THE MACMADVINS

The Fualish Saga

Another everyday story of lust, power and intrigue among island folk
by BeatriceMcCavity-Muckraker

Pulling his tattered kill over his pyjama trousers, and grappling his unruly instrument under his arm, Hamish McPherson, tone deaf hereditary piper 10 the McMadyins paced up and down the gravel path outside the Chief's bedroom window. sending up the caterwaul of the early morning alarm caU. Groaning under a foetid heap of blankets, collies and empty bottles Badyin received the message and rose, his foul humour only partiallly relieved by the traditional ceremony of pouring the chamber pot contents over the piper, the lime-hallowed signal that the laird's levee was complete.

Blackly he stumbled down to the kitchen where the chef awaited, proffering Porridge a la mode de Scarinish and Co-op biscuits for the traditional breakfast, and, as always, the bottle of 'Highlander's Joy', a mild restorative tank wine (90% proof) with which Mcmadyin and his lady were wont to start, continue and end the day. Dubh Ellen sat at the other end of the long kitchen table, her head prettily slumped in the whisky marmalade, smiling vaguely, the morning mail limp in her dangling hand. The alarming pile of stern brown envelopes lightened Badyin's mood and he began to read eagerly, chortling at the vast sums he appeared to owe the Oban tradesmen. 'They threaten to come out and re-possess the Aston Martin, mo ghaoil,' he called across the vast expanse of table. The vision of loveliness raised her head and muttered, 'They'll have to get the pig out first' then resumed her former graceful posture. 'And the bank manager congratulates me on my cavalier attftude to finance-I'm sure that must be a compliment.' As he cheerfully tossed letter after retter into the Bungalow Bell, his spirits rose further, 'listen to Ihis, Dubh Ellen-it's another free offer from Ihe Reader's Digest.'


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Dear Mr McMudbin,

YOU, yes YOU, Mr McModren have been specially chosed to participate in our great OIL DISCOVERY, YES... Readers Digest/Shell have discovered oil off the coast of FUALISH ISLLAND and have chosen YOU as recipient of MILLIONS of ££££s.

Just picture the scene, Mr McMadthing, all those mouldering cottages, presently occupied by unprofitable peasants and white settlers, bulging with your very own OILMEN... Easy to milk, with more money than sense, and desperate for housing, women, drink and other easily supplied services. Cass in now Mrs McYidman, by returning the tear off slip attached.

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I have (insert number) of tenant-free tasteful dwellings available @ £*000 per day on minimum twenty year lease. Careful tenants only, no dogs, children or solicitors.

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A joyful yell burst from our hero. 'We're rich, Dubh Ellen, rich beyond the dreams of Scarinish! There hasn't been a day like this in Fualish since Gladyin McMadyin set fire to the village and shipped the entire population to Australia in a twelve-foot dinghy. They won't have such generous treatment this time!'

He roared off singing '0 Happy Day', causing two old women at the roadside to shudder. 'Ochone, ochone: muttered one. 'If the laird's happy, it means a black day for Fualish.' The other contemplated the new council sign at the roadside, 'Bend for 1/2 mile', then, with a sigh, set off up the track, bent double and muttering imprecations against the Council and its stupid rules.

By late afternoon half the population had received eviction notices from McMadyin; the other larger and stronger half, from seven-foot, thirtystone Hector McBrownnose, factor to the laird. The young women were to stay if they chose, but all other tenants were to make way for the laird's suddenly extended family. 'But where are we to go?' Mary McBean sobbed pathetically, clutching the laird's knees in a supplicating manner. 'I don't know or care' he said loftily, 'but I imagine that your cousins in Glasgow, your aunt in Inverness, your nephew in Milton Keynes, your brother in Australia, your eight second cousins in Canada or your step-great-niece in Auchtermuchty will put up with you for a while. You've all got hundreds of relations on the mainland, let them put up with you all, God knows, we've been inflicted with them for long enough.' 'But laird, have you no heart, no soul' she pleaded, 'Aye, I've a soul, and a heel and toe as well and you'll feel them tomorrow if you're not quick off the mark' He strode off back to the house, rubbing his hands, and chortling happily.

In the 'Fualish Arms' that night the crofters were revolting, and very angry as well, despite the attempts of McBrownnose to pacify them by banging their heads against the bar counter. Wayne McVane addressed them, standing on a shaky bar stool, and brandishing an aged shotgun. 'Friends, the time has come to resist oppression. We must fight this injustice with any means at our disposal. Have I your support?' Misunderstanding, Murdo McNumbskull took off his truss and handed it to McVane, who threw it contemptuously on the floor. 'Come, fellow Fuals, let us march to the Big House, and put our case with strength and conviction.'

Shouldering their shotguns they surged out, pausing only to finish their drams, and to have another couple of quick ones for the road, and marched up the drive to Fualish House, uttering strange, ancient battle-cries in English, Gaelic and Anglo-Saxon. Hearing their approach, Badyin trembled, knowing his hour had come. Instructing Dubh Ellen to cover him with a shotgun, he leapt out of the back window and began racing across the bog. The howls of the crowd grew louder and closer, and he realised bitterly that Dubh Ellen was only holding off the crofters one at a time - as usual. Slithering and squelching he struggled on, panting and terrified, with the Fuals within shotgun range and closing. Suddenly he felt his legs being sucked down as if by a gaint vacuum cleaner and to his horror realised he had broken the skin of a jumping jack and was sinking slowly into the primordial slime. His pursuers formed a ring round him, smiling grimly, their shotguns cocked and ready, Tall and sardonic, like an avenging angel, Wayne McVane pointed his barrel at Badyin's head. 'Oppressor of the people: he said, 'prepare to meet thy doom.'

'Oh hell: thought Badyin, 'I seem to have a wee bit of a problem here: and sank slowly and inexorably into the grimpen mire.. .
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Ed's Note: At this point, overcome by excitement, Ms McCavity Muckraker regrettably departed this troubled world, leaving the Fualish Chronicles unfinished. Can you get Badyin MacMadyin out of the bog? A Grand Prize, including a heather-bound, graphically-illustrated copy of the story-so-far, is offered for the next exciting episode. A golden opportunity for Aspiring Authors to see themselves in, and out, of print. ..