A Nation Decides

by David McVey

An iScot Short Story

‘OCH, it’s quite simple,’ said Alex Sharkey, ‘yes or no. Aye or naw.’

He reinforced his point by stabbing the air with his forefinger, but all the while, he was looking at the telly, not at Calum.

‘And, anyway,’ Alex went on, ‘just vote “no” or I’ll turn ye oot the hoose.’

‘I can vote however I want, Dad,’ said Calum, ‘it’s a secret ballot. Ye cannae find oot how I voted.’

Alex gave a snort. ‘Ye shouldnae be voting at all. Ye’re only 16. Quiet…’ he stopped Calum from replying with a wave of the hand, ‘the race is gonnae start.’

The telly was mounted on the wall and the colours on the screen were breathtaking in HD splendour. They saw a salmon-pink athletics track, a packed stand with flags rippling, most of them saltires or lions rampant and eight athletes primed to spring into action. A pistol crack, a soaring crescendo of human voices, a brief explosion of human energy, a lunge for the tape and then another deep, visceral roar from the crowd, by which time Calum and his dad were both dancing around the room.

‘Second!’ shouted Calum, ‘He finished second!’ On the telly there was a brief shot of a sea of Scottish flags in the Hampden crowd before they cut back to the studio.

‘Typical BBC!’ said Calum, ‘cutting away fae aa they Scottish flags. If only we controlled our ain telly.’

‘That’s SNP shite,’ said his dad.

‘It’s just wanting Scotland to have control over its ain affairs.’

‘SNP shite, just like letting 16 and 17-year olds vote.’

But even Alex was irked when the first athlete selected for interview, still gasping for breath, was the Englishman who had finished third. Scott Hallion, the local hero who had only just made it into the Scottish team for Glasgow 2014, who had grown during the heats and who was now a silver medallist, would have to wait. Eventually, he was called, and the interviewer hurried through a few bland questions, concluding with ‘So the European Championships in Zurich now look like a real possibility?’

‘Well, we’ll see…’ said Hallion.

On the telly there was a brief shot of a sea of Scottish flags in the Hampden crowd before they cut back to the studio.

‘You’re English,’ said the man who answered the door as soon as she introduced herself.

‘Well, yes,’ said Marion, ‘but I’ve lived in Scotland for nearly ten years.’

‘English? And ye support independence? That’s mental.’ And the door slammed shut.

A few doors later she met Sam Conroy, her next-door neighbour, who was canvassing for ‘Better Together’. Exmilitary and moustachioed, he was smartly turned-out, as always; today it was fawn cavalry twill trousers, a tightly-buttoned dark blazer and his old regimental tie with a blue shirt.