The Fualish Saga
An everyday story of lust. power and intrigue, among island folk
by Beatrice McCavity-Muckraker

Winter comes to Fualish with cruel winds and driving rain. Even the thick stone walls of the houses are insufficient to keep out the icy cold, and crofters huddle found peat fires, bottles of whisky, or Easy Elspeth from the village, when availble. Things were not much better up at Fualish House, where our doughty hero Badyin McFadyin stood one winter evening in his splendid drawing room, lined with ancestral portraits, bookshelves crammed with rare first editions of the Beano and the People's Friend, priceless linoleum stretching from wall to wall, watching a peasant push an eight foot log into the roaring Bungalow Bell. Not noted for either their industry or their intelligence the Fualish folk regret that their driftwood arrived in unmanageable lengths. The front end of a whole ox was also being roasted in the range, the hind legs standing on the rug, holding up the part not being cooked.

"Dubh Ellen, we'll have to get another stove - something a bit bigger. This contraption is not fit for a Laird's drawing room. We'll have one of those posh Agas next time I collect the rents - McSporran's got a new one I hear" His lovely wife Dubh Ellen staggered forward - a vision in a swansdown trimmed lacy negligee and wellies.

"Shmy turn to collect the rentsh" she breathed.

"Not after the last time, mochridhe, it took three men to carry you home and all you brought back was an empty bottle and a half dead hen"

The door opened and the gamekeeper, Randy McWhirter entered, doffing his cap deferentially, concealing two upraised fingers within it as was his habit. Dubh Ellen sidled up to him, helping him off with his coat, his shirt and his trousers.

"Mr MacMadyin, sir, there's trouble at t'Mill"

The men are arming themselves for an assault on the Coll Welk pirates."

"What" McMadyin leapt up from his chair, "Down, Dubh Ellen! Do you mean that those fiends are on the prowl again"?

"Yes, every tide this week. They've been coming ashore in dinghies in all weathers, making a lightening raid on the welks and heading back to Coll at a rate of knots"

"This is serious. They're a cunning breed the Collachs, and fast with it. I don't think shooting them is the answer - all that would get us is a permanent policeman, and that would mean being gentler with the rent collection, also having to pay road tax. We must think this through. It requires the exercise of a complex and subtle brain."

"Where will you get one of those at this time of night. Laird?"

"Shut up and put your clothes back on this instant - I'm thinking"

So saying, he raised his old one-stringed fiddle and began to play "Gaol an tsealadair" The Sailors Love, a gay Highland tune, as an aid to contemplation. Dubh Ellen and McWhirter were forced to dive under the nearest set of bedclothes to drown the dreadful caterwauling.

"I have it", he shrieked. The peasant stoking the fire muttered," I hope it's not catching, forbye". Hastily adjusting his dress McWhirter once more presented himself.

"McWhirter, do you remember the foam rubber chippings left over from the HIDB advance whoopee cushion factory? And the shells from the cheese and welk party we gave for Lord and Lady Muck are still lying outside the kitchen door. Summon the men and tell them to get stuffing - we'll bait a trap for these Collachs that'll keep them from our welks for good. They'll sell no more to Oban after this lot."

Fualish House was a scene of feverish activity as crofters worked throughout the night stuffing the rubber plugs into the shells. They were fortified only by ham sandwiches, cheese sandwiches, whisky, chicken sandwiches, porridge sandwiches, welk sandwiches, whisky, tattie sandwiches, haggis sandwiches, tapioca sandwiches, whisky, black bun sandwiches and whisky. To wash down this meagre repast they drank whisky, with whisky chasers. As Dawn's rosy fingers crept over the sill, and Dubh Ellen's rosy fingers crept over one crofter after another, a trailer was loaded with the shells and quietly as a fairy's whisper they stumbled and lurched over the rocks to the beach. The trap was baited. Would the enemy be fooled?

Suddenly the swish of oars was heard over the rising wind, and dimly in the half light they glimpsed the pirate dinghies. Shadowy figures came ashore, the dim and greatly feared figures of Captn. John Jim, with his right hand man, the one-legged Jim John and their ruffianly crew. With stealth and skill they shovelled the welks into rude sacks (with Moth Balls printed on the side) and gleefully leapt back into their dinghies to brave the rough sea crossing back to Coll.

Two weeks later McMadyin was warming his sporran in front of the new Aga in the baronial drawing room when McWhirter was announced. As Dubh Ellen had passed out in the peat basket he'managed to remain fully dressed throughout, despite the searing heat from the vast range from which only the head of the roasting ox now protruded.

"Well, McWhirter, did our scheme work? Are the Collachs the laughing stock of the welk world? "Afraid not sir, they're back worse than ever, no beach is safe from them".

"But why - did the Oban welk-man not return the rubber welks with a strong letter?"

"Oh they got a letter from Oban all right - the consignment went to one of they gourmet restaurants in Paris and the customers raved about them - said the flavour and consistency were much better than usual. They're now offering £40 per bag for Fualish welks on the strength of it"

McMadyin sighed deeply, and gave the order to set the land mines...