He pulled the Audi into the car-park and picked a space as close as possible to the main reception door. He turned off the ignition key, silencing both the engine and the radio simultaneously and, unclipping his seat-belt, he opened the door and got out. For a moment, he stood looking over towards the offices and found himself almost immediately stretching his arms high above his head to counteract an almost puerile sense of nervousness. He shook his head at this idiocy and walked around to the other side of the car where his father was already pushing himself to his feet with the aid of his stick. Putting a hand under his tweedy armpit, David gently heaved him upright, and the old man stood for a minute preparing himself for the first step.
He looked at David. “Ready?”
David smiled and nodded.
“Right. Well, let’s make an entrance.”
Margaret looked up from her reception desk as the revolving door swung round, and a huge grin spread across her face as she saw David follow in after his father. “Oh michty, michty me!” she said, pushing up her stout frame from the chair. “It’s yourself, Mr. David!”
She bustled over towards them and grasped hold of David’s hand even before he had time to offer it. “Och, it’s wonderful, wonderful to see you.” She looked him up and down, still clutching his hand. “My, I have to say that you’re looking a wee bit on the thin side,” she said, and then, after a short pause for reflection, “but I dare say it makes you look as handsome as ever!” She threw back her head and shrieked out a laugh that could no doubt be heard throughout the building.
“Jolly good, Margaret, jolly good,” George cut in, “but David is only here for a short period today.”
“Of course, of course,” Margaret said quietly, suddenly embarrassed by her own over-ebullience. “I quite understand. But nevertheless, it’s a pleasure to see you looking so fit and well, Mr. David.”
David smiled at her and nodded. “Thanks, Margaret.”
“Did Mr. Caple say at what time he would like to meet this morning?” George asked.
“Now he did that.” She trotted over to her desk and picked up her spectacles and a piece of paper. She shook open the legs and placed the spectacles squint on her nose. “Right,” she said slowly, holding the piece of paper out in front of her, “it says here could you all meet at ten o’clock in the boardroom.”
“That’s fine, Margaret. Many thanks. Just let him know that we’ll be there.” He took hold of David’s arm and, turning him away from Margaret, glanced over at the grandfather clock.
“Look, it’s twenty past nine now. I suggest you make yourself scarce until then, otherwise you’ll only get press-ganged into doing some work. Go and have a walk around the distillery and we’ll meet again in the boardroom at ten.”
David smiled. “Right. Good idea.”
Giving his son a gentle nudge in the back, George then stood watching as David hurried his way out through the revolving doors, almost as if he couldn’t wait to be free of the building.
* * *
Arriving in his office, George was somewhat taken aback to find Robert McLeod there, standing with his hands clasped behind his back and looking out of the window. He swung round as George entered the room.
“Ah, George,” he said in his extruded Edinburgh voice. “I hope you don’t mind me waiting for you here. Mhairi told me that you had half an hour free just now, and I was really wanting to see you quite urgently.”
George made his way over to the coat-stand. “Well, all right, Robert,” he said, shrugging off his overcoat. “If you could just give me a second while I get myself organized.”
As he hung his coat on the stand, he glanced out of the side of his eye at the neat, diminutive figure of Glendurnich’s financial director and found himself smirking in mirth at David’s desperate suggestion of the previous night that this man should undertake the United States trip. He walked over to his desk and sat down heavily in his chair.
“Ever been to the United States, Robert?” he asked, dropping his walking-stick to the floor beside him.
“No, I can’t say I have.”
“Didn’t think so.” Smiling broadly, George opened the top drawer of his desk, took out a pad of paper and unclipped his pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. Robert meanwhile had pulled across a chair from the far wall and placed it close to the other side of his chairman’s desk, then, with a deft flick at each well-honed trouser crease, he sat himself down.
“Come to think of it, though,” he said, a look of studied recollection on his face, “my wife and I nearly did take the two girls to Disneyland—I think when they were about fourteen and fifteen.” He looked pensively over George’s head and brushed minutely with his forefinger at the centre of his neatly clipped moustache, as if affectionately stroking a mouse. “That must have been about ten years ago. I think I cancelled the holiday because the exchange rate suddenly dropped.” He came out of his remembrances and looked back at George. “Anyway, we much prefer the south-west of England for our holidays. There are so many wonderful golf courses down there.”
“I’m sure there are,” George said, glancing across at this pedantic little man who could be nothing but an accountant, so much so that he was quite happy to cancel plans to take his family on the holiday of a lifetime simply because the dealings of the international money markets meant that he would forfeit a few measly cents to his own precious pound.
Nevertheless, Robert was an excellent financial director. Having joined Glendurnich from a small firm of accountants in Edinburgh twenty years previously, he had handled the company’s accounts with shrewdness and meticulous care ever since. Even so, he was a stickler for punctuality and time-keeping, never erring from his regular hours and always being the first away from the office exactly on the dot of five-thirty in the afternoon—which meant, in the summer at any rate, he would be heading straight for the golf course.
Yet for some time now, George had had a suspicion that Robert’s interest in the company had been waning and he put it down to the fact that Robert may have had his nose put out of joint by Duncan Caple’s own considerable financial expertise. Nevertheless, he felt it worthwhile to make a note on his jotter to remind himself to ask Robert at the end of their meeting about Duncan’s concern over Glendurnich’s United States sales figures.
“Well, Robert, what did you want to see me for?” he asked, putting his pen down and starting to glance through some of the morning’s letters that Mhairi had marked for his attention.
Robert sat back in his chair and coughed once into his clenched hand to clear his throat. “Well, George, it’s just that I think the time is right for me to take early retirement.”
“What?” George looked straight up at him, a surprised look on his face. “For what reason?”
Robert crossed his legs and flicked away some specks of dust from his trousers with the back of his hand. “Because,” he began slowly, “I think that I’m getting a little bit old for the job. I am very aware that the board of directors is now considerably younger than myself, and I am also beginning to find the whisky industry of today far too cutthroat.”
George kept looking at him, waiting for him to continue. “Anything else?”
“Well, er, actually yes.” He hesitated for a moment. “You see, I’ve been offered the job of club secretary at Drumshiel Golf Club, and I feel that it’s such a wonderful opportunity that I just don’t want to turn it down.”
George sat back in his chair and swung it round to look out the window. For a moment he said nothing. “When are you thinking of leaving?” he eventually asked, his voice sounding thin.
“In a month’s time,” Robert replied jauntily, relieved that he had managed to break the news without receiving instant rebuke or mutterings about repercussions to the company. “That should give me enough time to get last year’s accounts finalized. The new incumbent will then be able to start afresh without having to sort out any of my idiosyncrasies.”
George continued to gaze distant
ly out the window, then, closing his eyes, he began to shake his head almost imperceptibly from side to side as a feeling of anger began to rumble away within his mind. Thanks, Robert, he thought to himself, this is exactly what I need right now! Not only do I have Duncan breathing down the back of my neck with regards to David’s future with the company, but I also have David to deal with. He’s not in any fit state to handle himself at present, let alone this American trip, and now you come traipsing into my office and tell me that we have to find a new financial director. So you think it’s time you bloody retired, do you? Well, bully for you, because I’m meant to have been retired for the past ten years, but here I am back again having to sort out everybody’s damned problems.
Robert watched him closely as he turned back from the window, noticing that the usual ruddiness had drained from George’s face, suddenly making him look extremely old. Concerned, he leaned forward in his chair and was about to ask the old man if he was feeling quite well when George took a deep breath and slapped the arms of his chair purposefully.
“Well, I suppose we’d better start looking for a replacement for you, Robert,” he said in one expulsion of air. “You’ll be a hard act to follow, you know.”
“Thanks for saying so, George,” Robert said, sitting back again, “but I really don’t think it will be that difficult. I believe Duncan has already got his eye on the present financial director of the malting company in Elgin.”
“Has he, by heck!” George barked out. “How long has he known of your plans?”
“I told him last week,” Robert answered meekly, somewhat taken aback by the vehemence of George’s retort. “He was very sad that I had decided to go, but felt that it was a good move for me.”
Resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, George linked his hands together and chewed pensively at the side of his mouth. “What’s his constitutional remit?” he asked abruptly.
“What do you mean, George?”
George glowered at Robert across the desk and repeated the question. “Is Duncan allowed to hire and fire employees of Glendurnich Distilleries Limited without consultation with the board?”
Robert nodded slowly. “Yes, I believe that that was one of the conditions to which we agreed when he joined the company.”
George rested his elbows on the desk and began rubbing at his forehead with his fingers, suddenly realizing that not only could Duncan appoint whom he liked as financial director, but also that if this remit was taken to its extremes, it could have implications on his son’s own future on the board of directors.
“God, why the hell did we agree to that?”
“I think,” Robert replied timidly, aware that George was becoming quite irascible, “that we were all very keen to get Duncan as managing director.”
George sat back in his chair. “Yes, I suppose so.” He paused for a moment, looking back out of the window. “Robert, he didn’t … erm … Duncan didn’t ask you to leave, did he?”
Robert shook his head briskly. “Oh, no! Nothing like that. It really was all my idea. Heavens, no! I don’t think even Duncan would have the nerve to do that!”
George smiled across at him. “I’m sure not, Robert. I’m sorry I had to ask you that, but I just wanted to make sure that things weren’t going on behind my back.”
Robert stood up, taking George’s climbdown as an opportune point at which to end their meeting, and replaced his chair against the wall of the office. “No, not at all, George. Duncan can be a little, well, self-centred sometimes, but he’s a good business man, and looking at the first draft of last year’s accounts, I would say he’s doing well for the company.”
George looked across at him and nodded. “I’m sure, Robert … and thanks, I value your opinion.”
“I’m happy, as always, to give it, George, and now if you’ll excuse me, I must get on with those accounts.” He grinned nervously at George. “Now that time is of the essence, so to speak.”
“Of course, and Robert, thank you for all you have done for the company over the years. You’ve been a real stalwart.”
With a fleeting smile, Robert turned briskly on his heel and left the room. For a moment, George stared at the closed door, then pressed the intercom button for his secretary.
Ten seconds later there were two small knocks on the door. Without waiting for a bidding, Mhairi entered the room, carrying a notepad and pen in her hand. The young secretary came over to George’s desk and stood in front of him. He looked up at her and smiled.
“Right, Mhairi. I wonder if you could confirm with Devonshire Place that both Lady Inchelvie and I will be staying on Tuesday night?”
Mhairi began to scribble on her notepad. “I take it that Lady Inchelvie won’t be going to the conference?”
George shook his head. “No, no, she won’t. She’s really just taking the opportunity of the lift so that she can go on to Perth to visit the grandchildren at their school.”
“Very good,” Mhairi said, making a final full stop on her notepad. “Is that it, my lord?”
“Not quite. Could you telephone British Airways and book a return flight from Glasgow to New York for Tuesday morning?”
“This coming Tuesday morning, my lord?”
“That’s right.” He paused for a moment. “And I think you should make the ticket open-ended, Mhairi.”
She waited, her pencil poised above the notepad. When George didn’t continue, she asked, “And whose name should be on the ticket?”
George lifted his hand in apology. “Ah yes, sorry about that. It’s for Mr. David.”
Mhairi nodded and scribbled on the notepad.
“That’s it, Mhairi. I’d be grateful if you could confirm all that.”
“Certainly, my lord.” She turned and walked briskly to the door. As she left the room, George swung his chair round to face the window and, picking up his pen, he began to turn it top to base, over and over, each time bringing it down harder on the surface of his desk. After a moment, he took the top off the pen and, with two heavy strokes, scored out his memorandum for Robert. He threw the pen on the desk and sat back in his chair, an exhausted expression on his face.
“I hope you’re not up to anything, Duncan my boy,” he murmured under his breath, “I just hope you’re not up to anything.”
* * *
Pushing open the door of the still-house, David was immediately met with the hot, heady smell of whisky distillation in progress. He climbed the four well-worn stone steps and walked out onto the steel-meshed floor that ran the full length of the high building, fifteen feet above the base of the still-pans. The still-house hissed like a pressure cooker, drowning out the clanging resonance of his footsteps on the grid flooring as he walked to the far end of the room past the four huge highly polished copper stills. He climbed the metal staircase and made his way along the narrow gantry that ran level with the highest point of the stills. Half-way along, he stopped outside a door newly painted in bright green and stencilled in white with the word CANTEEN. He hesitated a moment before pushing it open and entering.
Despite the overpowering smell of cigarette smoke, the workers’ new canteen was bright and airy, having been converted from an old sky-lighted sack-loft when the old canteen was swallowed up in the refurbishment works. At one end, a loading door had been knocked out and replaced with a full-length window, so that from where he stood, David could see all the way down to the river below. At the other end, a modern Formica unit housed a stainless-steel sink, a refrigerator, and a microwave oven, while a brand-new Cona coffeemaker sat, still boxed, on the worktop, a marked indication that the work-force preferred their own vacuum flasks of hot sweet tea. The whole place might have resembled a smart well-appointed kitchen had it not been for the fact that the men, in illogical but pointed rebellion against their eviction from the old canteen, had voted to bring their furniture with them. The centre of the room, therefore, was strewn with an ill assortment of rickety, broken-backed chairs, gathered haphazardly around a long woo
den table, its surface stained with mug rings and the dark brown, pitted lesions of cigarette burns. Above this was hung the wall’s only adornment—a large calendar still turned to the month of March, which showed a blonde, well-developed young girl pretending to undo the wheel-nut of a lorry without the protection of a single stitch of clothing.
Around the table sat three men, all dressed in T-shirts and coveralls, drinking steaming mugs of tea and reading tabloid newspapers that were spread out in front of them. They looked across to where David stood and rose slowly to their feet, mumbling indiscernible greetings in his direction while casting embarrassed and uneasy glances both at each other and at the clock above the sink.
“Don’t get up, please!” David said, also feeling embarrassed at their reaction to his entry. He looked across at one of the men. “How are you, Dougie?”
Pulling a fully laden ashtray towards him on the table, Dougie Masson stubbed out the butt of a self-rolled cigarette and walked over to David, wiping his hands on the back of his dungarees. He was as wide as he was tall, a little terrier of a man in his early fifties who had the sides of his head shaved down to a grey stubble to lessen the contrast with its polished dome. For twenty-five years, he had served in the army, at first with the Seaforths and then finishing off a proud and unblemished career as a colour sergeant in Queen’s Own Highlanders in the same platoon as David. During that time, David, as a young and very green second lieutenant, had come to trust and rely on the experienced and much-respected little man, so much so that when they eventually demobbed together, he had felt strangely honoured when Dougie asked him if he might be able to pull a few strings with his father to get him a job in the distillery. Within a month, he was taken on as a trainee still-house operator, and since then their relationship had developed, not into a close friendship, but into an alliance built both on mutual respect and their ability to talk straight with each other.
Dougie grasped David’s hand in a vice-like grip. “Good tae see ye back, Mr. David,” he said in a voice that was as deep and as gruff as a gravel-pit. “Are you keeping yourself well?”
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