She drew together the curtains of the remaining window and shut out the day.
Chapter TWO
George Inchelvie closed the file on his desk, put the top on his fountain-pen and clipped it into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket. A squall of wind and rain hitting hard against the office window made him turn around in his chair to look out at the row of young silver birches, planted the previous year to give future shelter to the distillery’s new car-park, as they waved their thin branches in submission to the battering that they were receiving.
He glanced at his wrist-watch. It was half past four. He pressed the intercom button on his telephone, and immediately the soft Highland tones of his young secretary lilted through the system.
“Yes, Lord Inchelvie?”
“Mhairi, I’m going to leave the office early today. I have a meeting in Dalnachoil this evening, and I want to get home before the weather gets any worse. Do you have any messages for me?”
“Let me just check, my lord.” He heard the sound of turning pages crackle through the intercom. “No, I can’t see anything.”
“Right. You have confirmed with the Whisky Association that I’ll be attending the conference in Glasgow next week?”
“Yes, and I’ve booked you into Devonshire Place for the Tuesday and Wednesday nights.”
“Well done. If you could make sure that it’s a twin-bedded room, just in case Lady Inchelvie wants to come down to Glasgow with me.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Thank you very much, Mhairi. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, my lord. Make sure you drive carefully, now.”
“I will do, Mhairi,” he said, smiling to himself at the young girl’s motherly concern. He clicked off the intercom and leaned over to pick up the walking-stick that lay at the side of his desk. He rose from his chair, supporting himself both on the stick and on the edge of the desk, and stood for a minute, anticipating the sharp pain that would shoot down his left leg once he started walking.
He had never given much thought to the wound he had received in Holland during the war, even though at the time the bullet had only been two inches off shattering his spine, but now the incessant cold and wet weather, coupled with his advancing years, seemed to aggravate it more than ever before.
He swung through ninety degrees on his heels so that he was in line with the coat-stand, then, with the fingers of his free hand pressed deep into the base of his back, he took a step forward. It was like a hot knife jabbing into his left side, but he kept moving forward, knowing that it would ease off steadily after each step. He made it to the coat-stand, took down the old tweed overcoat and shrugged it onto his shoulders, and passing the stick from one hand to the other to maintain his balance, he placed the battered homburg on his head and opened the door of his office.
Making his way slowly through the open-plan trading hall of Glendurnich Distilleries Ltd., he headed towards the large glass double doors at the far end which led out into the reception area. He did not like the new layout of Glendurnich’s offices but, even as chairman, he had felt that any criticism might be taken as being stuffy and nostalgic. During his more active days with the company, little had changed in the interior of the building since his great-great-grandfather Alasdair Corstorphine had produced the first bottle of Glendurnich Malt Whisky in 1852. Then it had been a rabbit-warren of small oak-panelled offices linked by narrow passages providing direct access to the distillery itself, and therefore constantly bustling with management, secretaries and distillery workers. George had always felt that, by design or default, it was this format that had created the autonomous structure on which the company had built its history of success, one which had been precipitated in 1882 through a chance sampling of Glendurnich’s Finest Malt by the Prince of Wales in one of the many London clubs that he frequented. Within a week, the whisky’s name had been brought to the attention of the discerning populace through the gossip columnists of every national newspaper. The future king, it was reported, had taken such a liking to Glendurnich’s product that “now he feels that there is a worthwhile reason to visit his mother at Balmoral on a regular basis.”
By the end of 1889, Glendurnich had doubled its production to 66,000 gallons a year, and in the following year the company was granted a Royal Warrant as purveyors of Scotch Whisky to the Royal Household. Then in 1906, Alasdair’s son, Ralph Corstorphine, who found time to be both a Member of Parliament and chairman of Glendurnich, was granted an Hereditary Peerage for services both to government and to industry, choosing the name of Inchelvie after the vast rambling house that he had had built for himself on the moorland estate near Grantown-on-Spey.
Yet these accolades were seen as being achievements of the distillery as a whole rather than those of any individual, and the Corstorphine family never lost sight of that. The hierarchy in the company was built around the workers’ knowledge of whisky distilling rather than on the basis of managerial status. One of George’s abiding memories was that of his father, himself chairman of the company at the time, leaning against a radiator in one of the passages gleaning information on a point of whisky production from the two young McLachlan brothers, the distillery’s stillman and mashman; they would be on the way to the workers’ canteen, he on the way to a meeting.
But now the corridors, the individual offices, and the history had been torn out of the building on the recommendations of a London-based architect. George had been shown the drawings by David before the work was commissioned, and the architect, in his accompanying letter, had stated that his design would create “a workplace in harmony with the requirements of modern technology, where staff could be flexible in utilizing the integrated computer system which in turn would provide an informational network that would optimize Total Quality Management and gear Glendurnich to attain new targets in the next millennium.”
George had thought at the time that the letter and the plans were balderdash. What was more, there had been no provision in the design to allow access by distillery workers to the new building, they having a canteen built nearer to their place of work, so that the turnaround time between shifts could be cut down.
George smiled to himself. Maybe it was a relief to the workers that they didn’t have to run the risk of meeting the chairman and losing half their break-time in conversation with him. At any rate, having become involved once more with Glendurnich over the past six months, he had had to admit to himself that the new building, although impersonal, created a fresh and airy efficiency that had been lacking in the old corridors and stuffy offices. More importantly, it was able to accommodate those who held the twenty or so much-valued jobs that had been created by the continued expansion of Glendurnich.
But that didn’t mean he had to like it. He walked at his own deliberate pace through the clusters of buzzing work-stations, past accounts, marketing, distribution, aware that his shambling figure must seem a total anachronism to those working on the hi-tech immediacy of the company’s new business systems. Nevertheless, young faces looked up from their desks or turned from their computer screens, offering a polite “Good afternoon, Lord Inchelvie” as he ambled slowly past. He reciprocated the greeting to each with a smile and a nod, adding their first names when he could remember them.
George had made it three quarters of the way up the hall when a young man seated at the desk nearest the glass doors jumped up and held one open for him. He waited there for a full fifteen seconds, a smile beaming across his face, until George finally reached him. “There you are, my lord,” he said.
“Thank you very much, ah”—George looked at him—“I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Archie McLachlan, my lord.”
George raised his eyebrows in surprise. “My word, don’t tell me you’re a relation of the McLachlan brothers?”
“Aye, I am that. Gregor McLachlan was my grandfather.”
“How extraordinary. I was just thinking about your grandfather and great-uncle wh
en I came out of my office. They were both quite legendary in this distillery, you know.”
The young man’s eyes lit up with pride. “I was always led to believe that, my lord.”
“Well, it’s wonderful to know the family connection still continues.” George glanced at the young man’s desk. “You’re in distribution, aren’t you?”
“At the minute. I’m on a year’s training scheme. I’ve done nine months in the distillery, and now I’m in the office for the remaining period.”
“Jolly good, Archie.” George put his hand out to the young man. “Let’s keep more than one family tradition going here, shall we?”
Archie dived his own hand into the outstretched palm of the old man and shook it once as if sealing a deal. “I’d certainly like to think that, my lord.”
George gave the young boy a smiling wink and walked through the door into the reception area. This was the one part of the building that the architect had not been allowed to alter. Four ancient brown leather sofas sat snugly against the panelled walls hung with old sepia photographs of the distillery from the turn of the century. An old, ornate grandfather clock ticked soothingly away between two glass-fronted mahogany cabinets, displaying bottles of Glendurnich specially packaged to mark historic occasions, amongst them the Victory Malts of 1918 and 1945 and the Coronation Malts dating back to 1903. Alongside the bottles stood photographs: a Royal visit; a presentation at a golf tournament; a huge racing yacht keeling at a gravity-defying angle, its ballooning spinnaker bearing the corporate livery of Glendurnich; and flanking the displays were two large silver trophies, spoils won by the distillery’s own shinty team.
But probably the most important and invaluable asset of all was Margaret, the receptionist. There had never been any need for security at Glendurnich while she had been guarding the front door. A large and formidable lady, George had always felt that Margaret spoke to humankind as if it were, in its entirety, profoundly deaf.
She had acquired her first job in the typing pool forty years previously with a little help from her father, the distillery’s head brewer. Then, five years later, she had been offered the position of receptionist, and thereafter it had been her domain, holding court behind her desk, one eye on the telephone exchange and the other on the front door. Her retirement had been mooted once at a board meeting, but it had been passed over as quickly as any resolution in the history of the company. Since then, it was widely considered that her departure would bear an ill omen for Glendurnich, similar to the ravens leaving the Tower of London. She also happened to be the prime reason why no changes had been allowed to be made to the reception area.
She looked up from her desk as George came through the glass door. “Och, is this you on your way home, then?”
“Yes, Margaret, I have a meeting in Dalnachoil tonight. I thought I’d leave a little earlier, what with the weather being so bad.”
Margaret pushed her large frame from her chair and went around behind it to retrieve something from the floor, her enormous tartan posterior momentarily being the only part of her visible over the top of the desk. “Now if you’ll just hold on a minute,” her voice strained from behind the desk.
She re-emerged, blowing slightly from the exertion of her effort, carrying a large beige mackintosh and a multi-coloured golfing umbrella. “I’ll just see you out to your car. We canna have you getting soaked to the skin.”
“Now, Margaret, that’s very kind of you, but really quite unnecessary—” George was unable to finish, his voice drowned by Margaret’s swift rebuff.
“I’ll not hear another word, my lord. Let me just get my coat on, and we’ll brave the elements together, shall we?”
Margaret placed the umbrella on her desk and began clambering into her mackintosh. “And tell me,” she asked in an almost normal pitch of voice, “how is Mr. David keeping?”
“He’s all right, Margaret. He still has a few things to get straightened out, but I’m sure he’ll be back at work quite soon.”
“Well, I hope he will, my lord, because we all certainly miss having him around.” She fastened the buttons of the coat and pulled the belt closed around her ample front. “If you could just say that I was asking after him.”
“Of course I will. Thank you.”
They were almost at the revolving door when the telephone rang on Margaret’s desk. She hurried back, picked up the receiver and shouted into it. “Hullo, reception … yes, hullo, Mr. Caple … No, Lord Inchelvie is still here, but he’s on his way home, he has a meeting tonight … very good, I’ll ask him … very good, Mr. Caple.” She put down the receiver and turned to George. “Mr. Caple wonders if you could just spare him a few moments. He says he’ll be along right away.”
George smiled. “That’s what happens when one tries to sneak away early. Always found out. Thanks anyway, Margaret. I think you should just take your coat off again. I know how long Mr. Caple’s ‘few moments’ are.”
As Margaret went back behind the reception desk, the glass doors leading from the trading hall opened and Duncan Caple appeared. A tall, angular young man in his late thirties, he looked more like an accountant than the driven, dynamic business man he was. It was on these qualities that he had built his reputation, and the reason why David, a year before, had been instrumental in head-hunting him from a Jerez-based sherry company to take on the managing directorship of Glendurnich. However, even though George acknowledged him as being a man of immense capability in business, he also saw him lacking both in personality and social charm.
“George, old fellow, how kind of you to wait,” Duncan said, walking towards him. George looked hard at the young man, already rankled by his informality and the way in which he always spoke to him in a slow and condescending manner, as if he himself were in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.
Duncan reached him and held out his hand, a gesture that George felt was unnecessary as he had already seen him on three separate occasions that day. Nevertheless, he grasped the proffered hand and squeezed it as tight as he could to show Duncan that his befuddled brain was still capable of sending messages to the muscles in his arm.
“I don’t want to be too long, Duncan. I’ve got to go to a meeting tonight.”
“That’s fine by me. I won’t keep you. Maybe if we could just slip into the boardroom for a moment.” He walked over to a door that led off the reception area, opened it and stood aside with his arm outstretched to usher George in before him. He turned to Margaret. “Hold all calls, please, until I’m finished with Lord Inchelvie.”
* * *
Out of sheer devilment, George thought that he would assert his own constitutional rank over the proceedings from the outset. He walked straight over to the large ornate chair at the head of the boardroom table, hooked his stick on its back, and eased himself down between its two leathered arms, pulling the puckered flaps of his overcoat from beneath him and wrapping them around his body.
“Have a seat, Duncan,” he said, pointing to the chair next to him.
Duncan sat down, then slid his back down the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. He linked his hands behind his head and smiled, the informality of his actions a wordless snub to George’s own small stand for conformity.
“How’s David?” he asked abruptly.
George eyed him, wondering whether there was an ulterior motive for leading off with the question or whether it had come out of genuine concern.
He answered slowly. “Well enough. He still has a great deal to sort out at home, what with Rachel’s estate and everything, but he’s getting there.”
Duncan puffed out his cheeks. “Good … good,” he said, nodding his head slowly. “I’m glad to hear that.”
He suddenly untwined his limbs and pulled his seat forward, leaning his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his hands. “Listen, George, we have a problem, and I can’t really see a way of getting around it … well, the way things stand at the minute.”
&
nbsp; George was momentarily taken aback by Duncan’s unexpected candour. “If I can be of some help…”
“Well, I think you can, George.” He looked up. “You see, I think we should change our distributor in the States.”
George shifted in his chair and looked hard at the young man. “What? You want to change from Lacey’s? Why would you want to do that? They’ve been our agents for the past fifty years. I mean, Jim Lacey’s a great friend of mine.”
Duncan held up his hands, as if to stem the flow of words. “Maybe so, George, maybe so, but the fact is that over the past year, Lacey’s have been slipping further and further behind their projected sales targets for Glendurnich. The latest Morgan-Graz MR report came in last week, and it showed quite blatantly that our market loss in the States corresponds directly with the rise in sales of Glenlivet and Glenfiddich. We simply can’t afford to lose market share in this way.”
George was silent for a moment, rubbing the side of his craggy face with his hand and staring towards the far end of the boardroom table. “You’ll have to hold a board meeting. You can’t make that kind of decision by yourself.”
“I know, George; I’m calling one for the day after tomorrow. I have to take action on this straight away. I want a new distributor appointed by the end of this month.”
“My God, that’s the week after next!”
“I realize that, but it’s urgent, and that … well … that is the reason I asked after David.”
“What do you mean?” George asked.
“Well”—Duncan leaned back in his chair again—“I want David back at work as soon as possible.”
George exploded. “Out of the question!” he said vehemently. “I mean, we can easily handle this ourselves, and David has more than enough on his plate at the minute. Anyway, you said yourself that he could take as long as he needed.”
An Ocean Apart Page 3