The Christmas Secret

by Karen Swan

  Islay, Monday 18 December 2017

  ‘They found a what?’

  ‘A teddy bear. I mean, it’s only a tiny one but still . . .’ Skye giggled, pulling out her phone and showing a photo of a badly worn golden bear with one orange glass eye and a bald stomach. ‘Right at the bottom of the cask. An empty cask, obviously. It wasn’t floating around in the whisky.’

  ‘A bear was hidden in the hidden malt? But who put it there?’ Alex asked, examining the picture with forensic scrutiny. ‘And why?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll ever know,’ Skye shrugged. ‘I wonder if the baby died and the mother couldn’t bear to hold on to its things.’

  ‘God, that’s so sad. And it’s been sitting there all that time?’

  ‘Aye. Since 1932, they reckon; that’s what the cask was stamped with, anyhow – along with the rest of the hidden stuff.’

  ‘You mean there was more, apart from the teddy?’

  ‘Aye, there was a wee baby’s blanket in there too, so sweet it was: blue and white chequerboard with little red stitches around the sides.’ She put her phone back on the table. ‘We’re holding a vote for what we should call the bear; they’re going to announce the winner at the party.’

  ‘Party?’ Alex asked, sipping her coffee.

  ‘Yes. The Christmas party’s on Thursday – didn’t you know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Och, you must come,’ Skye said emphatically, splaying her hands across the edge of the table.

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t work here, remember.’

  ‘But you’ve been here for nearly three weeks now. That’s longer than most coopers last, I can tell you.’

  ‘I’m just a contractor.’

  ‘But it’s a ceilidh,’ Skye said beseechingly, as though that would swing the vote.

  ‘And I can’t reel,’ Alex said firmly. ‘It’s sweet of you to ask but I’m not in the least bit bothered. I am beyond tired; I need to sleep for a month. It was an eventful weekend,’ she said meaningfully, pinning Skye with a direct stare; she had been trying to get the girl on-topic since she’d got here – it was the reason she’d suggested this coffee – but Skye was seemingly oblivious to Alex’s muted mood.

  Skye smacked the table with her palm, clearly not hearing her. ‘It is also, unofficially, doubling as my leaving party.’

  ‘Skye—’

  ‘You have to be there; I insist upon it.’ She leaned in a little closer. ‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’

  Were they? Did friends lie to each other? Even if everything Skye had told her had been factually correct, she had still lied by omission; she knew that the reason why Lochie had jilted her changed the complexion of everything. ‘Of course . . .’

  ‘Then it’s agreed, you’re coming.’

  Alex gave an impatient sigh. ‘Fine, I’ll look in but only for a few minutes.’

  Skye looked at her, finally keying in to Alex’s resistance. ‘. . . Alex, are you okay?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You just seem a bit . . . remote. Have I done something?’

  Alex hesitated. Was this even any of her business? Skye cheating on Lochie changed everything, yes – not just who she thought this woman was and what her lie said about their so-called friendship, but most importantly it sabotaged her plans: she knew there would be no reconciliation now; Lochie was too proud to ever forgive or forget something like that. Skye wasn’t the answer she’d been looking for.

  But her fractional pause was enough to make Skye gasp, covering her mouth and nose with her hands. ‘Oh God, they told you!’

  Alex held her breath, wondering whether to lie, to spare her the humiliation – then nodded. If nothing else, she – personally – wanted to know why she’d done it. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I knew it!’ she cried. ‘As soon as I heard you’d gone up there, I knew they’d tell you.’ Her wide eyes blinked back at Alex in horror over the tops of her fingers. A deep frown puckered her brow, hurt and shame swimming over her face. ‘I bet they couldn’t wait! They never liked me!’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ She sat up defensively. Defiantly. ‘Did they call me a slut?’

  ‘No! Nothing like that.’

  ‘Because it’s not like they think.’

  Alex looked at her. ‘. . . How was it then?’

  ‘He was pushing me away, like I told you. I was so confused, I didn’t understand what I’d done wrong. And then when—’ A sob escaped her and she hid her face in her hands. ‘Oh God. I thought all this was over with. But I can see it in your eyes. You think I’m a monster.’

  Alex reached out to touch her arm pityingly. ‘Skye, look. No one thinks you’re a monster. He did the same to Jess; he pushed her away too. He didn’t know how to process grief, not for his mother and not for his father either. And he still doesn’t.’ She gave her a sympathetic look, squeezed her forearm. ‘It must have been an incredibly difficult situation. No one blames you.’ She shrugged. ‘And anyway, things have all worked out for the best in the end, haven’t they?’

  Skye studied her fingernails. ‘Have they?’

  What? Alex looked back at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, ever since the fire and what you said . . . you know, about things being unfinished between us.’ Skye looked at her with wide eyes. ‘I can’t stop thinking, what if we were too quick to give up?’

  Alex felt the floor drop a foot below her chair. She felt giddy, disoriented. Skye was saying this now – after admitting she’d cheated on him? ‘But what about Alasdair?’

  ‘Al?’ Skye looked pained. ‘Al’s lovely. He so sweet and tender with me, you know? I mean, he doesn’t have the fancy car and the beautiful house and the grand name but . . . we fit. We understand each other. It’s just easy.’

  ‘Well, there you are—’

  ‘But then Lochie . . . he’s so . . . glamorous and adventurous, you know?’ she interrupted, her cheeks flushing, her eyes brightening. ‘Life feels bigger with him somehow. He’s like Heathcliff, striding about in a mood on the moors. And he’s exciting and sexy and ohmigod, he’s so good—’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Alex said quickly, not remotely wanting to have that discussion.

  ‘I mean, being with Al is like slipping on my old pair of favourite slippers, but ever since you said Lochie’s got feelings for me, I can’t help thinking: do I really want to spend the rest of my life like that? Where’s the energy? Where’s the vigour? Twenty years from now, won’t I be going out of my mind?’ She reached for Alex’s hands, desperation on her pretty face. ‘Alex, you’ve got to be straight with me: am I about to make the biggest mistake of my life?’

  ‘Skye, I can’t possibly answer that.’

  ‘Please try. You’re the one who’s stirred the pot after all. I thought it was all done. Dusted. Dead. But then you said all those things . . .’

  Her voice faded out as she pinned Alex with a bewildered stare, holding her to account.

  Alex took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down as much as Skye. The girl had a point. She had stirred the pot. She had seen the thickness of longing and regret between them both, hadn’t she? ‘Okay, look, don’t panic for a start. You’re not to do anything. You need to take some time and think – properly think – about what you want and who it is you want to be with. Marriage is a big deal. It’s for ever. But you have to be honest and you have to be brave.’ She swallowed, feeling her words become smaller, tighter, harder. She couldn’t believe she was saying this. Now now. ‘If Lochie is the man you want to be with, then you need to tell him that.’

  ‘But when? Al’s arriving on Friday and the wedding’s the day after that.’ Hysteria tinged her voice. It was clear she had been brooding on this for days.

  ‘Friday’s four days from now.’

  ‘But . . . but everything’s organized. It’s already happening. I’m getting my tan and my nails done tomorrow. And my bikini line. And then Mum’s picking up the flowers . . .’

/>   ‘It’s plenty of time, Skye.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Not when Lochie’s in Edinburgh. God only knows when he’s coming back.’

  Alex’s head snapped up. Edinburgh? It was the first she’d heard of it. She looked outside, scarcely able to believe she could have missed something so glaringly obvious on her way in but sure enough – the field where the helicopter had landed only last night was empty.

  She felt a rush of anger. They had had a meeting scheduled for this afternoon; she had thought she was getting somewhere with him after that spiel at the front door about trusting her and wonderwalls. She thought she’d broken through at last, but he was just back to his old tricks – messing her around again. She had been deluding herself – the kiss truly had meant nothing for him – it really had been the whisky talking.

  ‘Alex?’

  She realized Skye was staring at her, wanting answers. Needing direction. ‘Look, anything before “I do” will do,’ Alex said calmly. ‘But let’s not let it come to that . . . If it’s going to happen, the sooner you tell Alasdair the better.’

  Skye nodded – nodded frantically, like that dog in the insurance adverts. ‘Oh, but how can I do to him what Lochie did to me?’ She dropped her face in her hands, vacillating between one man and the other. ‘It was so awful; I thought I’d never get over it. His face that night, he was . . . broken. It was all I saw whenever I closed my eyes.’

  ‘It’s not the same situation.’

  ‘But I betrayed him, Alex. And now I’m going to do it again – to Al?’

  Alex tried to mask her frustration. She didn’t need this right now. Her head was spinning, trying to work out what Lochie was doing in Edinburgh, but there was only one scenario she could realistically envision: Sholto had called that board meeting; Lochie had got it wrong, he’d overplayed his hand after all. ‘No one’s saying you will. If Al’s the one you love, then everything goes ahead as planned.’ She tipped her head to the side. ‘Look, you said it’s the party on Thursday, yes?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘So spend some time with him there. He’s bound to be back by then . . .’

  Was he?

  ‘He can hardly miss his own company’s Christmas bash . . .’

  Would it even be his company by then?

  ‘It’ll be a relaxed setting, everyone will be letting their hair down . . . talk, maybe dance together, see how you feel. Give him the chance to talk to you. There may be things he needs to say to you that he hasn’t had the opportunity to do; or it may be he simply doesn’t feel he can; perhaps you need to offer him some hope.’

  ‘Hope,’ Skye murmured.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Skye reached over for her hands again. ‘Oh God, you will come to the party, won’t you? Say you will. I don’t think I can do it without you.’

  Alex nodded, suppressing her sigh. Now wasn’t the time to mention she might not be here by then either. ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Alex stayed at the canteen table, staring out through the window. Skye had left forty minutes ago now and the coffee cup was cold in Alex’s hands. A few of the coopers across the way were challenging each other to a barrel-rolling contest – it was something of a Christmas tradition according to the canteen ladies who, still in their blue coats and hair caps, were huddled at the windows, other workers also coming out from their units or leaning from the windows, cheering them on as the burly men stripped off their shirts and flexed their muscles. In the snow.

  ‘I like Mungo,’ she overheard one of the women say – Mary, Alex thought her name was – arms crossed over her bosom as she watched the shenanigans with a keen eye. ‘It sounds right somehow.’

  ‘Who says the bear’s a boy?’ the middle woman asked indignantly; she was the one who could never hold back Alex’s free shortbread.

  ‘My Euan thinks it should be Archibald, after the founder,’ said Eileen, the older woman standing to her left. ‘After all, if it’s going to be a company mascot—’

  ‘Ach, it wasn’t just Archie as started the company, it was his brother Percy too,’ Mary protested. ‘If you’re going to go down that road, you’ll only give them’s in the suits another reason to fight – which of the original brothers gets the principal claim? – and it’s not like they’re not at loggerheads already.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see why there should be any argument over that,’ Eileen snipped. ‘We’s all know it’s Archie’s direct bloodline as has the truest claim – Sholto and Torquil are blood; Lochie’s side of the family, charming though they may be, are buy-ins.’ And when the other women looked at her with buckled brows, she clarified: ‘Adopted. Surely you know that?’ She tsked. ‘Everyone knows that, it’s no secret.’

  No, it wasn’t a secret. Alex had known it too. Mrs Peggie had told her, that day in the farmhouse. Torquil too.

  Why hadn’t she given more thought to such an important fact? Alex sank into her thoughts, forgetting all about the high jinks in the yard. She didn’t hear the cheers, she didn’t even hear the rest of the women’s conversation. She just heard two words over and over: Adopted. Bear. Adopted. Bear.

  She didn’t know why they had stuck in her mind or why they mattered.

  She sensed only that they did.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Islay, Wednesday 20 December 2017

  ‘Mrs Peggie, is the water hot, do you know?’ Alex stuck her head into the little kitchen to see her landlady chopping swede. The breakfast tables had been cleared and preparations for dinner were in full swing.

  ‘Of course,’ the old lady smiled, the superior temperature of the water clearly a source of personal pride. ‘Are you wanting a bath?’ She put down the knife and wiped her hands on her apron.

  ‘If that’s okay. I’m pretty chilled from the walk.’

  ‘Och, you and your daily constitutionals. You’ve been out there in all weathers and now it’s snowing footballs. You’re hardy, I’ll give you that.’ She walked towards Alex with a fond smile. ‘You help yourself, pet. I’ll go and turn on the immersion in case the lovebirds come back cold too.’ A couple of Norwegian honeymooners were in the green room for the next few nights, bagging Munros by day and creaking the bedsprings by night.

  They walked together into the hall, where swags of red tinsel were draped over the paintings. ‘I’ve put fresh towels on the bed for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Alex smiled, thinking how much she was going to miss living here. It would be Christmas in less than a week and in just a few days she would be home again; it had been two days now since Lochie had left for Edinburgh and she hadn’t heard from him at all; even Sholto hadn’t returned her call. Whatever they were doing, they were as locked in as a papal conclave, no outsiders admitted. It was over. She had lost.

  But it wasn’t just the unfamiliar bitterness of failing at something that wounded her; she was taken aback by the sorrow she felt at the thought of leaving this proud, weather-battered farmhouse with its salmon-pink bath and balding velour sofa with the fringing coming away at one corner, the circular Chinese-style rug, the onyx ashtrays that hadn’t been used for forty years, the small, shallow fire which threw out a drowsy heat. But more than that she was going to miss the Peggies, with their quiet, no-fuss ways and stalwart routines, moving in tandem like figures in a Swiss clock around the strangers who came to stay in their home, around the sheep and cattle that needed moving from the fields and pens according to the winds.

  She climbed the stairs, stopping at the bathroom to start filling the bath, before going into her room and sinking onto the window seat. The distant grey water had a cold hard glaze to it this morning, the wind like a whip on its surface, and the sky was bellied with snow. She dropped her forehead to the glass and watched as fat flakes parachuted down like silent armies. Had she really been out walking in this? It looked foolhardy from this perspective, but it wasn’t like he had any choice in the matter. She could never let a da
y go by without checking in: every day that dawned presented a fresh opportunity for something to go wrong; what would be a nuisance for anyone else could be potentially fatal for him.

  A cold gust made her shiver and she saw that Mrs Peggie had left the window open fractionally to air the room. She got up and closed it, staring out of the window for another moment as the snow whirled in a giddying dance. At least she didn’t need to drive down to the distillery in this; it would be another afternoon learning to play whist with Mrs Peggie for her today. She went to turn back into the bathroom to check the water, when her eyes fell to the pastel painting on the near wall. It wasn’t to her taste but it had charm and a ‘confident’ use of colour and was signed in the bottom right corner. She squinted to read it. ‘Morag Dunoon, 1928’.

  She began pulling her socks off when she stopped – and looked at the painting again.

  What?

  Islay, Thursday 21 December 2017

  ‘Oh Christ, the horoscopes thing again.’

  She looked up in surprise at the wry voice, feeling a physical jolt at the sight of him standing there, as though he’d never been gone, as though it was perfectly fine to leave without a word and remain incommunicado for three days, seemingly never thinking she might be wondering what was happening, or if he’d be coming back, or if she’d ever see him again.

  ‘You’re back.’ Her voice was quiet and she made a concerted effort to keep her arms and feet still, to not betray herself with those non-verbal cues that tripped up everyone else. Because she wasn’t everyone else. She couldn’t be.

  ‘You’re here. I wasn’t sure if you would be.’ He walked into the room, her eyes tracking him.

  ‘Of course,’ she swallowed. ‘I have a job to do.’

  He gave a rueful smile. ‘You still believe you can save me?’

  She forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘I don’t know. Can I? Or has Sholto let the axe fall?’

  ‘He gave it a good go. And I’ll admit, my neck is pretty sore – he landed some of the blows.’