Where Have All the Boys Gone?(55)

“Super,” said Fergus. “Now, we’ve got our first caller on line four.”

In fact, the voice could be heard all over the studio, leaving Katie craning her neck around to try to see where it was coming from.

“Uh, hello thair,” said a voice. “My name’s Angus and I’m calling frae Lochinver. And my question is: what is the proper grip for a broomhandle putter?”

Katie tried not to sigh audibly. “No, what I’m saying is, there’s too much golf, and we should protect the trees instead.”

There was a massive “pffff” on the other end of the line, and then the sound of Angus hanging up.

Fergus took another sip from a polystyrene cup which might have held tea and might have held something else.

“Did they just hang up? Cady, maybe you’re not giving the best advice here lassie . . . who says women know about golf! And another caller please.”

“What?” said Katie, but before she could properly respond, another voice was overhead, deep and rumbling.

“Hullllo. This is Gordon, frae Ullapool. And whit ah wanna know is, if you drive the green on a par four and are putting for eagle, is your drive considered in the ‘fairway’ for statistical purposes?”

“Oh for goodness’ sake, I can’t even play golf!” shouted Katie. “I don’t know! I’m sorry! I’m here to urge everyone to oppose the building of a new golf course in Coille Mhòr forest. We want less golf, not more.”

“It appears to be hysterical woman night here tonight, listeners!” said Fergus, belatedly realising things weren’t quite going according to plan and trying to tackle it by adopting a jaunty tone. He started fiddling with buttons.

“Are they building a golf course in Coille Mhòr?” asked Gordon.

“They’re trying to,” said Katie.

“Och, it’ll be quite nice to play golf in the forest, ken. I used to go there as a young lad.”

“You can’t play golf in a forest, Gordon,” said Katie. “They have to chop it all down.”

“Oh. Och ah see. Och, that would be an awful terrible shame now, wouldn’t it?”

“YES!”

“And now, it’s Mister Puff D with ‘Lick her up and down All Over,’” said Fergus, fading the music up quickly and making a guillotine gesture to Nigel. Instantly Gordon disappeared. Fergus swivelled his fat arse around in the chair he was sitting in to face her. He had horrid wiry hair coming out of his nose and ears.

“Sorry, who the hell are you and why are you trying to sabotage my programme?”

“I’m Katie Watson and I was booked on your programme to defend bloody nature around here.”

“So how come I’ve been trailing it as a fucking golf slot all fucking day? Jeez, what’s up with you women—all on the blob?”

“You don’t know many women, do you?” said Katie.

“Nobody does up here love.” He took another slug from his cup. “Fucking Nigel, you fucking fucker, you’re fucked this time.”

Nigel’s voice was suddenly heard in the studio. “If you think you can find three interesting people a night, five nights a week all by yourself, please do go right ahead.”

The two men glowered at each other.

“Well, what the fuck do you fucking expect me to do now?” growled Fergus. He clearly had absolutely no problem turning on his on-radio swearing radar.

Nigel shrugged.

“Why don’t you interview me about our fight to protect our local forests?” said Katie. “Call me crazy, but you never know, someone might be interested.”

“Well, I’ve got forty-six callers lined up to ask you questions about golf.”

“Well, they might just learn something,” snapped Katie.

Fergus and Nigel gave each other a look as the music came to a halt.

“And that was the great P-Diddy, a personal friend of mine, and the time’s coming up to 7:34. Forecast for tomorrow’s weather; there’ll be a light scattering of showers followed by heavier showers, with, uh, just snow on the upper slopes, so we know that spring is finally getting here. Now, on the show tonight, we were taking your golf questions, however, our guest has informed us that she hates golf . . .”

“I don’t hate golf,” interjected Katie.

“Do you play golf?”

“No.”

“Do you know what golf is?”

“I know that putting down a golf course in Coille Mhòr forest will cause five hundred red squirrels to die out,” said Katie. She didn’t, of course, but that sounded quite impressive.

A light blinked on the console.

“And we have another caller . . . line three.”

A man cleared his throat on the line and started to talk in a gruff voice. “My name is . . . uh, my name is Harry Farm . . . Farmsworth from Braeside, and I just want to say that I was a really keen golfer, but when I found out they were planning on cutting down our beautiful forest I was so angry I broke all my clubs over my knees!”

Fergus looked at Katie, who was doing her best to swallow her grin. Oh, bless Harry’s heart. Not a natural actor by any means, but he was certainly trying his best.

“Well, I’m sure you’d like to hear about some of the ways you can help our campaign,” said Katie.