Chapter 25 Finn
FINN
The mash tuns are steaming by the time I get to the stillroom. The air is thick with the sweet-sour smell of the yeast, the smell that soaked into my skin when I turned up here, angry and alone at eighteen.
I set my shoulder against the door and listen to the low hum of the pumps, pausing to appreciate the beauty of it all. It never changes, and yet every cask brings something new.
Upstairs Malcolm is already there, sleeves rolled up. He looks at me steadily, leaning on the shovel, his shovel, worn to his touch after a lifetime of use.
“You’re late,” he says, making me laugh.
“You were eating your scone a moment ago when I walked past,” I say, picking my shovel from the rack. “Don’t give me any of that.”
Malcolm chuckles as we get to work. The scrape and shift of the grain is the only sound, but my head is whirring with thoughts I can’t order. Sweat prickles under my shirt, and my arms are thick with malt dust.
I heard Tilda’s van get back late last night, and her footsteps in the hall passing my bedroom door before she paused. I held my breath, waiting – for what, I wasn’t sure. A knock? For her to turn the handle? Then I heard the creak of her door open and close.
She was gone first thing this morning, off to collect a plant delivery coming in on the first boat.
“So, what’s this Georgia’s telling me about us branching out?” Malcolm says, pausing as he catches his breath.
I glance up at him, wiping my brow. It doesn’t matter how many times we do this – it’s hard, relentless work.
“Gin it is, I hear,” he says with a tip of his head also giving me one of his thin smiles.
“What do you think?”
“Aye.” He shovels, then pauses again. “We don’t need much, and she’s no’ wrong. It would be one in the eye for Jennifer Ross.”
“Something to keep the visitors happy?”
“Aye.” He lifts his chin in acknowledgment. “That as well. We need a small still, of course. We’re not short of the spirit,” he says, gesturing to the barley on the floor at our feet.
“I’ve got a still over at Loch Morven.” I rub my chin, a smile forming at the memory.
“You have?” Malcolm chuckles. “Should I ask?”
I grin. “Long story. It belonged to my grandfather. I found it and decided to try and make my own vodka when we were teenagers. Nearly got myself in big trouble with the police.”
“That doesn’t surprise me one bit. But aye, if we’ve got that, we’re on the way. Folk like the quick turnaround. Suits the times, nobody wants to wait for the good stuff these days.”
“You don’t think it would cheapen the brand?” I sound like Georgia.
“It’s no’ whisky. Nothing cheap about it if it’s done right. It’s not like we’ll be buying in cheap grain spirit and drown it in flavour like the big boys. We’ve got the land, we can grow the plants ourselves. Lucky we’ve got Tilda who knows her stuff.”
I shovel another load of grain down the hatch. I think of her yesterday, eyes bright with excitement, hands full of rosemary. Chaos, brilliance, and curves all in one package. The memory of her laugh keeps catching me off guard.
The door creaks, and I turn on my heel.
“Can I come in?”
Talk of the devil, and here she is. Mud on her fingers, curls a wind-swept tangle, her nose pink from sunburn and her forearms streaked with white paint.
“Aye, lass,” says Malcolm, shooting me a look.
“Sorry, yes—” I say, a beat later than I should have.
“Am I allowed in? I’m a bit muddy,” she says, hesitating.
“Fair point,” says Malcolm.
“Shall I come back later?”
I shake my head and toss the shovel against the wall, striding towards the door. “This can wait.”
“I’ve brought the notes,” she says hesitantly.
“Let’s have a look.” Malcolm joins me and we head out into the gallery above the stillroom, where the air is warm and heavy with malt.
She leans back against the railing, a piece of paper in her hands. “I brought some notes.”
It’s a million miles from Georgia’s ordered planning. The paper is covered in an untidy scrawl with doodles on the corners and muddy fingerprints obscuring the words.
I peer in closer, my arm brushing against hers, and I catch the scent of her shampoo and the warmth of her skin.
She taps the page with an ink-stained, grubby finger. “Look. Lemon balm and thyme, we’ve got these here. I’ve also made a list of all the aromatic herbs we’ve got growing already. And gorse, of course.”
Malcolm chuckles. “You’re a poet,” he says, pleased with his joke as he leans in, looking at Tilda’s plans. “If we could get some sea buckthorn as well, that might add a little bit of island taste. Maybe even add some wild juniper berries?”
I’m still stuck on the we she tossed out, casual as anything.
Malcolm turns away and clears his throat before he looks back, pulling the cap down a little further over his eyes. “Aye, you’re your father’s daughter, right enough.”
Tilda glances up, startled. Her eyes are wide as a faun. “What d’you mean?”
He shakes his head, lips pressed together in an expression that I can’t quite read.
“I better get on,” she says, pocketing the paper, suddenly shy. She heads for the metal stairs and slips away.
Malcolm shoots me a sideways look as the door closes.
“Gordon had a funny way of going about things, but he had a good head on his shoulders.”
I watch out of the window as she heads down the road towards the gardens, Flora trotting behind her. The afternoon light catches her hair, turning the curls almost coppery.
She doesn’t look back and some part of me wishes she would.
“She’s a breath of fresh air, that one,” Malcolm says behind me as he opens the door. “You’ll miss her when she’s gone.”
I turn to join him, picking up my shovel because I don’t quite trust myself to speak.
Malcolm’s words stick in my head. You’ll miss her when she’s gone. I shove the thought aside and work until my shoulders ache, until sweat has soaked my T-shirt and my palm is raw against the shovel handle.
By the time we’ve finished the barley, the stillroom is alive with the usual chorus of familiar sounds.
Through the door of the bottling room, I hear the clink of the bottles and Sally and Eilidh chatting away as they work.
I take a look inside, neither of them looking up as they move with familiar, practised rhythm – labels are smoothed flat, bottles cradled and set down in rows that catch the afternoon light.
The two of them chat away, not even noticing as I close the door quietly, leaving them undisturbed.
Outside, Arran is wrestling with a stack of boxes, grinning when one topples and narrowly misses his boot. He glances over, sees me watching and laughs, ducking his head.
It’s ordinary work – the kind that Glen Mhor keeps hidden out of sight and I think visitors should witness.
It settles something in me to see the heartbeat of the place – the work that’s gone on for centuries.
Not glass cubes and fancy fairy lights, but toil, sweat and patience.
And people who belong to the island, who give back in their own way.
Whatever island gossip might say, we’re not dead in the water – far from it.
Not while the stills keep steaming and Malcolm holds a shovel, working as hard as any man half his age.
Not while the laughter of Sally and Eilidh echoes through the bottling room and the casks lie in wait in the warehouse.
It’s not this place that needs to change – it’s me. I’ve spent years keeping people at arm’s length, building walls, choosing whisky and work over anything – anyone – else and telling myself it was safer that way. But Tilda’s made it complicated, and I don’t want simple anymore.
The question is – what am I going to do about it?