Chapter 6 Finn #2
“You’re going to wake up one day and realise you’ve shagged the whole of Scotland and there’s nobody left to settle down with.”
“Who says I want to settle down?”
I picture his big grin and realise I’m missing him.
It’s been too long since I headed over to see them – Christmas, when Rory’s wife, Edie, hosted her first Loch Morven family dinner. Let’s say she’s a better writer than she is a caterer. Thank God Gregor, the family cook, had left a lasagne in the fridge as insurance.
“Anyway, I assume you’re after something. What’s up?”
“Oh,” says Jamie, laughing, “I forgot that bit. I wanted to give you an update on the peatland regeneration. How are things going your end?”
“They’d be better if Glen Mhor weren’t trying to buy up decrofted land as soon as it comes on the market. I don’t trust them one bit.”
“You’re not taken in by all the greenwashing bullshit on their website?” His tone is arch.
“I am not,” I growl. “Unfortunately, I’m in a minority. The rest of the bloody island think they’re the best thing since sliced bread.”
“So, what’s the plan?” There’s a blast of music followed by some muttered swearing. “Sorry, car stereo,” Jamie says a second later. “I assume you have a plan?”
“I do.” I don’t add that right now our secret weapon is a tornado in dungarees with a stubborn streak a mile wide and an uncontrollable dog at her heels.
“We’ve hired a gardener to get the place up to scratch.
I’m going to charm the tourist office into sending all the visitors our way, and Georgia’s going to make us look shit hot on social media. ”
I’ve only just decided on that bit.
“I’m sorry,” says Jamie, spluttering with laughter down the phone. “You are going to charm the tourist office?”
“Piss off,” I say, laughing.
“You’re many things, Finn, but charming is not one of them.”
My brother might be right, but something’s got to change. I glance out of the window and spot Tilda marching past pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with trailing ivy. Flora’s trundling along behind her with what looks like an old boot in her mouth. At least it’s not a discarded bra, I guess.
I turn to a knock at the door.
“Sorry to interrupt,” says Georgia, grimacing, “but have you remembered you’re meant to be visiting Alex over at Kirranmuir?”
I glance up at the clock. “At twelve.”
“Just checking.”
“I am aware.”
“Okay,” she says cheerily. “I’ll get back to work. D’you want a coffee for the road?”
“I will, thanks.”
A moment later, I follow her back down the hallway towards the kitchen, the dogs at my heels.
“The garden’s looking better already,” Georgia says, spooning coffee into a travel mug. “I think I deserve a medal for materialising a gardener out of nowhere.”
I grunt acknowledgment. “I’d rather we didn’t need a gardener.”
Georgia returns from the fridge with a bottle of milk. “You can’t have it both ways, Finn. We’re well aware that whatever Glen Mhor is doing, it’s not for the good of the island community, but there’s no way of proving that.”
I groan. “I know, I know. I’m jumping through hoops and ticking boxes so we can keep people in jobs.” I think of Malcolm, the head distillery manager, who has worked here since he was seventeen.
“And that’s worth it, isn’t it?” She gives me a bright smile.
I give a brief growl of acknowledgment and take the offered coffee mug.
“I know when I’m being managed, Georgia,” I say, shooting her a warning look.
I whistle the dogs and grab my keys from the hook by the door before heading out across the island.
The road to Kirranmuir twists like a ribbon through the moorland, and up towards the west side of the island.
Benruar is an island of contradictions – rugged peaty moorland adjoins bright green patches of arable land, which sit alongside rough reed-dotted pastures where shaggy Highland cattle graze.
I roll down the window and breathe in the salt tang of the air and the ever-present earthy smell of the peat that is the black heart of this place, provider of heat for generations of families, and the source of the dark smoky taste that whisky experts love.
I think of my brother Rory, caught up in the responsibilities of his new role as Duke of Loch Morven.
I came here to escape all of that, to prove I was worth something in my own right.
So, from the age of eighteen I became an honorary islander – I hefted sacks of barley and shovelled the malt, tended the peat fires overnight, learning from the men like Malcolm who had whisky in their blood.
My second cousin Charles Fairfax was eccentric, but he had a good heart, and his passion for the island – and the people who lived here – could never be doubted, even if his business acumen was sadly lacking.
The distillery had limped along for years, surviving when whisky was out of fashion and considered an old man’s drink, somehow managing to stay afloat as others foundered and failed.
I found myself working every hour I had – falling asleep reading books of tasting notes and working alongside Malcolm and the others, learning everything I could.
I barely felt a flicker of regret when my father died, but I mourned the loss of Fairfax alongside the islanders who loved him.
In return, he bequeathed the distillery to me, with a list of conditions.
The island must always come first. Every job should be offered to a local before anyone from off island was considered, workers would be looked after until death, and their families supported, and fair wages above the going rate. I’d done all of that, and I always would.
I thought I’d get to work stripping the house back to some semblance of order along the way, but it’s fallen to the bottom of the priority list. Running the distillery seems to take over every waking minute, and even at that, we’re still fighting to make our mark.
Alex is already out in the lower field as I pull off the road and down the rutted farm track that leads towards Kirranmuir. He’s a squat shape in a dark green boilersuit with his flat cap pulled low over a weather-beaten face.
I climb out of the truck.
“You’re late.”
I grin. Alex is a man of few – but well chosen – words. And he’s not wrong.
“My apologies. Got caught up with a new hire.”
“Oh aye?”
“Gardener.” I squat down to examine the rows of green shoots. “This is looking good.”
“Hardy stuff, this bere barley. Doesn’t care about thin soil or salt spray. Of course, that Glen Mhor lot will be keeping an eye on it, I’m sure.”
“They’re not interested in bringing back heritage breeds of barley,” I say, straightening up. “It’s not like bere is a state secret. They could use it themselves if they wanted to.”
“Never going to happen.” Alex looks at me, his bright blue eyes missing nothing. “They want shiny brochures and fat profit margins, that’s all. Did you hear they got their hands on the MacDuff’s old croft?”
I look at him sharply. “They did?”
“Aye. The daughter lives on the mainland, and she’s no interest in island life. They’re turning the cottage into a holiday let, and I’d put money on them clearing out the peatland while they’re at it. If Glen Mhor keep this up, they’ll own half Benruar by the time I’m retired.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“That’s the spirit.” Alex gives a brief nod. “I don’t like their fancy talk.”
He turns back to look at his crop, a haze of green on the thin island soil. It might look unprepossessing, but it’s as good as a field of gold to us. The breeze shifts and brings with it a scent of seaweed from the shore. I take a breath in and square my shoulders.
“So, you’ve got a plan?” Alex looks at me, eyes narrow.
I nod. “I have.”
It’s growing in my mind. I’d fallen down on the promise that the grounds must be kept “a place of beauty”, so I’m going to fix that. My stubborn hubris and determination to make the perfect malt has put the livelihood of the very people I’m supposed to support in jeopardy.
My focus on the whisky above all has brought us here. If I have to make sacrifices to make it work, I’ll do it.
Back at the house, Georgia’s waiting to pounce the moment I pull up in the Land Rover.
“I thought we could kill two birds with one stone,” she says, bending to stroke the ears of the dogs. “Tilda’s done a brilliant job already, so I thought maybe we could take her round the distillery and show her how it all works?”
“I thought you wanted to have a meeting.”
“I do, but I also know you hate sitting still doing nothing, so I thought maybe if we did it on the hoof you might complain less.”
I give a snort, which she takes as approval.
A couple of minutes later, she returns with a reluctant-looking Tilda trailing behind. Her hair is loose now, dark curls tumbling past her shoulders instead of tied back in the messy knot.
I pull my gaze away, looking down as the basset hound lollops up to me, tail wagging, and despite myself I reach down and give her a stroke. It’s not her fault she’s a canine disaster zone.
“See,” says Georgia, “I knew you’d fall in love with her. How can you resist those eyes?”
“Very easily.”
Tilda shoots me a filthy look and calls Flora back to heel. Even irritated, there’s something about the flash in her eyes that—
“You can’t take her with you,” I say, earning a disapproving look from Georgia. “It’s a working distillery, not a zoo.”
“Fine. I’ll leave her outside”
“So, have you been to a distillery before?” Georgia opens the door to the stillroom.
“No.”
Tilda’s movements are stiff and uncomfortable, but Georgia doesn’t seem to have noticed. Her eyes are blank and her shoulders squared, as if she’s bracing for impact.
“This is the stillroom,” Georgia begins.
It’s the well-rehearsed spiel she trots out for the – increasingly infrequent – visitors we get to the distillery.
“The copper wash stills are where the first run happens, basically we turn the beer strength liquid into something stronger. Then it goes into the spirit stills for the second run.”