The Christmas Secret

by Karen Swan

  ‘Jock . . . ?’

  Lochlan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise that she was pressing for more detail. ‘Jock, uh, gah, what’s his surname . . . ?’ There was a long pause. ‘No, it escapes me. It’ll come back.’

  ‘And what does Jock do?’

  ‘He’s the guy who works these beauties,’ Lochlan said, gesturing to the giant vats.

  ‘Oh, he works the mashing tuns?’ Alex asked, watching him closely.

  ‘You know about . . . ?’ Lochlan’s eyes widened again. He was easy to surprise. Almost too easy. ‘So you’re not a complete novice to the trade then?’

  ‘On the contrary, I’m afraid I’d never drunk a glass of Scotch before this week—’

  Lochlan looked scandalized. ‘Never had a dram?’

  ‘Not my poison, I’m afraid, but I’ve no doubt I’ll be a connoisseur by the time I leave.’

  He tutted. ‘It would be a dereliction of our duty if we let you leave as anything less. So what’s your usual tipple then? Don’t tell me, a champagne spritzer.’

  Alex looked at him disapprovingly. ‘Vodka. Preferably Kauffman Luxury Vintage edition. Distilled fourteen times and filtered twice.’

  ‘It sounds powerful.’

  ‘It’s pure. No hangovers.’

  ‘You don’t like hangovers?’

  ‘Does anyone? Besides, I don’t have the time. I can’t afford to lose days lying on the sofa.’

  ‘Och, but those are the very best days.’

  Alex hitched up an eyebrow as she smiled. He seemed oblivious to the hole he was digging around himself. Unprofessional, unproductive, inefficient . . . Sholto had been right – he was spoilt, just playing at his role. He was only in the job because his father’s death put him there. This was going to be easier than she’d expected. At this rate, she was going to be off the island within the week.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid we can’t promise a hangover-free experience with Kentallen,’ he went on. ‘It comes from the very earth we’re treading, so it’s peaty and rich and complex. I promise, if you finish a bottle of this, you’ll need sunglasses to open the fridge the next morning.’

  Alex couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I’ll be sure to stick to a single glass then.’

  They went back out to the courtyard; it was not so much a guided tour as a chatty preamble but it gave her an opportunity to assess him in a neutral setting and so far, he was going to great pains to manifest his authority via flirtatious chatter (men often used flattery as a form of containment) and an easy-going manner that bordered on loucheness (implying supreme confidence in his abilities). But she wondered how he was going to feel sitting across from her in a one-to-one session when he wouldn’t be able to call on either of those tools and he wasn’t the one in control.

  ‘So? Where to next?’ she asked, noticing a small group of women emerge from a long, low building on the opposite side of the square; they were the first women she’d seen so far. ‘What’s over there?’

  ‘That’s the canteen. Would you like to take a look? Or . . .’ He looked around him. ‘Or shall we go to the malting house?’ He pointed to a tall building behind her right shoulder.

  Alex saw the women throw them curious looks as they passed, two of them openly appraising her all-red outfit, one of them smirking and trying to catch Lochlan’s eye. Alex remembered the bra; Sholto had already told her he’d had several affairs. With one of them, she wondered?

  ‘Hmm? No, see one malting house, you’ve seen them all, right?’ She pulled her gaze away, turning slowly. ‘What’s that over there?’

  She pointed to a glossy, glassy single-storey building at the furthest point of the courtyard. It was set behind the converted outbuildings where his office was situated, overlooking a field and the sea beyond a low stone wall.

  ‘That’s the blending labs and visitors’ centre.’

  ‘Ah, where the magic happens? Let’s go there then.’

  ‘Right you are,’ he said, leading the way. ‘So . . . what exactly is your job title?’ he asked, curiosity colouring his voice.

  ‘I’m a leadership consultant. Or executive coach. Business coach, whatever you prefer.’

  ‘A leadership consultant,’ Lochlan echoed, looking at her with fresh scrutiny. ‘You’re awful young to be in such a . . . bossy position, aren’t you?’

  ‘There’s nothing bossy about it,’ she laughed lightly. ‘My role is to support you, not direct you. You already have the answers – that’s why you’re in the position you’re in. My job is simply to keep the ship steady when the waters get choppy.’

  ‘And how do you do that?’

  ‘Listening, empathizing, deploying a few strategic tips to improve confidence, boost productivity. It’s a science, and once you know the formulas, you can apply them to most business models.’

  ‘You still look far too young to be directing crusty old dinosaurs.’

  ‘Do you include yourself in that covey?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Age is irrelevant. I’ll never know what you know about the whisky trade, but I don’t need to. I just need to apply my techniques to help you become a stronger, better, more enterprising, dynamic, flexible leader – delete as appropriate.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m strong and dynamic?’ he asked, that flirtatious note back in his voice again, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment whilst I’m still assessing you, Mr Farquhar.’

  ‘You’re assessing me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  His eyes gleamed brighter. ‘And what have you decided so far?’

  ‘It’ll all be in my report. We can talk more closely about it in our first meeting.’

  ‘At dinner?’

  ‘In whichever room you have designated as my office.’

  ‘I think dinner would be more conducive to establishing a rapport. Tonight? Say eight o’clock?’

  ‘Tonight I shall be making initial notes and recovering from the long journey.’

  They were at the threshold of the visitors’ centre now, the lights from inside glowing golden through glass Crittall doors. He had a grip on the handle and she took a step towards it, forcing him to open the door, in no mood to stay out in this weather; the growing wind was blowing straight through the fibres of her unlined coat, and her core felt chilled. She shivered appreciatively as she stepped into the warmth, rubbing her hands together and blowing into them.

  Her eyes instinctively roved around the room. It was a good size, perhaps seven metres by five, with backlit glass shelves on every wall showcasing seemingly hundreds of bottles, and the light that they cast inside was an even warmer amber than had appeared from the courtyard. A wood-burning stove crackled with life in one corner and various oak barrels were scattered around the space, set on their ends to be used as tables. There was a small group gathered around one, their anoraks in a heap on the floor by their feet, enjoying a tasting session that was being led by a spectacled young woman with hazel-brown hair pulled up into a ponytail. Several of the people in the group turned to stare as they came in, their eyes resting upon Alex curiously. It was because she was in red, she knew. A misjudgement; she’d wanted to convey energy – maybe a little festive friendliness – but the colour was too forthright in this environment where everything was watercolour pale.

  She noticed two men standing by the till, heads bent as they read something, talking in low voices.

  ‘Tomorrow – tomorrow then,’ Lochlan said, lowering his voice as he came in after her and clocked the tasting in progress. She was wandering around slowly, looking at the labels and differently shaped bottles of the vintage editions.

  ‘Tomorrow? Yes, at eight a.m. I shall look forward to it. I’m glad to see you too like to be productive in the mornings. That’s a positive sign.’

  ‘No, I meant—’

  ‘I know exactly what you meant, Mr Farquhar.’ She stopped walking and turned to face him directly. ‘Or may I call you Lochlan?’ she asked outright, seei
ng as he clearly wasn’t going to offer it himself. But he was right about one thing – they did need to start building a rapport and that meant getting onto a first-names basis and initiating a little physical contact. She placed a hand lightly on his arm. ‘We are, after all, going to be working together very closely for the foreseeable future.’

  Lochlan hesitated, his gaze flicking over to the two men by the till, and she looked over to find them watching them.

  ‘Well?’ she pressed, looking back at him when he didn’t answer. ‘Are you comfortable with that?’

  ‘O-of course.’ Lochlan nodded, his gaze flitting to the two men again as she saw from the corner of her eye that they were heading for the door. Who were they?

  ‘Oh, would you introduce us, please?’ she asked, intrigued by his evident discomfort at their presence. ‘I’d like to start meeting the teams. I’ll need to interview people in the coming days anyway.’ Would he know these workers’ names this time? she wondered. She was determined to witness some direct interaction between him and his managers; their body language would tell her a lot about how they regarded him: their respect for him and how comfortable they felt with him.

  ‘Uh . . . guys,’ Lochlan said, calling them over.

  Both men looked displeased at being hailed, and Alex’s smile grew as theirs diminished.

  ‘I’d like to introduce you to Alex, uh . . .’ His voice faded away. He had forgotten her name; another fail.

  ‘Hyde. Alex Hyde,’ she said, offering her hand.

  The closer man shook it. He was five foot ten and in his late fifties she guessed, his small eyes deeply set, his cheeks full and weathered. ‘Jimmy MacLennan.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Jimmy. I’m going to be working here in a consultancy capacity for the next few weeks. May I ask what it is that you do here?’

  Jimmy looked at both the other men before he answered. ‘I’m the warehouse manager.’

  ‘Great,’ she nodded. ‘Well, I hope we’ll get a chance to talk at some point. I’d be interested to hear your views on things.’

  Jimmy nodded, looking less thrilled at the prospect than she was.

  Alex looked across at the other man who was openly scowling. ‘Hi. Alex Hyde,’ she said again, offering her hand with a benign smile even as she felt a sudden, surprising jolt as their eyes met.

  The man looked at her for a moment, his body language hostile and closed, before reluctantly taking her hand and shaking it. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with light brown hair and hazel eyes with golden flecks. His hair was tousled, his clothes – jeans and a shirt – smartly casual but still somehow rumpled, as though he’d been tussling with bears or chopping wood or tossing cabers for fun. He was ruggedly handsome, wearing a deep frown and regarding her with an overt suspicion, and she wished again she’d worn navy; she was spooking the natives in her cityscape colours. ‘And you must be . . . ?’

  He flicked his eyes towards Lochlan. ‘I’m his cousin,’ he said, as if that was an answer.

  But it was, of sorts. Now that he’d pointed it out, she could see he looked just like a darker version of Lochlan, only with none of her host’s easy, friendly manner.

  ‘Ah, another of the Farquhar clan,’ she said, glossing over his rudeness with even greater politeness. It was a failsafe trick; people found it hard to maintain hostility in the face of a smile. ‘Torquil, I assume?’ And when he didn’t immediately reply, ‘No? So then you must—’

  ‘Be late, yes,’ he nodded curtly. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’ And with just a cursory glance towards his cousin and not another word, he turned and left.

  Alex watched him go in astonishment, a cold gust billowing into her as the door opened and closed behind him. Both Lochlan and Jimmy were looking aghast too, but when she met their gazes, the best response they could manage was an apologetic shrug.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ Lochlan said. ‘He warms up.’

  Jimmy gave a snort. ‘Usually.’

  Chapter Four

  Islay, Scotland, 2 February 1918

  ‘Come away from the window.’

  Her father’s voice was wearied, his face still turned to the newspaper, reading spectacles perched at the very end of his bulbous nose as he frowned in the dim light.

  ‘But, Father, he said he’d write.’

  ‘And he will. When he can. You must show more patience, Clarissa. This blasted war isn’t conducting itself to your convenience.’

  She sighed and moved away from the window, the glass still fogged from her breath, the first sea mist beginning to roll in over the lawns. Her father was right. She could afford to wait; it was the very least she could do. Her brother would put pen to paper when he could.

  She came back to her reading chair by the fire and picked up her book again, wondering what he was doing right now and where he was. Somewhere in France was all she knew. Had he seen Paris? It had been a childhood dream of theirs to visit – to make their own Grand Tour – back in the days before war had thrown a black cloak over Europe, blotting out the sun, the future, all hope.

  ‘No news is good news,’ that was what her mother kept saying as she paced the hall, wringing her hands fretfully. Clarissa knew she had to believe that too, even as her mind ran through all the different horrors he might have seen or lived through just last week or yesterday or today. Her parents had always accused her of an excitable imagination but this was more terrifying than anything she might make up; the newspapers were running headlines of flamethrowers and machine guns; of noxious yellow and green gases, men stumbling blind over bodies, fleeing the guns, suffocating in the trenches, their lungs and skin blistered raw. If Percy did make it back, how could he possibly be the same person he had been before? Archie she didn’t worry about; he had always had a fine-tuned sense of self-preservation, but Percy – he was too good, too kind.

  They were all changed by this war. Her own days in the barley fields were long and back-breaking, the cold numbing her hands and feet with dangerous chill, leaving them calloused and red and blistered. She stared at them in the firelight. It was almost impossible to remember their pale softness of years past, how Phillip had smiled as he pressed them to his lips, promising her a life of rose gardens and music that would now never come, torched to ashes somewhere in a field in Ypres.

  Mrs Dunoon, the housekeeper, came in with their evening tray: a wedge of cheese, barley wafers, a sliced apple and a pot of tea. The china cups trembled in their saucers as she set it down. She was worn down by her duties too, trying to single-handedly cook for the three of them, manage all the laundry, and keep clean and warm the five rooms they had been reduced to using, the other twenty-eight now shrouded in dust sheets and shut off. The previous staff of nine had been whittled down to just two: Mrs Dunoon and her husband who had had to maintain the estate’s boundaries, tend the kitchen garden and drive for her lame father. But now he too had been called up, along with everyone else either conscripted to the front, labouring in the fields, or those forced to leave the isle altogether for the city, to work in the shipbuilding docks and munitions factories. ‘Mrs Farquhar will be down presently and asked that you start without her.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Clarissa’s father said as the housekeeper retreated with a nod.

  Clarissa poured the tea for him as he folded his newspaper and looked into the flames. ‘Would you like to listen to the wireless?’ she asked as she handed the cup to him.

  ‘No, but one must,’ he sighed, bracing himself for the news of another day’s slaughter in foreign fields. ‘We cannot turn away from the truth, irrespective of how hard it is to bear.’

  Clarissa walked over and tuned the dials, the static an undulating whine and crackle until a well-dressed voice fell into the room. She took her seat again, straight-backed and stiff as she lifted her cup and saucer with quivering hands.

  No news was good news. He would come back.

  She just had to wait.

  Islay, Wednesday 6 December 2017

  The B&B whe
re she was staying was only two miles from the distillery, further up the ‘main’ road and set just back from the coast on a fledgling cliff that was forming as the land rose towards the uplands and the nearby mountains. It was a bare and rather austere-looking farmhouse but it had a pleasing symmetry with eight windows and a centrally set front door. Unlike the rest of the local housing stock, it was unpainted and its granite stone walls looked weather-beaten; a tendril of smoke puffed and twisted from one of the chimney-tops, but it was gathered and spirited away by a sudden gust in the next moment. The farmyard and outbuildings were located just beyond the gated approach to the house and in the small, stone-walled garden, a washing line was pegged with a white sheet that billowed and flapped furiously in the wind.

  The lights were on in the bottom left windows and as Alex thanked Hamish for the lift again and climbed out, she could see shadows flickering on the walls inside, someone moving about. It was dusk and apart from a red thread bleeding into the grey at the world’s edge, the sky was a volatile mess of tall, overstacked clouds that looked like water buckets on the verge of overflowing and tipping their load.

  The storm was about to break, fat raindrops already beginning to fall intermittently and thudding to the ground. Alex ran up the stony path, her overnight bag bouncing awkwardly behind her, one hand above her head feebly trying to protect her hair as she knocked at the door and waited.

  ‘Yes?’ The woman who answered had eyes like currants, dark and small and set in a doughy, pliable face. She was tall for a woman of her generation – five foot nine or so – and her white hair was fastened in a bun that was just beginning to come undone at the sides. She was wearing a half-apron over a tweed skirt and what appeared to be a hand-knitted Aran cardigan, a black-and-white border collie standing by her ankles, its eyes never leaving Alex’s face.

  ‘Hello. My name is Alex Hyde. I have a reservation with you.’

  A half-beat passed before recognition dawned on the old woman’s face. ‘Och, the Sassenach,’ she said in a dancing accent. ‘You’re just about moving in to stay?’