased a well-practiced smile into place.
“So.
Sam. We're kicking off with the back stories, right? Oldest first?”
“We
are. I am.”
“Cool.
How can I help?”
I
sipped my coffee and tried to come up with some assertiveness to go
with my efforts at power dressing.
“Well,
I will need to do some traveling. And I was wondering if there might
be a budget for this kind of thing?"
Well,
this certainly put a few folds across his tanned forehead. He laid
the tablet down and ran his fingers through a mane of carefully
groomed hair.
“Ah.
Right. Expenses. I see. Well. Maybe if you could give me a flavour of
what you have in mind, Sam....."
So
I did. And it didn't take very long at all for the creases to vanish.
Very soon his expensive teeth were lighting up the room. Now it was
all about of course, of course. Nothing was a problem. Everything was
possible. And did I need any help with the arrangements?
“No.
I think I have everything covered Brad. Just the airfare and a couple
of nights in a hotel......”
“....
and taxis and meals and other out of pocket stuff. Just bring me the
receipts. Bloody hell Sam, this really is excellent. Remember to
bring me photos. Lots of photos. Perfect pre-publicity. Are you OK to
do a couple of interviews? Radio probably. Get the public appetite
whetted?"
I
said I was. He asked when I wanted to go. I said it was all fixed.
Next Tuesday. He told me to leave it to him. All of it.
A
few days later I arrived at the Delta check in desk at Heathrow and
told them I had a ticket to Washington waiting for me. The walking
lipstick advert behind the reception desk clacked away at her
keyboard and beamed at me.
“Yes.
Here we are. Samantha Keating. Could I have your passport please....”
And
suddenly it was like being in a dream. My ticket was First Class and
the hack from the Hereford Times was suddenly propelled into a whole
new world of champagne, leg room and the kind of meal you would
expect to get in a posh restaurant rather than an airplane.
A
man in a suit was waiting for me at Dulles complete with cap and
sign.
“Welcome
to Washington Miss Keating. I'm Frank and I will be your driver for
your stay with us.”
The
weather was biting cold but the plush leather seats were heated. We
glided through streets familiar from Netflix and there was a bell boy
waiting at the door of the Four Seasons. Frank told me he would be
waiting right here at nine o’clock the next morning.
I
decided to indulge myself and tried my best not to feel guilty about
the size of the bill I clocked up. My room was borderline tasteful
and the view was as panoramic as promised by the online blurb.
And
of course, I couldn't resist the chance of a gloat. I cracked open a
Budweiser from the mini bar and called up Wendel to give it with both
barrels. He said I was a posh cow. I told him to piss off.
Frank
was waiting as promised the next morning and by now the nerves in my
stomach were running on all cylinders. By the time we arrived at 1600
Pennsylvania Avenue I was pretty well hyper-ventilating. Would it be
like the movies? It was. A Marine complete with the squarest jaw I
have ever seen checked my paperwork and called me 'Maam'. Another
Marine ran some sort of sniffer gadget over every inch of our shining
vehicle.
It
took five minutes for us to be ticked off as non-terrorists with a
bone fide appointment. Frank actually looked every bit as nervous as
I was as he stuck to the 5mph speed limit with white knuckled
concentration. More gleaming Marines manned the entrance as Frank
leaped out to race me to open the back door.
“Maam.”
Christ.
Everyone was suddenly calling me 'Maam.” Weird.
Mandy
was on the steps and waiting. Her power dressing put mine so far in
the shade it was bloody ridiculous. Her face lit up at the sight of
me.
“Sam!
Great to meet you. We're all so glad you're visiting with us. I'm
Mandy by the way. Y'all come along with me. My, it's kinda cold,
right? Let's get into the warm....”
Her
honeyed tones dripped of the Deep South whilst her clothes were pure
Fifth Avenue. I tried to take things in as she guided me through
corridors and security checks, all the while filling the air with
words of absolute welcome. I wish I could call up a clearer set of
memories, but it was all too much like being in a strange dream.
Before I knew it Mandy was knocking on a door and a voice from within
said for us to come in.
And
there he was. James Buchanan who in 2029 had become the 47th
President of the United States of America.
He
was leaner than on the TV. Without make up, his face matched his
seventy years but when he jumped to his feet his energy was that of a
fifty-year-old. Jeans. A check shirt. Leather slippers.
No
power dressing from the most powerful man on the planet.
And
his charm was immediate and absolute, starting with the most familiar
smile in the world.
“Sam.
Come on in. It's OK to call you Sam I hope? Great. Well, I'm James.
It's too early in the day for all that 'Mr President' crap. Here.
Take a load off. Coffee? Mandy, could you chase up some coffee...."
I
sat and tried to calm myself down and completely failed. I mean for
Christ's sake, this was the Oval bloody office.
“They
tell me you're writing the story. A 'how the cards fell' sort of
thing?”
“Yes,
Mr Preside... Umm … sorry …. James. I am."
“And
you're chasing down the back stories, right?”
“Yes.
I am. I thought it would be good to try and find out why people did
what they did. If you see what I mean?"
“Sure
do and I am genuinely glad to help. How do you want to play it? Q and
A? Notes, or would you rather record?..."
“If
recording is OK with you....?"
“Fine
by me. Whatever makes you comfortable, Sam. I know this place is kind
of intimidating. Took me six months not to feel like an imposter. I
still do if I'm honest.”
Mandy
arrived complete with silver potted coffee and a $2000 set of teeth.
“OK.
Why don't I just tell you? My own words. That good for you?"
Absolutely.
And
he did. It took him twenty minutes and every time I re-listen to my
recording I am always impressed at how succinct he was without for a
minute seeming to be.
He
took me all the way back to 1980 and a small town called Boone in
North Carolina. He said it was named after the David Boone, one of
the legendary heroes of the old frontier. Not quite a one horse town,
but close. A population of 15,000 and the peaks of the Blue Ridge
Mountains all around. He was twenty years old. He was the son of the
local agricultural merchant and he was determined to see a bit of the
world before heading to college to learn how to become a lawyer.
Scotland
was his fourth stop after Germany, Italy and Omaha Beach where his
grand-daddy had managed survive against all the odds in June 1944.
A
ferry to Dover. Two days in London to see all the things a wide eyed
American needed to see. Then it was Euston Station and a British Rail
night train all the way to Inverness. A cheap and cheerful guest
house with a landlady who was the scariest person he had ever met. A
night in a pub and accents all around him which were beyond his
understanding. The next day it poured with rain as he wound his small
hire car through a succession of one track roads, all of them headed
north.
“Man,
it took me forever. Goddamn sheep on the roads and just a whole hell
of a lot of nothing. Took me five hours and I must have gotten lost
about thirty times. I guess it must have been about four o'clock when
I finally found the place. Rosal. Strathnaver Valley. Way up at the
top of Scotland. Ever heard of it?”
No.
I hadn't heard of it. But I was beginning to guess.
“It's
where my folks come from. It can't have been much of a life. A couple
of fields of oats. A few head of cattle. God knows how many of them
sharing a hovel with their animals. A peat fire. Damp as all hell.
Nothing much to eat in a bad year. But hell, it was the only life
they knew I guess.”
He
stopped for a moment to look out of his famous window.
“Anyway.
Things went to shit, if you pardon my French. The landlords were the
Duke and Duchess of Sutherland. A real pair of assholes. In 1814 the
Duke figured the likes of my people were pretty much economically
worthless. They could barely eat, let alone pay the kind of rent the
Duke and Duchess figured they were entitled to. The big bucks were to
be had from sheep farming. My people were just in the way. So the big
house hired themselves a lawyer called Patrick Sellar. The kind of
lawyering I learned at college is all about paperwork and due process
when it comes to moving on a tenant. Well, Sellar wasn't that kind of
lawyer. I guess he couldn't be bothered with court orders and
eviction notices. Instead, the sonofabitch turned up one day and got
his henchmen to set all the houses on fire. Two hundred and fifty
houses. Or crofts. Hovels. Whatever."
Again
the window drew his gaze.
“My
people must have just stood there and watched their lives burn down
to ash. A few days later Sellar burned out some more folks further
down the valley. This time his guys screwed up and they lit the place
up whilst the mother in law was still inside. Her daughter got her
out, but she was all burned to hell. They patched the old lady up and
put her in a shed. She died after five days. Sellar was arrested and
tried for arson and culpable homicide. Guess what? The bastard
walked. Course he walked. The Sutherlands set him up with a sheep
farm and he lived happily ever after.
'My
folks made their way to the coast and eventually found a ship to make
it to the States. Ten of them got on the boat and only six got off in
Charlestown. One way or another, they made it to Boone and found a
place to carve out a new life. And a hundred and fifty years later I
turned up.
'I
spent about an hour there. In Rosal. Not that there was a Rosal
anymore. Just a few piles of stones and about a million sheep. Here.
Check it out. This is one of the pictures I took."
And
there it was. A nothing special, black and white photo of a pile of
stones in an empty Highland valley. It was never about to win any
prizes but it caught the lonely bleakness of the place.
“The
picture goes where I go. It is always up there on the wall. It
reminds me of where my people came from. What happened to them. What
those bastards did. Before Rosal, I was as American as the Superbowl.
After Rosal, I have always been part Scottish. Not a big part. Just a
corner. A memory. A feeling in the bones."
And
now he switched on the lighthouse smile.
“So
when the moment came to step up, I stepped up. Course I did. Best
thing I've done since I got this job. Can we go off the record?”
“Of
course.” I switched off the recorder and his smile widened a notch.
“When
things were all in place I came back in here and took a moment. Some
'me' time, right? I poured a big glass of malt whisky and I raised a
toast. Know how it went?”
I
shook my head.
“Patrick
Sellar. Fuck you, asshole.”
He
held the world famous smile for a few seconds.
“Ah,
shit. What the hell. Put it on the record.”
FOR PREVIOUS CHAPTERS FOLLOW THE LINK BELOW
I HAVE WRITTEN THIS STORY TO RAISE FUNDS FOR THE FOODBANK I MANAGE IN DUMFRIES, SOUTH WEST SCOTLAND. OVER THE COMING WINTER OVER 3000 PEOPLE WILL COME THROUGH OUR DOORS AND RIGHT NOW WE DO NOT HAVE ENOUGH CASH TO HELP THEM ALL OUT. MAYBE YOU MIGHT BE WILLING TO HELP US OUT BY BUNGING A COUPLE OF QUID ONTO OUR JUSTGIVING PAGE? I HOPE SO. JUST FOLLOW THE LINK BELOW. I HOPE YOU ENJOY THE REST OF THE BOOK AND IF DO, PLEASE SHARE IT. MARK.
