by Fiona Gibson
Fuck Brihat, I think, rebelliously, as my hand lands on a screwed-up sheet of white paper. I open it up and pick a small brown slug off it.
Back in Dad’s kitchen I sluice it down at the sink, then grab my phone from my jacket pocket. Dad is still pottering around upstairs, and I can hear him chatting to Arthur now in the box room, perhaps trying to make up for snapping at him earlier. I’m not sure why it seems so important that Dad doesn’t find out I’ve been delving about in his outside bin. I just suspect it’s a scenario he’d object to.
I step back out into the garden, poised to make the call. Maybe I’m really losing it now because this mission seems to be about something far more important than simply offering to walk Suzy’s dog. It’s the only way I can think of to cheer up my son, not just today but, hopefully, for the rest of this long, long week ahead. To make it special for him, when he should’ve been in Spain with his best friend, not on Sgadansay with his dumped dad.
I take a deep breath and tap out Suzy Medley’s number, willing her not only to accept my call, but to say yes.
Chapter Forty
Suzy
There was no hail of custard creams at the meeting. There weren’t even any stony faces. Instead, as I went through my PowerPoint presentation, everyone just sat quietly and seemed to take it all in.
Yes, a PowerPoint presentation – another first for me (although, admittedly, I’d rehearsed it with Cara and Scout as my audience, back in her studio). I’d put it together to explain the steps I’m taking to restore our fine reputation, such as:
•A reintroduction of our distillery’s traditional label design and branding. We’re returning to the beautiful antique illustration of Sgadansay harbour, as if the puffin episode had never happened.
•A return to our precise production methods with no corner-cutting and associated fears about the quality of future batches. Neglected equipment will be given the necessary attention and upgraded where necessary.
•A concerted marketing effort to reassure our customers that there will be a return to our core values.
•Coverage in newspapers and magazines about the Hebridean whisky industry (with particular focus on Sgadansay).
•Full and regular consultation with the entire team so we can pull through this difficult period together.
‘It’s like we’re re-launching,’ I explained. ‘But instead of promoting something shiny and new, the focus will be on a return to tradition, to the way things have been done for decades. Because malt whisky isn’t about newness and gimmicks, is it?’ I felt almost foolish saying that, as a newcomer to all of this, in front of these people who spend their entire working days attending to the quietly germinating barley and kilns. Who was I to stand there spouting off, as if I was some kind of expert?
I caught Vicki’s gaze. For a moment I was that terrified twelve-year-old and she was the examiner, showing no emotion as I squeaked my way through my grade one clarinet pieces accompanied by my pounding heart. ‘It’s about tradition,’ I ploughed on, ‘and I want to reassure you that I fully respect that.’
There was some muted discussion among the team as I reached for my glass of water. I glanced down to see that I’d developed a nervous rash on my neck. Attractive. ‘Are there any questions?’ I asked.
Liam from the malting room put up his hand. ‘How come all this is happening now? This newspaper stuff, I mean?’
I pushed back my hair from my clammy forehead. ‘Well, um, I hasn’t happened yet, but—’
‘So it’s just something you want to do,’ he said, looking unimpressed.
‘Is there any chance of it happening?’ Stuart asked. ‘I mean, of getting stuff in the papers about us?’ He shrugged. ‘Why should they? We’re just one of dozens of distilleries …’
‘Well, I’m hopeful,’ I said. I paused and looked around the room. ‘And I do have some contacts who might be able to help us.’
‘What contacts?’ Liam asked with a frown.
‘I work for newspapers,’ I replied. ‘I’m a writer, I write obituaries …’
‘You write about dead people?’ exclaimed Stuart, perking up now.
I nodded. ‘Yes, I do. I know it seems completely at odds with what I’m doing here—’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ he said with a smirk. ‘Whisky, dead people … it’s all spirits, isn’t it?’ There was a ripple of laughter and I sensed my neck rash starting to ebb away.
There were more questions about orders, and our creditors, and some kind of glitch this morning with the bottling machine that I had to pass on to Misha, who’s the expert on that. I thanked everyone profusely, and the team members drifted off until only Stuart was left.
‘Thanks for all your help today,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Ach, no bother. That’s what I’m here for.’ He took down the screen and we put back the chairs in their usual positions, stacked up in a corner. ‘That was all right, that,’ he added.
I glanced over at him, not quite sure what he was referring to. It had to be my talk, didn’t it? I couldn’t think of anything else. And, whilst it wasn’t quite crazed enthusiasm, it was a nudge in the right direction. ‘Did you think so?’ I said. ‘Thanks, Stuart. That’s good to hear.’
He shrugged and scratched at his greying hair, and I reached for the plate with just a lone finger of shortbread left on it. ‘Would you like this?’ I asked.
He seemed to study it for a moment, then he shook his head and chuckled. ‘No, you have it. I think you deserve it after that.’
Back at Cara’s, Scout greeted me with his usual whirlwind of tail wagging and licks. As Cara wanted to know all about the meeting, she broke off from her work – cornflower blue and sunset orange canvases were strewn about everywhere – and I made coffee and flopped down on the sofa next to her. ‘Sounds like it went really well,’ she enthused.
‘I guess so. We’ve definitely moved on from the first meeting, anyway.’
Her blue eyes glinted as she smiled. ‘No one looked like they wanted to punch you.’
‘No.’ I chuckled. ‘It was all very hushed and polite with everyone sitting there with their teas and coffees and biscuits.’
‘So, they seemed happy about what you’re doing? About going back to the traditional labels, all that?’
‘Yeah.’ I paused. ‘All that was fine. But, you know – I do wonder if it’s enough to turn things around. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve come up with anything terribly ground-breaking—’
‘Does whisky need to be ground-breaking?’ she asked.
I got up, prompting Scout to start darting around excitedly, anticipating a walk. ‘I don’t know, Cara. Christ, the more I learn, the more I realise I don’t know anything really. Only that this business seems so traditional and gentle from the outside, with its barrels and copper stills and a man quietly raking the barley about …’ I called Scout over before he stuck his nose in a paint pot. ‘But it’s actually fiercely competitive,’ I added. ‘I mean, there are 120 distilleries in Scotland. So, in some ways, I can see why Paul wanted to stand out and be different.’ I caught myself and laughed. ‘Christ, I can’t believe I’m saying that.’
Looking to my ex for inspiration was my cue to get out and walk it all off, so Scout and I left Cara to get on with her work and headed off into the hills. A couple of hours have passed now, and I’m feeling calmer, and grateful for the sense of space around us. We follow the winding path that cuts between mounds of springy heather and trickling streams. The air is sharp and invigorating and we glimpse several red deer in the distance, who stop and stare for a second before bounding away.
The path finally leads us back to the road, where I spot a huge rock jutting from the grass verge, marking the end of an unmade, single-track lane. It’s the lane that leads to the cottage I’d stayed at, when I’d come to hold that first meeting, and where I’d sat munching my Pringles and slugging my cheap white wine, convinced that my life was a mess.
And then Scout had shown u
p, wet and trembling, and suddenly things had seemed a little brighter – even when he’d peed on the pouffe.
As we reach the rock I remember that you can get a mobile signal when you stand on top of it; at least, according to comments in the cottage’s visitors’ book. So I loop Scout’s lead around a fence post, clamber up and wave my phone around until a bar of signal appears. And I see that I have a missed call; a number that’s not in my contacts.
I glance around at the cottage as I call it. It looks like a family is staying; children are shrieking excitedly as they run around the garden. Then: ‘Hello?’ a male voice answers.
‘Hi,’ I start. ‘I have a missed call from this number—’
‘Oh, is this Suzy?’
‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘It’s Ricky. I hope it was okay to call you—’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say, a little confused. Surely he’s not calling on behalf of his father? Harry hasn’t struck me as someone who’d shy away from making his own phone calls.
‘It’s a bit of a weird one,’ Ricky explains. ‘Dad had an accident—’
‘Oh no! What happened? Is he all right?’
‘Yeah, he’s recovering well. He was having a shower and he slipped in the bath. Cracked a rib, the doctor reckons …’
‘That’s terrible,’ I exclaim. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’
‘Thanks.’ He pauses. ‘So we didn’t go home on Sunday after all. It just didn’t feel right to leave Dad here alone while he’s recovering.’
‘Oh, God, yes. I can understand that.’ I glance at Scout and he blinks up at me expectantly. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Actually, I think there might be,’ Ricky says. He hesitates for a moment and it strikes me how pleased I am to hear from him. Of course, it’s awful that his father has had a fall but, for some reason that I can’t quite figure, I’m happy that Ricky and Arthur are still here. ‘Y’know, Arthur’s taken a real shine to Scout,’ he adds.
‘Oh, that’s so nice. He’s really good with him.’ An ancient-looking tractor approaches, and I lift a hand in greeting as the driver catches my eye. He gives me a curt nod in response. Of course, around here it’s probably quite normal to conduct a phone conversation while balancing precariously on a rock. ‘If you have the time,’ I add, ‘you’d be really welcome to take him out. To borrow him, I mean—’
‘Really? That’s actually why I was calling. I mean, Arthur’s been great – really patient, at least for an eleven-year-old kid. But, you know. He’s stuck here with me, and there’s not a heck of a lot going on around here, as you’ve probably gathered …’
‘I guess not,’ I say.
‘We’ll probably stay until Sunday,’ Ricky continues, ‘but obviously, we can fit in with you—’
‘How about tomorrow, then?’
‘Really? That’d be great. Arthur’ll be delighted when I tell him. So, what sort of time?’
‘Say, ten-ish? Or is that too early?’
‘No, that’s perfect.’ He pauses. ‘Same place as before? Or would you rather we came and picked him up—’
‘I’ll meet you at the beach,’ I say, ‘if that suits you.’
‘Brilliant.’ I sense him smiling. ‘I won’t bring Dad this time,’ he adds.
I push my hair from my eyes. ‘I’m sorry that was so awkward.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Ricky says quickly. ‘I did mention your meeting today,’ he adds. ‘But, y’know, Dad’s still recovering, and he’s not really getting out much …’
‘I didn’t expect him to come anyway,’ I say truthfully.
‘But, um … anyway, I heard it went pretty well,’ he adds. ‘That, you know. It kind of helped.’
My heart seems to turn over. ‘Really?’ I say. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘It’s just the way it is around here,’ Ricky says. ‘Good news travels fast.’
Chapter Forty-One
I know it sounds flaky but I have never planned very much in my entire life. For instance, obviously I never set out to be sole director of a whisky distillery in the Outer Hebrides. I’m not even cut out to be a boss, not really. Although yesterday’s meeting seemed to go well – and I’m no longer treated as if I’m an unpleasant odour wafting around the place – standing up in front of an audience isn’t something I’d ever choose to do, or find enjoyable. I’ve just stumbled into it. It’s the kind of situation that’s always made my sister despair of me because she seemed to have her whole life pretty much mapped out by the age of eighteen.
University, law degree, well-paid graduate job, smart house, marriage to Derek-with-the-meaty-thighs, bigger house. They’d started dating at sixteen and she said she’d always known he was ‘the one’, that he ‘ticks all my boxes’, a phrase that always made me feel slightly queasy. But then, who am I to judge? My sister seems perfectly content with her life.
In contrast, Tony and I had never really planned to move in together. We’d just decided it would be a brilliant idea after a few drinks one night. Next thing we were cohabiting at twenty-five years old like bona fide grown-ups.
Even getting pregnant with Frieda was accidental (such a happy accident, though; I loved the baby stage). Then along came Isaac two years later and still we all blundered along. However, it was inevitable that Tony and I would break up, because we’d rushed in way before we were ready to settle down, before we even knew ourselves really. We ‘grew apart’, as people so often say – usually because it’s true. No wonder Mum and Belinda roll their eyes at me because, when I stop to consider it, I’ve always tumbled from one thing to the next. Two years from fifty and I’m still rattling along, like someone who’s throwing any old random items into her supermarket trolley in the hope that they’ll miraculously come together to make a meal.
I didn’t plan to be a writer either, as I’m explaining now, in answer to Ricky’s question on this crisp, bright Tuesday morning. ‘It just sort of happened,’ I explain as we wander in the direction in which Arthur and Scout have run off together. ‘It was a bit of a fluke really.’
‘What kind of fluke?’ he asks, stepping over a tangle of amber-coloured seaweed.
I tell him how, fuelled by a rare burst of confidence, I’d taken it upon myself to write an obituary about a woman called Nora Pickles. She’d set up a bakery and tearoom in the 1950s in the North Yorkshire market town where I’d grown up, and where my parents still live. Nora’s Tearoom had flourished and soon there’d been similar establishments in all the main touristy towns in the area. It had been a favourite family activity, to go to Nora’s on special occasions, and Dad had always opted for a huge choux pastry bulging with cream and slathered with glossy chocolate icing, so outlandish and messy that he’d have to tackle it with a knife and fork.
‘For God’s sake, Peter!’ Mum would hiss, all vexed and embarrassed in case anyone saw. Whilst I was always content with the Victoria sponge that Mum, Belinda and I always had (as it came as part of the afternoon tea deal), I’d liked the fact that Dad always veered his own way, cake-wise.
‘He sounds like a bit of a rebel,’ Ricky remarks with a smile.
‘Yes, I suppose he is in his own quietly measured way.’
‘Mild rebellion then.’
‘Yeah. That’s it exactly.’ I chuckle.
‘But what made you write the obituary?’ He seems genuinely curious.
‘Oh, I’d always loved writing – bits of prose, poetry, that kind of thing, just for myself. So I thought I’d give it a go.’ I catch myself and shrug. ‘That sounds a bit mad, doesn’t it?’
‘Not at all. Not if you enjoy writing …’
‘My mum and sister think it’s morbid, that I do this for a job. That I sit around “waiting for people to die”.’
Ricky laughs. ‘You’ll never be out of work, though—’
‘Yeah. Like undertakers or headstone engravers …’
‘So what happened then?’ he prompts me.
‘I sent it of
f to a newspaper,’ I explain. ‘It was just a local one but even so, I didn’t think there was any chance that they’d publish it. But they rang me, saying how much they liked it, so I wrote another one about her – longer, more in-depth – and this time I sent it off to a national paper. Again, I didn’t think I’d hear anything back. I mean, Nora was famous throughout our part of Yorkshire, but most people would never have heard of her.’
‘Did they publish it?’ he asks.
‘Yes, they did. And for some reason it seemed to attract far more comments online than their usual obituaries – of more famous people, I mean. And they decided they wanted to start including more obits of so-called normal people. So that became my thing – “doing the normals”, as they put it. Then they started asking me to do the famousness too.’
‘That’s amazing,’ Ricky says, looking impressed, ‘but it wasn’t really a fluke, was it?’
‘What d’you mean?’
He shrugs as we stroll across the rippled sand. The tide is out and the beach feels huge beneath the wide blue sky. ‘It was because of your hard work, wasn’t it? And your ability to write.’
‘Oh, I guess so,’ I say dismissively. ‘What I mean is, I’d never planned to do this for a living, or even imagined that it’d be possible.’
‘So, what had you planned to be?’ He glances at me and it strikes me again how attractive his eyes are; deep brown, like the darkest seaweed that’s strewn across the beach.
‘I never really had a thought-out career plan,’ I reply. ‘I wasn’t madly in love with school, actually. I didn’t do terribly well.’
‘Neither did I,’ Ricky says. ‘It seemed to be about remembering unmanageable quantities of information and being able to handle exams. So, a career as a clarinetist wasn’t beckoning you?’
I laugh, surprised that he’s remembered that detail. I’m relieved, too, that we’re not discussing the distillery again. It’s far less stressful to talk about other stuff, and besides, I’m keen to find out more about his life. ‘Absolutely not,’ I say, laughing. ‘What about you? I mean, how did you get into music?’