Chapter 32 Tilda
TILDA
It turns out that when it comes to the island of Benruar there is nothing like a mysterious summons to ensure a good turnout. The village hall is humming with chatter when I walk in twenty-four hours later.
It smells like furniture polish and pine scented disinfectant strong enough to make my eyes water. The wooden floor is still streaked with dark water marks where someone’s given it a last-minute mop, and a row of plastic chairs have been dragged out of the storeroom and lined up in untidy lines.
Susan is manning the tea urn from behind a folding table, counting mugs with a frown of concentration. She looks up for a second and her face lights up in a smile.
Malcolm’s in a corner chatting to a group of what have to be farmers – they’re all clad in muddy overalls, and he’s clutching an open bottle of Benruar whisky, and a stack of paper cups.
Georgia is pinning pieces of paper to a green baize noticeboard, her hair tied up in a bun and her “I mean business” glasses on.
“Alright, lass?” I turn at the sound of Dave the boatman, who grins at me and bends to stroke Flora. He’s got a smudge of oil on his cheek, and I smile and quickly sidle off, keen to avoid yet another wedding dress conversation. The joke’s wearing thin, but he’s not ready to give it up yet.
I take a seat on the front row, tucking Flora in between my knees.
Georgia claps her hands from the front of the room and somehow uses the force of her personality to marshal everyone into sitting. I bite my thumbnail anxiously, waiting.
Finn walks in looking thunderous, as if he’d rather wrestle a bear than face up to a room of islanders. There’s a murmur of surprise but the chatter dims to silence, the only sound to be heard is Susan dropping the metal lid of the cake tin.
“Sorry,” she says in a hushed whisper. Someone chuckles and Georgia shoots them a warning look. She’s missed her calling as a primary school teacher, I think.
Finn stands in front of us, glaring at the rows of people from under his dark brows, and then rakes a hand through his hair and squares his shoulders.
He clears his throat, and I will him on silently, catching his eye as he glances along the row, spotting me.
“Right,” he begins.
“I’m Finn Kinnaird,” he continues, and there are a few chuckles.
“We ken who you are,” says Duncan, getting a laugh of his own.
“And I know that I’ve not been the most – well, I’m not as sociable as Charles Fairfax was.
” He pauses. “But what we do at the distillery matters to me because it matters to the island. And that’s the promise I made when I took over the place – that the island would always come first. Glen Mhor have been sniffing around—”
“Aye,” says Duncan, who seems to be getting a taste for an audience.
“They’re not after partnership, they’re after ownership. And if we don’t call it what it is, we’ll wake up and find the island’s been sold off in pieces.”
The silence is heavy now, people leaning forward, waiting.
I watch as he talks, my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with nerves for myself. This is a man who’d rather work twelve hours in the stillroom, who avoids small talk and is allergic to committees, and yet here he is – standing up for something bigger than himself.
“If we pull together,” he says finally, “I think we can find a way to keep the heart of the island alive.”
The hall erupts in applause and Finn rumples his hair, looking baffled but pleased.
Susan thrusts tea into everyone’s hands, and Malcolm wanders about passing out drams of Benruar in paper cups to anyone who’ll take one. He’s grinning broadly from ear to ear, which is very sweet, if a little unnerving.
I catch Finn’s arm as everyone is pouring out of the doors and he looks down at me, shaking his head in bemusement.
“You were amazing.”
“That was a one off,” he says, but he’s grinning. We end up half-blocked in the doorway as people stream out. His hand finds mine and for a second his thumb brushes against my palm, sending a shiver of anticipation up my spine.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“You’re welcome.” I squeeze his hand.
It’s late by the time the dogs settle. We lie in the darkness, the window cracked open and the pale not-quite-night light shining in through the curtains.
I roll towards him and put my hand on his chest. “You were amazing,” I say again.
He huffs. “Flatterer.”
I feel the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. “I mean it. I know it’s your idea of hell.”
“Turns out there are worse things,” he says, turning towards me, his hand sliding down the curve of my waist. “And it’s easier to do when you’ve got someone on your side.”
He drops a kiss on my neck, and I lean back with a sigh of anticipation.
“Fuck.” Finn’s voice comes through a haze of sleep. “Tilda,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder.
I open my eyes and frown. The room is flooded with sunlight, and not the thin morning light that slips in from over the hills, waking us with the dawn.
“It’s half nine.”
I sit bolt upright in bed, pulling the cover up automatically as if someone’s going to walk in.
“It can’t be.” I grab my phone and check the screen. “Shit.”
“Exactly.”
Finn’s pulling on boxers and grabbing his jeans, hauling them up and fastening them one-handed as he grabs a T-shirt from a drawer.
“You have a shower and get organised, I’ll head Georgia off at the pass.”
“The dogs.” I have a vision of them all sitting downstairs with their paws crossed, desperate for a wee.
“I’ll sort them.” He drops a kiss on my forehead and disappears.
If Georgia wasn’t suspicious before, this is going to look seriously awkward. I linger in the shower, taking time to brush out my hair and even put on some make up as if I’m trying to make some sort of a point. I don’t quite know what the point is, but I’ll make it up when I get downstairs.
“Morning,” I sing-song, wandering into the kitchen. Georgia and Finn look up at me from the table in unison, their faces bleak.
“I must have slept in,” I begin.
Finn raises a hand to stop me.
“We’ve had an email.” He spins the laptop around and I bend over the table to read the words.
We had an extraordinary meeting last night, Jennifer writes, and it was unanimously agreed that further to our inspection visit, the whisky tour contract will be awarded to Glen Mhor
The words blur in front of me. I look up at Finn and Georgia, their faces set.
“They decided already?” My throat goes dry.
“They decided before they even set foot in the place.”
“So, all this” – I wave my arm in the direction of the gardens beyond the window and Georgia’s paperwork mountains toppling over at the end of the table – “was pointless?”
Finn pushes his chair away and stands up, his jaw set.
“It was anything but. However, they’ve underestimated us,” he says, “and that’s their mistake.”