Chapter 6 Finn
FINN
Outside, the house stands under a shroud of ivy and peeling paint. Here in the stillroom, everything hums with quiet efficiency. The spirit safe ticks with a steady rhythm, and the world makes sense. I fell in love with whisky by accident but it’s the only love affair that I haven’t fucked up.
Benruar House hasn’t changed in years. The untidy rooms are lined with the Fairfax family’s overflowing bookshelves and sagging leather armchairs sit draped with tartan wool blankets where the spaniels like to snooze in the sunlight.
But the stillroom is where I escape to find peace.
It’s everything the house is not. Copper bellies gleam in the morning light, the necks of the stills rising like cathedral spires.
Steam curls out of the pagoda roof and the mash tun bubbles quietly.
Here everything has a place, every gauge, every coil has its job to do.
Nothing is out of place. Nothing is overgrown.
I can breathe here.
That’s why the tourist bullshit pushes every single one of my buttons.
Glen Mhor is a far inferior product, sold to people who’re falling for marketing bullshit.
The rival distillery on the other side of the island was sold at a knockdown price to a multinational conglomerate who favour style over substance.
I couldn’t give a flying fuck about appearances.
The people behind the whisky matter, not the state of our flowerbeds.
I check the run, satisfied, and note the figures. I rest my palm on the warm copper, part of the quiet ritual that makes up my day, and head back to the office. Hopefully, I can duck Georgia and skip whatever meeting she’s got planned.
“Come on, you two.” The dogs jump to heel, eyes bright, ready for an adventure. As we walk up towards the house there’s a wall of unholy noise where normally there’s nothing but the sound of birdsong. My mood drops ten degrees.
Not content with creating havoc with her dog, Tilda is now wielding a massive petrol-fuelled brush-cutter, swinging it back and forth through a tangle of ivy.
She’s hacking through vines which are thicker than my fingers as if they’re butter, with a stack of cuttings strewn in an untidy mess around her feet.
Flora, the ridiculous hound, has chosen a patch of sunlight and is lying fast asleep, one long ear drooping over her eyes like a built-in sleep mask.
She turns, pushing up the visor on her protective helmet to scratch her nose with the back of her gloved hand. And then she looks up, noticing me watching her. The shift is instant, something cold shutters down behind her eyes, and she pulls down the visor and turns away, making her feelings clear.
I pause, watching as the machine kicks back into life. She turns her back to me, her body moving rhythmically back and forth as she swings the huge brush-cutter through the overgrown plants.
“Progress already!”
I turn on the gravel to spy Georgia bearing down on me with her iPad in hand and a determined expression.
“Would you look at that? There’s evidence of a flowerbed under there. Imagine it – tourists, sunshine, a little wooden bench – and not one of them impaled on a bramble.”
The machine coughs as she kills the engine and turns back towards us, unhooking the brush-cutter from the harness on her shoulders.
Tilda pulls off her helmet, ruffling her curls with one hand.
She puts the helmet down and wipes her palms on her rounded thighs, flicking me a look that makes it clear she dislikes me intensely.
I have no idea what I’ve done in the last thirty minutes to merit a whole new level of enmity.
“You’re wasting your time trying to clear around that sundial,” I say crisply. She’s clearly been working towards the centre of the border where it stands on a stone plinth. “It’s been strangled for years, and the thing’s cracked, anyway. It doesn’t work.”
She scowls. ‘That doesn’t mean it isn’t worth saving.”
I survey the ivy cuttings strewn everywhere. It’s a trip hazard waiting to happen if we ever had any visitors which, thankfully, we don’t.
“I assume you’ve got the planning documentation ready for me to look over?”
Her brows knit together as a haze of pink rises from her chest to apple of her cheeks. I watch as she pulls the huge brush-cutter towards her. It’s taller than her, the curved handles arching overhead like a shield.
“I’m sorry?”
“Documentation,” I repeat crisply. “The RAMs.” Jess and Poll sit down on either side of me in unison, like canine punctuation points. That ridiculous animal Flora, meanwhile, rolls over with a dramatic groan and then sneezes loudly.
“RAMs?” Georgia frowns at me.
“Risk assessment and method statements.”
“I’ll sort it.” Tilda glares up at me from underneath her thick lashes. I feel a moment of guilt for splitting hairs when so much is at stake. Georgia’s saved the day by finding a gardener and it’s abundantly clear that she’s more than capable, but I can’t back down now.
Georgia steps between us like a school matron with a restraining hand. “Time out, people. Nobody cares if the sundial works or not, we’ve all got iPhones to tell the time. It looks pretty, that’s what matters.”
“Of course,” says Tilda, eyes still fixed on me. “We can fix the bones of the garden, then work out what you want for the overall design.”
I can’t look away.
“And we’ll get your documentation sorted,” soothes Georgia, patting me on the arm as if I’m a recalcitrant horse. It’s enough to knock me back to my senses and I clear my throat, reasserting my authority.
“It’s not a stately home we’re running here, it’s a distillery.”
Is it my imagination, or does she actually shudder at the word? I shake my head and carry on talking. “My focus is whatever it takes to tick the box, not turn it into some Instagram friendly destination. I have a business to run.”
“If the garden is beautiful, people will feel welcome. They don’t want to visit a place that’s been badly treated and neglected.”
Tilda describes an arc with her arm, a look of distaste passing across her face as she glares at me as if I’m personally responsible for every errant weed surrounding Benruar House.
Looking at it with fresh eyes, I have to admit the place is in a bit of a state.
Georgia coughs behind her fist.
“She has a point,” she says, fixing me with a look I know all too well.
“I have a stillhouse to run,” I say curtly.
“And I have a garden to resuscitate.” Tilda grips the long shaft of the brush cutter as if she’s arming herself for battle. “God knows it’s been neglected long enough,” she adds, her eyes narrowing in disapproval. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get on with the job you hired me for.”
The only other person who dares to speak back to me in that way is Georgia. I shouldn’t like it, but I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smirking.
“I had nothing to do with your hiring.”
“But I did.” Georgia sighs heavily.
Jess and Poll sit quietly, waiting patiently for their next command. Flora heaves herself up to standing and waddles over to join them, plopping her capacious bottom on my boot. Georgia giggles and I pretend I haven’t noticed.
There’s an awkward silence.
“Right!” Georgia rubs her hands together briskly. “Action stations. Tilda, so you’re focusing on the courtyard today? That seems like an excellent plan.”
Tilda nods briefly and turns away, picking up an armful of ivy cuttings which trail over her shoulders.
“Finn?”
I cough once and drag my focus back.
“We’ll meet at two,” I say, regaining control of the situation.
Back in the office I sit back in my leather chair, looking out over the long stretch of wooded land that rolls down to the shoreline. Several miles across the stretch of water, my brothers are living and working in Loch Morven, our ancestral home.
My phone buzzes and I pick it up, half-smiling at the name on the screen.
“What do you want?”
“What kind of way is that to greet your baby brother?”
I grin and stand up, strolling over to the window. “I was thinking about you, and you rang. If I could harness that power, I’d be a millionaire.”
“If you weren’t so bloody proud, you’d already be a millionaire. Your inheritance is sitting in the bank, waiting for you.” Jamie’s tone is resigned, but with his usual hint of amusement.
“I don’t need his money,” I say, picking at a loose flake of paint which has bubbled up on the wooden frame of the window.
I try not to think about my father if I can avoid it.
I left home at eighteen, walking out of boarding school and heading north to Benruar to hide out with our second cousin Charles Fairfax.
I skipped my father’s funeral when it came and didn’t feel a pang of guilt.
The money he left feels like blood money.
“I know, I know,” he says, but his voice softens. “We all know what a dickhead our father was. Rory got the brunt, you got the backup, and I was the accident.”
“Harsh but true.” My mouth twists in a half-smile.
“I might be useless at writing but I’m alright at words,” Jamie laughs down the phone. “Call it the dyslexia compensation method. Anyway, how’s it going?”
I run a hand through my hair and groan. “Been better. We’re being rinsed by Glen Mhor.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed. Their social media team is shit hot. They’re everywhere.” My brother has never been known to think before he speaks.
“If this is an attempt to make me feel better, it’s not working.”
I hear Jamie calling out and the crunch of gravel underfoot, followed by the slam of a car door. He shouts goodbye to someone before he turns attention back to the call.
“Gotta go.”
“Where are you off to?”
“Got to see a man about a dog. Well, a woman. Not about a dog, either.”
“Fucks sake, Jamie. Don’t you ever get tired?” I laugh.
“Of women?” He gives a bark of laughter. “What’s that saying? If a man is tired of London, he’s tired of life? Well, that’s my approach to girls.”