Chapter 2
The Spirit of a Scotsman
Jimmy
Jimmy Butler strode through the distillery scanning every corner of the building for anything out of place. The Kintyre Whisky Festival started in – Jimmy glanced at his watch – ten minutes. Where the hell was Archie?
That was the eternal, and infernal, question these days.
Where was Archie? Jimmy’s younger brother’s name was on the Butler’s paperwork, but the man himself was rarely around.
Jimmy had organised this festival single-handedly.
Archie, instead, had his father’s interest in the business, that is, none.
He had as much drive as a scrap car and expected Butler’s to run passively, or that someone else would do all the work.
And that was exactly what was happening.
Since their father had died, Jimmy was the one making all the decisions because no way would he let Butler’s go to ground.
His grandfather would turn in his grave if he thought the company was at risk.
Jimmy slipped into his office and dialled Archie’s home phone.
No answer. He wouldn’t ring more than once.
The last time he’d done that, he was accused of being a ‘nagging auld wife’.
Archie had probably been out late the night before and was still in bed, possibly with a woman.
There were a few tourists in town for the festival and his brother had talked about ‘getting laid’, no doubt parading out the ‘I own a distillery’ line to help his cause.
Jimmy liked getting laid as much as the next man, but you didn’t let family down like this.
And what was all this for, if not family?
Even his father had an ambivalent attitude toward the business.
In happier times, Jimmy and Archie had darkly joked that he’d died to get it off his hands.
Jimmy missed his dad; however, he could imagine him sitting on his shoulder telling his eldest son to sell the distillery and go fishing instead.
But fishing wasn’t in Jimmy’s blood. Whisky was. Business was. He sucked in a breath. There was a work to do, and he couldn’t let his emotions or his brother’s irresponsibility get in the way. One day, there would be a family of his own to pass all this onto.
Jimmy made his way to the tasting room, where he would showcase some of the distillery’s best whiskies.
The room was set up perfectly, with rows of glasses and bottles neatly arranged on the stands.
Everything was in order: well, apart from the fact that Archie should be here to run the Butler’s tasting.
No doubt he’d find his way to the ceilidh tonight, not wanting to miss the chance to eat stovies, drink barrels of whisky and bother women.
Already, tickets were sold out and Archie would hate to miss out on a key social event.
Jimmy had invited some other local distillers to set up stalls at the festival.
They might be his rivals, but it made business sense to support them.
Putting Kintyre on the whisky map was important and working as a team could only make it more of a destination.
People might not come for one distillery, but they would come for several.
Jimmy was confident enough in Butler’s to acknowledge that others made good whisky, too.
He checked they were all okay and raring to go.
‘Cannae wait.’ Gordon Dukes of Dukes Distillers raised an empty Glencairn glass to Jimmy. ‘This is a rare idea, Jimmy. Thanks for the opportunity to set up here.’
‘Aye, let’s show them the Kintyre spirit.
’ Jimmy tried to sound rousing, despite inner uncertainties.
He glanced at his watch again. Two minutes.
‘Right, I better let in the punters.’ He strode to the main entrance of the distillery, where the piper was striking up.
The sound always sent goosebumps through him.
But Jimmy was metres from the door when a loud banging assaulted the air and almost drowned out the piper.
‘What the hell is that?’ Jimmy suspected he knew the answer.
‘Do you want me to let folk in, Mr Butler?’ asked Peter, a young employee poised to check tickets. ‘They sound keen.’
Jimmy raised an eyebrow and listened to the intensifying banging. ‘Maybe a bit too keen, would you no’ say?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Butler.’ Peter shuffled and eyed his boss with uncertainty. ‘Keen is good, no?’
‘Aye, keen is good if it’s a customer.’ The faint suspicion of who it was grew. How many folk would be outside, witnessing this? Glancing out the side window, Jimmy could see people milling around. The shuttle bus was leaving to bring more from the village.
Bang, bang, bang. Jimmy had to put a stop to this before it drove people away. He unlocked and hauled open the heavy oak doors to confront, as he suspected, his brother standing on the other side.
‘Thank God, where’ve you been? I’ve got a tasting to run.’ Archie brushed past Jimmy into the building.
Despite growing up around whisky and being at this present moment in a distillery, Jimmy could smell alcohol on his brother as he wafted by.
Stale alcohol. Archie appeared to have put on clean clothes this morning, but his hair was like a bird’s nest and there was a six o’clock shadow on his jaw.
And there was the faint hint of arrogance that always emanated from him, more pronounced when he’d had a drink or was still drunk from the previous night.
A few other people took Archie’s entrance as a sign that the festival was open and moved into the building too. At one minute to twelve, Jimmy wouldn’t refuse them.
‘Good afternoon! Welcome to Butler’s Distillery.
I’m Jimmy Butler.’ While Peter checked tickets, Jimmy said hello to each guest who crossed the threshold of his distillery.
It had always been his intention to greet as many as he could.
After a few minutes, the car park was quiet again and there were only a few people milling around the outdoor stalls on the lawn and one woman staring at the view.
Jimmy headed off to find Archie, hoping his younger brother hadn’t had time to undo the hard work put in to make the festival a success.