Chapter 15 Tilda #2
“Right. That’ll be ten minutes, then I’ll do the salmon. Can I get you a drink?”
“I’ll have that hot toddy,” I say, drawing closer to the heat of the Aga. “I’m freezing.”
He looks at me as if I’ve sprouted antlers. “Are you serious?”
I nod solemnly. “Like an icicle.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“You don’t actually want a hot toddy.”
“I don’t,” I laugh.
“I’ll get you some more of Georgia’s elderflower stuff. At least that way she’ll be happy someone’s drunk it.”
“I think she’ll be more surprised when she gets back to the island tomorrow and finds out I’m staying here.”
“I had thought about that. Island life is… well, people have a way of taking information and modifying it to suit themselves.”
“You mean we’ll be married off by the end of the week.”
He passes me a glass and gives a brief laugh. “Exactly.”
I watch as he eases the cork out of yesterday’s bottle of red and turns to find a glass.
“I shouldn’t worry about it,” I say as Jess hops up onto the bench beside me and nudges my hand in search of a pat. “They’ve already marked my card after I turned up on the island with a wedding dress under my arm.”
He turns back sharply. “A what?”
“Long story,” I say with a shrug. “Dave from the ferry seems to have told everyone I bolted mid-ceremony when I was only carrying it to the charity shop.”
“We don’t have a charity shop.” He pours a drink, walks over to the Aga, and shifts the pan slightly so it’s off the boil.
He’s only a metre or so away from me, and his bulk blocks out the light from the lamp on the wall so he’s in silhouette. I watch as he shrugs off the plaid shirt he’d pulled on earlier and tosses it onto the worktop.
“So, if people get wind that the new gardener at Benruar has her feet under the table…” Finn continues with a chuckle. “Well, that’ll give them something to gossip about.”
“You don’t mind?” I look at him.
“Couldn’t care less. If I was bothered what people think…” He tails off and waves an arm around.
“But you want this place up to scratch to beat Glen Mhor at their own game?”
He talks as he cooks, sliding the same heavy metal frying pan he used last night onto the surface of the Aga.
“Glen Mhor are inconsequential to me. If they want to peddle their fake whisky to unsuspecting idiots, that’s their lookout. But I made a promise I’d keep this place going, and I’m not a man to go back on a promise.”
That I can believe, somehow.
“To Charles Fairfax?”
He nods. “I came here at eighteen. He, Malcolm and” – he checks himself, and I think I can guess what he was going to say – “taught me everything I know. He was an eccentric – a real character. But…” he looks at me with a rueful smile, “aren’t we all?”
I raise my brows in response. “And he left you the place?”
He nods again. “With the condition that I kept Malcolm on, only employed islanders unless it was absolutely impossible to do otherwise” – he gives me a knowing look – “and kept the heart of Benruar alive.”
“And you can’t do that without jumping through tourist office hoops?”
“I could, if Glen Mhor weren’t siphoning off all the business that comes onto the island.
We did alright for years. We’re a small distillery, we’re not trying to compete with the big boys, but our money comes from people like the Americans who came in the other day, and without getting our name out there they’ll never hear of us.
So, despite the fact I think social media is a waste of time, and I believe people should take us as they find us, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep this place going.
It’s not cheap running a distillery, especially when we’ve had to replace a lot of the equipment.
The mash tun alone cost tens of thousands. ”
“Wow. That puts my cottage repair costs into perspective.”
He flips the salmon out of the pan and onto warmed plates, the skin hissing, pink flesh glossed and crisp at the edges. “And you’re planning to do the place up and then head off into the world of gardening?”
I nod, but something in my stomach tightens. “Yeah. If I can make a difference here, it will help. I’m having to rebuild as well.”
“Well, I guess we’re in the same boat.”
He passes me a plate and sits down opposite.
“I told my brother you’ll be coming on Thursday.”
I sit back and look at him in confusion.
“The rewilding?” he prompts me, fork halfway to his mouth.
“I-I mean yes, I didn’t realise you meant—”
“I need to sign the papers sooner rather than later. And you need to get off island and get some renovation supplies. Let me know what you need and I’ll get them shipped to Loch Morven.”
“I don’t—” I begin, then bite my lip.
He raises a hand. “We’ll worry about the bill afterwards. Ditto the roofing.”
“Are you sure?”
My pride raises its head, but I bite it back. “Thank you,” I manage, because I’m not stupid.
He raises a hand, making it clear the subject is closed. “Certain. Eat, before that salivating hound swipes the salmon from your plate.”
After we’ve cleared up, Finn pours himself a dram of whisky from a bottle on the counter, tipping it into a heavy crystal glass and looking at it reverently, holding it up to the light to examine it.
“You really do love that stuff,” I say, wrinkling my nose.
“It pays the bills.” He studies the glass, watching the amber catch the light.
“If you know what you’re doing, it’s not just a drink.
It’s history in a glass. This is flavoured by the heather from the moorland you can see from the back of the distillery.
The water that tumbles over the stream through the back of the gardens turns into this.
And we’re growing bere barley in the farm up at the north end of the island, so we can create something authentic from the grain they’d have used centuries ago. ”
I hesitate for a second, then stand up, moving closer towards him. I lean in towards the glass, looking at it to see if I can see what he sees.
“Show me.”
He holds the glass out and I lean into sniff, letting myself catch a smell of smoke and sweetness. Our shoulders almost touch.
“Peat smoke, sea salt, and honey,” he murmurs. “Every drop tells you the terroir – where it comes from.”
I close my eyes and inhale again. He’s right, there is more to it than the smell I remember from the glass by my dad’s chair when I was little. I open my eyes again, jolted by the sting of a memory.
He’s watching me, and the air seems to sharpen. His eyes drop to my mouth for a second and my breath catches, but he clears his throat and drains the glass.
“That’s enough education for one night,” he says, his voice low.
I let out an uncomfortable half-laugh and step back.
At the kitchen doorway we pause as if there’s something unspoken hanging in the air. Finn nods briefly and I slip away to my room, Flora padding behind me. It shouldn’t feel like something unfinished, but somehow it does.