by Karen Swan
‘That’s right,’ Alex replied. ‘It’s an open-ended booking. I’m afraid there’s no way of knowing how long I’ll be here for.’
‘Well, that’s just how we like it. Less changing of the sheets for me. Come in, come in. I’m Mrs Peggie.’
Alex followed her through a stone porch – in which coats and boots filled every surface – into a small panelled hallway with doors leading off to the left and the right and a dark brown hardwood staircase leading up at the back. A wicker, rather nibbled dog basket was positioned between further wellies and umbrellas along the back wall. A small mirrored side table to the left was dressed with a cotton lace doily and a shallow bowl which had several sets of keys in it.
‘It’s getting pretty wild out there,’ Alex said, smoothing her hair down. ‘Apparently the Met Office has put out a red weather warning?’
‘Och, the fuss they make these days with all their traffic-light codes; the animals will tell you soon enough if there’s something to worry about. Come this way and I can show you around,’ she said, leading Alex into the room on the left of the front door. It was painted a soft mint green, with dark rugs over the floorboards and green- and purple-flowered curtains at the windows. Two small square tables were positioned at forty-five-degree angles to each other, already set with cutlery and dressed with white tablecloths and a small vase of silk flowers. A door in the far corner led, Alex imagined, to the kitchen beyond. ‘So this is the dining room. That’s Mr P. through there.’
‘Hullo,’ a voice hailed from around the door and she just glimpsed a thin white face with a patchy beard and Atlantic-blue eyes.
‘Hello!’
‘You have breakfast and dinner in here, or you can have dinner in your room if you prefer,’ she said. ‘And if you don’t want to take dinner here at all – if you’re eating out – just let me know at breakfast so as I know my quantities.’
‘Okay. What time is breakfast served from?’
‘Six until nine. I’d prefer to stop at eight thirty but you get those who like to have what they call “a lie-in”,’ she sighed.
‘Well, I’ll definitely be nearer to the six a.m. end of the spectrum. I’m an early riser,’ Alex said, her eyes swinging over the room.
‘What is it you do?’
She looked back and smiled. ‘I’m a management consultant.’
‘Och, you don’t look old enough. Is that what’s brought you to Islay?’
Alex nodded. ‘I’ll be working at Kentallen.’
‘Like the rest of us then,’ Mrs Peggie said with a roll of her eyes. ‘So you’ll not be doing any sightseeing? Looking for the birds?’
‘No.’
‘We usually get tourists and twitchers. Arctic terns come all the way here to breed before they head back to the southern oceans. Och, well, it’s not for everyone,’ she said inhaling deeply, her hands folded across her stomach. ‘And is there anything you particularly like for breakfast? Black pudding? Kippers?’ she asked, all in the same breath.
‘Actually, yes, porridge with honey and banana.’
‘We use our own rolled oats.’
Alex brightened. ‘And can the porridge be made with almond milk?’
‘Come again?’
‘Almond milk?’
‘Since when have people been milking almonds?’ Mrs Peggie asked in bafflement.
‘No, it’s . . .’ Alex decided to let it go. ‘It’s fine. Porridge with honey and banana, and a cup of Earl Grey would be great.’
‘We only have English Breakfast.’
‘Fine.’
Alex kept her smile on her lips as Mrs Peggie led the way back out across the hall and opened the door onto a sitting room with a ribbed velour sofa, two armchairs upholstered in a peony print and a small television set on its own stand. On the mantelpiece, as well as another vase of silk flowers, was an art-deco clock, its loud ticking the only thing disturbing the stillness of the room.
‘You are most welcome to join Mr Peggie and me in the evenings if you wish. The telly reception can be erratic, especially in this weather, but you can usually get the gist of what’s going on. Do you play whist?’
‘Whist?’
‘The card game. For if the weather’s bad.’
‘Oh.’ Alex pulled an apologetic expression. ‘No. No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Well, Mr P. could teach you soon enough, I don’t doubt.’
‘To be honest, I’ll probably be working most evenings,’ Alex demurred quickly.
‘Working at night?’
‘I’m afraid so. I have clients in different time zones. Talking of which, what’s your bandwidth here?’
‘Band what?’
‘For the Wi-Fi. Is there enough to FaceTime? I may have to dial in to some clients.’
Mrs Peggie looked back at her blankly. ‘Is this to do with the computers? There’s a cyber cafe in town,’ she said finally. ‘Would they know what you’re talking about?’
Alex suppressed a sigh. ‘Yes, I’m sure they will. Thank you. I’ll go there tomorrow.’
‘Let me show you your room.’ Mrs Peggie turned around, closing the door on the old-fashioned parlour, and, reaching into the bowl on the side table and fishing out one of the sets of keys, started up the stairs. She walked slowly, one hand on the banister and the treads squeaking beneath her weight.
‘We’ve no other guests staying tonight, but we have a Spanish couple coming with their baby tomorrow. I hope it’s a baby that sleeps,’ she said, puffing slightly as they reached the top of the stairs and turned left. ‘Mr P. needs his rest.’
She walked them down to the room at the far end. Floorboards creaked intermittently and Alex resisted the urge to straighten a framed photograph of a black-and-white landscape that had slipped on its wire.
‘I’ve put you in the blue room seeing as you’re with us so long. It’s got the best views over the water. If it’s a particularly fine day, you might even see Ireland, although you’d best not hold your breath. It’s also the furthest room from Mr Peggie’s so you shouldn’t be disturbed when he’s putting out the cows.’
‘Does he have to be up early then?’
‘With the light.’ Mrs Peggie unlocked the door and they stepped into a narrow but neat bedroom with dual-aspect windows. It was too dark outside now to glimpse anything of the views but the windows were framed by pretty blue gingham curtains finished with pleated pelmets and there was a window seat in the gable end; a naive but very pretty pastel picture of a lake scene hung on one wall and looked to be a framed amateur print. There was a single wardrobe, a washbasin in the corner and the bed was made up with sheets and a cream knitted blanket; a neat pile of camel-coloured towels was stacked at the foot of the bed. Alex scanned the room with growing unease. There was no duvet (she always froze under sheets). No desk. No multi-plug sockets. No satellite TV. No radio. No ensuite. Something else too . . .
No ensuite?
She looked back at Mrs Peggie with alarm. ‘Is there not an ensuite?’
‘Aye. There’s the washbasin there,’ the old woman said, nodding towards the pale blue porcelain Armitage Shanks.
‘Yes, but . . . the loo? And the shower?’
‘Just down the hall, last door on the left before the stairs. Don’t worry, it’s only you and the residents of the green room sharing. Mr Peggie and I have our own facilities.’
Alex suppressed a shudder. She had never shared a bathroom with a stranger in her life. But what could she do? This had been the only accommodation Louise had been able to book at such short notice, without having her packing up and hopping all over the island every other day. Plus it was the closest to the distillery, which was key.
‘I trust you find everything to your satisfaction?’ Mrs Peggie asked, watching her.
‘Of course. It’s charming, thank you.’
Her landlady nodded but the slight purse to her lips suggested she had picked up on Alex’s reservations. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to unpack, although that shouldn’t
take long – you seem to travel awful light. Dinner will be ready in an hour. Potato soup for starters, followed by ham, mashed potatoes and cabbage.’
‘Uh . . .’ Alex felt a frisson of alarm ripple through her as she looked around the room again. She had known there was something else missing. ‘Have my bags been delivered?’
‘Bags?’
‘My suitcases. They were sent up on the earlier train and I understood a cab was going to bring them here directly.’
Mrs Peggie shrugged. ‘Jack’s not been this way for a week or more, I’d say.’
‘Who’s Jack?’ Alex tried to keep the sharp note from her voice.
‘The taxi man.’
‘There’s only one? There’s not someone else who could have picked them up? Perhaps he just hasn’t had time to deliver them yet.’
‘Well, sometimes his son-in-law helps out if his leg’s playing up.’ She tutted. ‘Terrible thing, the gout.’
But Alex couldn’t think about Jack the taxi man’s gout right now. She wanted her bags. She needed them. She had nothing but a toothbrush, pyjamas and running kit with her in the overnight bag. ‘Is there any way we can find out? Can you ring him and double-check?’
The ferries were stopping – she checked her phone in her pocket – now. They were stopping right now for the next two days at least and there would be no deliveries of any sort from the mainland. Not food or mail, and certainly not purple coordinated T. Anthony bags with the clothes she was going to need out here for the next three weeks.
‘I’ll call, but Jack’s very reliable. If he had them, he’d have delivered them. Is it clothes you’ll be needing?’
‘Yes.’ Alex gestured to her woefully inadequate dress and coat, which were now practically sitting up and begging for a dry clean after that journey.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll put out some things for you. There are still some clothes in my daughter’s room.’
Alex hesitated. Mrs Peggie had to be in her early eighties, which meant her daughter must surely now be in her fifties. Very best case scenario, her daughter was also a professional businesswoman who had kept her figure and had a healthy clothing budget, visited often and kept a small capsule wardrobe here, just in case; worst case scenario, the clothes hanging in the nearby room were cast-offs from a 1970s childhood. ‘That’s very kind, thank you,’ she faltered, not wanting to appear rude. ‘But you will double-check with Jack?’
‘Aye.’ She turned to leave. ‘Dinner’s in an hour, as I said.’
‘Actually, I’d like to take dinner in my room tonight, if you don’t mind. I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on.’
‘As you like. Your key’s in the door. You’re welcome to leave it in the bowl in the morning or take it with you; I have a master copy for cleaning.’
‘Thank you. Very much.’
Mrs Peggie left the room, the door closing with a click behind her, and Alex stood for a moment, feeling helpless and frustrated. Already bored. She wandered to the window and stared out into the blackness, her own reflection the only thing to see. Outside, the wind moaned, making the windows rattle slightly in their frames, and Alex blinked as she saw a flash of white streak past the window. The bed sheet still pegged to the line? ‘Oh . . . !’ She turned, but Mrs Peggie’s footsteps could already be heard downstairs crossing the hall floor and by the time she turned back it was already gusting away over the fields.
She picked up her phone and went to call Louise – there had to be a tracking number for her bags – but there was no reception. Not even one bar. She tried holding it up, pressing it to the glass, going to the other windows. Nothing. She was in the middle of nowhere and that storm wasn’t helping.
Alex sighed, trying to let go of her frustration – there was no point in resisting these events. As she was forever explaining to her clients, what could be more pointless than to resist what already is? She walked back to the bed, unpacking the few belongings she had with her: men’s navy cotton Turnbull & Asser pyjamas on her pillow; toothbrush, charcoal toothpaste, Perricone MD skin serum and moisturizers on the sink; her trainers by the window and running kit in the top drawer of the tallboy dresser; and her current reading material: a biography of Aung San Suu Kyi.
She picked up all that was left in there – the report on Kentallen – and, kicking off her heels, sank onto the bed with it, ruminating on this afternoon’s introductions. It had been a disappointing start, messy, chaotic and disorganized. On the one hand, it appeared her task here was going to be a lot easier to achieve than she had anticipated: Lochlan Farquhar – flirtatious, irreverent and unprofessional – was out of his depth; on the other, those same qualities meant he was going to be a handful and getting him to the finish line was going to be like herding cats.
She opened the pages and began looking at the numbers again. Kentallen’s growth projections had been scaled back by 2 per cent: in part due to losing a key distributor in a vital new growth market in Indonesia; in part due to the single malts sector losing market share to both the blends market and lower-priced whiskies such as American bourbon; but mostly it seemed to be down to their charismatic but feckless CEO making either poor or rash decisions, running the business as though it was his personal playground: kissing the girls and bullying the boys . . .
Alex yawned, the numbers beginning to swim before her eyes as something undefined – a thought, a suspicion – niggled in her mind; it had been tickling her consciousness all afternoon but she couldn’t quite reach it. She could feel her exhaustion from the rigours of the day beginning to creep up her weary body. It was tiring always having to be the facilitator in every transaction – the unstinting smiling, the empathetic nods, the steady eye contact – not to mention that the journey here had been a long one, with changeovers at both Glasgow and then the port of Tarbet, and she had been cold for most of it in her unsuitable clothes. Not just that, she was jet-lagged to hell; she had travelled direct to Edinburgh from New York, where in turn she had arrived after an intense week of sessions with a client in Vienna. Her body clock was all over the place. Unable to suppress another yawn, she lay her head on the pillow and closed her eyes; she would allow herself the luxury of a nap. It was something she encouraged all her clients to do and she preferred to practise what she preached. Ten minutes was all she’d need – it had been proven by NASA that cognitive and memory functions were improved after a ten-minute sleep – and then she could get back to the spreadsheets. Just ten minutes . . .
She awoke with a start, roused by the sound of the herd protesting as they were moved from the warm dairy to the wind-battered fields. Alex looked around her in alarm. The light was still dim but dawn had definitely broken; she was still fully clothed on top of the bed, but a woollen blanket had been draped over her and the curtains drawn. A tray of long-cold food was placed on top of the tallboy and a glass of water was on the bedside table. On the small chair in the corner, between the tallboy and the main window, was a small pile of folded clothes.
‘Oh!’
She had slept through? She couldn’t believe it. She blinked several times, trying to clear her head. She never usually needed a prompt to waken her after ten minutes – she had trained herself well – and she couldn’t remember the last time she had slept so long, or so soundly. But then she was used to city life and it was the nothingness around here that had lulled her into such deep sleep – no noise, no light pollution.
She swung her legs off the bed and rose gingerly, her body feeling stiff; she wasn’t sure she had even moved in the night. Walking towards the gable-end window, she pulled open the curtain and looked out, needing to orientate herself having arrived in a storm and settled in the dark. The view that greeted her was gentle and fierce all at once. On the one hand, the landscape had been painted in delicate watercolour tints – dove grey, storm blue, moss green and smoky white – as a sea mist hovered wraith-like over the fields, the slow plodding bulk of the cows disappearing into its ether, the ancient permanence of the far-off mountains u
ndermined by a gentle haze that wrapped them out of sight. On the other, the wind continued to batter at land and sea like a riled god, flattening the grasses and bending the trees, whipping up battleship-grey waves in the North Channel as though trying to widen the breach between here and the Irish coast. It had been going all night long, the moans of the wind a white noise that had become her sleep’s lullaby.
She pressed her forehead to the glass. So much for getting away with pulling on her running kit; there was no sane prospect of going out in this weather. She walked over to the tallboy and lifted the clothes that had been left out for her – indigo flared jeans, an apple-green blouse with pointed collar, a navy Fair Isle jumper and an age-cracked pair of brown leather lace-up boots. They had got to be kidding?
She sighed and reaching for the towels folded at the end of the bed, opened her door and peered out, scanning for the open door that would signify the bathroom. She tiptoed down the corridor, wincing as the floorboards creaked underfoot, and stared in at a salmon-pink bath suite, complete with looped rugs and a limp-looking electric power-shower that was seemingly as old as the jeans.
It wasn’t what she was used to – nothing like; she only ever travelled first class and she expected marble in a bathroom as much as she expected towels – but she wasn’t seeing it anyway. The niggle that had been itching her mind had finally surfaced, full force, and she spent a good minute standing open-mouthed, staring at the tiles as yesterday’s odd tone suddenly made sense.
She got the water running and stepped under it, closing her eyes and letting the windows steam as an old school rhyme played over and over in her head: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
She was sitting in the desk chair an hour and a half later when the door opened and Rona nosed in first, her owner stopping dead in his tracks. The scowl she remembered from yesterday deepened as he stepped into the room, his light brown hair wind-whipped, thunder on his face.
‘Good morning, Lochlan,’ she smiled brightly, staying right where she was, in his seat. ‘Are you ready to get down to work?’