Chapter 6 Finn #3
She waves at the big copper bellies gleaming in the light. “Up there you can see the lune arms and the condensers, that’s where the vapour cools and turns back into liquid.”
We head through the mash house where the air is warm and sweet.
“And this is the tun room,” she continues. “This” – she puts a hand on the metal – “is his pride and joy, the new and very expensive metal mash tun.”
Tilda flicks a glance in my direction and then looks away, her face still arranged into what looks to me like a mask of polite interest. The mash tun bubbles with the barley and water, and the smell that always seems to be midway between fresh bread and porridge.
“The fumes from the mash tun can be dangerous,” I find myself saying, trying to engage her. “We have to warn visitors in case they stick their noses in.”
“Aye,” says a gruff voice behind me. We all turn to see Malcolm, who has appeared in his usual silent manner. “He’s forgetting to tell you about the time I found him passed out on the floor when he was a young lad.”
Georgia giggles and looks at Tilda. “It’s true. I don’t usually mention that in the distillery tour, though.”
“Tilda, this is Malcolm. He’s the distillery manager.”
Malcolm takes off his cap and shakes Tilda’s hand with uncharacteristic warmth. “Good to see you, lass. If you’re part of the distillery you get to hear the trade secrets,” he adds, winking at her.
Tilda’s mouth twitches, the first crack in her mask.
“I’m away to check the casks,” Malcolm says to me. “I’ll see you down there in a wee bit?”
I nod, and Malcolm disappears out of the side door, whistling to himself.
“Through here,” I say, pushing open the door into a cooler space, “is the spirit safe. We cut the run here, only the middle part, though, the heart is kept. The heads and tails get redistilled.”
“Basically, this is where we decide what’s good enough to keep and the rest gets recycled. You’ll get the hang of it,” says Georgia. “It took me ages to understand it all, but it sort of sinks in over time.”
Tilda gives an upward nod of polite acknowledgment. I can tell she’s not taking any of it in.
Georgia ushers us through into the passageway.
The space is narrow, barely wide enough for one person.
Tilda goes first and I follow, too close behind.
Her shoulder grazes my chest, and I catch the floral scent of her skin, like the roses from the garden outside.
She freezes for a second, then moves quickly into the room, putting distance between us.
I curl my hands into fists by my sides and force myself to breathe normally.
“And this is the tasting room. As you can see,” Georgia says, “it’s in need of a bit of a refresh. Which is what we’re supposed to be discussing,” she adds, giving me a pointed look.
I acknowledge her with a brief nod but I’m looking at Tilda’s face as she glances around the room, seeing it through her fresh eyes.
The floorboards sag in the middle, the plaster on the wall shows a long crack from the ceiling, and the shelves are stacked with empty bottles and dusty glasses that haven’t seen a cloth in years.
Glen Mhor’s visitor centre looks like a boutique hotel – glass walls, curated lighting, and a coffee bar for visitors to relax and inspect their purchases before the tour bus ships them back off the island. It’s a million miles from this.
“If you need to get on,” says Tilda, making for the exit, “I really ought to get on. I don’t want to hold you up—”
“Actually, it would probably help for you to be here,” Georgia says.
Tilda visibly sags and tries to cover it with a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. “Oh, yes, of course.”
“So,” Georgia hitches a hip and sits herself on the edge of the battered oak table that serves as the tasting table.
“As you can see, it’s not only the garden that needs a bit of work.
We’ve got six weeks to get this place into a condition that will impress Jennifer Ross from the tourist board on the mainland. ”
I roll my eyes at the mention of the woman’s name.
Tilda leans back against the wall and folds her arms, listening intently. The movement pushes up her chest, and I force my eyes back to Georgia. Christ. This is why having her here is a terrible idea.
“She’s in charge of the on-island tourist provision, whether we like it or not.
Right now, every coachload of visitors they send to Benruar is being shipped across the island to Glen Mhor’s new facility – they’ve got a café, a visitor centre, beautiful gardens, and a brand-new visitor-friendly stillroom. ”
I glance at Tilda and catch her eye. Something passes between us before she drops her gaze quickly, a flush rising on her cheeks. She shifts against the wall and recrosses her arms, suddenly fascinated by the dusty floorboards.
“So, despite the fact I’d rather disembowel myself with a rusty spoon,” I hear myself saying, still watching her, “we need to make an effort to turn this place into something that people might actually want to visit. Even if I think it’s a waste of bloody time.”
Georgia grins. Tilda’s mouth twitches slightly, and when she looks up at me there’s something almost like amusement in her eyes.
“We need to make this tasting room beautiful. There’s so much we can do.” Georgia waves an arm in the direction of the dusty shelves. “We can make it amazing—”
“Functional will do,” I cut her off.
Georgia lets her arm fall and pouts slightly, but then carries on, undeterred. “And of course we need a showstopper of a garden. That’s where you come in.” She smiles winningly at Tilda. “I’ve got a good feeling about all of this. You’re a good omen.”
Tilda cocks her head slightly and frowns in question.
Georgia flaps her hands enthusiastically. “Oh, come on, what are the chances of a gardener turning up just when we needed one? There are only fifteen hundred people on Benruar, and you turned up at the right moment. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was old Fairfax’s ghost pulling strings.”
I tut. “For God’s sake.”
“It could be.” Georgia looks at me for a second as if she’s not sure she’s crossing a line. “Anyway, the thing is we really need this to work. We’ve got an award-winning malt, but the investment we’ve made to get the place up to scratch has made a massive impact on the finances.”
Tilda slides me a brief look and I nod. “Loath as I am to admit it, we have to make the effort to jump through Jennifer’s hoops in the hope she’ll bring more bodies through the door. The alternative is Glen Mhor taking over everything and all the money going off island.”
“They’re not doing anything for the island?”
“They pay lip service. But they’ve no interest in the long-term wellbeing of the island, or the economic security of the people who live here. And I do.”
“Even if it means being polite to Jennifer Ross?” Georgia waggles her brows at me hopefully.
“Even if it kills me. And it might.”
Despite everything, Tilda’s mouth quirks at that – almost a smile. Her eyes meet mine and for a second the tension between us softens into something warmer. Then she blinks and looks away.
“Okay,” says Tilda after a pause. “You need someone for six weeks to turn the grounds around. I need a job for six weeks.”
Just when I was wondering if she’d lost the power of speech.
“You’re not staying on the island long term?” Georgia furrows her brow.
Tilda shakes her head. “Absolutely not. I’ll get your gardens sorted, and then I’m out of here.”
“Oh,” says Georgia, looking glum.
“Whisky is not my thing,” Tilda continues, and something flashes across her face, old pain, maybe. I file it away, curious despite myself. “But I guess we’re all doing what we have to in the short term for long term gain, right?”
“You might change your mind,” Georgia says, folding the cover back over her iPad.
Tilda shakes her head. “Nothing personal,” she says, but the look on her face tells another story altogether, “but this is only a temporary stop for me.”
Something in my chest tightens at that, which is ridiculous. I don’t care if she stays or goes.
“Well, now we all know where we stand.” I head for the door but pause at the threshold. Tilda’s still leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching me with those defensive eyes.
“I’ll expect those RAMs on my desk tomorrow morning.”
Her chin lifts. “They’ll be with you first thing.”
“I hope so.”
Georgia’s watching us like she’s at a tennis match, her head swivelling between us and a half-smile playing at her lips.
I walk out before I say something I shouldn’t.
Outside, I drag in a lungful of peat-scented air and try to get my head straight. Six weeks. I can manage six weeks.
Time to make this place worth saving.