An Ocean Apart (11 page)

“Jesus, I'm not ready for this,” he said quietly to himself.

He turned back to the wardrobe and took out a pair of fawn chinos and a navy-blue double-breasted blazer as a compromise both to conformity and to his feelings. He put on the trousers, along with a blue open-necked shirt and cashmere jersey, and pulled on a pair of socks before slipping his feet into a pair of dark brown boating shoes. Then, with one last huge intake of air, he strode over to the door, threw it open and walked out onto the landing.

They left the house at eight-thirty, David behind the wheel of the Audi Estate, with his father sitting hunched in his tweed overcoat next to him. Although it was David's own company car, his father had been making use of it while David himself had been working at home, and being more used to driving the garden tractor and on occasion his mother's small Renault, he found himself spinning the wheels on the gravel as he took off, being unused to the power of the big fuel-injected engine.

George looked across at him. “How are you feeling this morning?”

David nodded briefly. “Okay.”

His father reached over and gave him a hard but reassuring smack on the leg. “You'll be fine, my boy. Don't worry.”

The old man pressed the on/off switch of the radio, having become accustomed to listening to it on his way to work each morning, and thinking it better for David's sake that there be some form of diversion from conversation during their journey. The news programme
Good Morning, Scotland
blared from the speakers, and he quickly adjusted the volume and settled back to listen to the twangy tones of a sports correspondent discussing strategy with the manager of Glasgow Rangers Football Club.

As soon as David turned out through the gates of Inchelvie and onto the main road towards Dalnachoil, the clouds broke for the first time in about a month, allowing a fleeting splash of pale blue to push weakly through from above, followed almost immediately by a meagre ray of sunshine which glinted briefly on the windscreen of the car. By the time the Audi had reached the top of the main street of Dalnachoil, the streaks of blue had lengthened and the sun began to dart in and out through the clouds, bursting forth its unfettered light onto the houses of the village and casting swift-moving fluffy shadows onto the sides of the surrounding hills. As they drove along the main street, George raised his hand continuously to wave at acquaintances on the pavement, and David glanced in the rear-view mirror at the querying faces that followed the departure of the car, the villagers being unaccustomed of late to seeing both himself and his father driving off together.

Once out of Dalnachoil's speed limit, David felt a light unexpected surge of excitement slip its way through the barricades of dullness in his mind, almost as if he was at last managing to make a break from the confines of his small, sad world. He had never ventured farther than the village in the past month, and his visits there had been brief and only out of unavoidable necessity, always fearing that he might be caught up in understanding and comforting conversations with the locals. But now, driving out in his own car along the familiar road, he sensed almost a feeling of well-being as they wound their way southwards through the glen, flanked on either side by green sunlit fields which stretched away to clash against the brown blanket of heather moorland that rolled down from the hills above. He glanced over at his father, and for the first time in a long while was able to feel a sudden burst of intense love for the old man who sat with his eyes closed, his hand cupped around his ear to help him pick up the low tones of the radio. David reached forward to turn up the volume, and his father looked round and smiled.

“Thanks—that's a bit better,” he said, dropping his hand to his lap. “Forgot to put in my bloody hearing-aid this morning.”

At the bottom of the glen, David edged out at the T-junction, then pulled away in the direction of Aberlour, pushing the car hard so that he could feel the power of the engine press his back into the seat. The narrow road followed the contours of the Spey River, running swollen and brown after the spring rains. David took it fast but warily, being forced to slow from time to time to avoid hitting a variety of obstacles that he met on his way: first an ageing Massey-Ferguson tractor, which came hammering up the road towards him, black smoke belching from its punctured exhaust-pipe, while a large round bale of hay, bouncing wildly on its front loader, successfully impeded its driver's vision of the road ahead; next two blackface ewes that were lying in the middle of the road, soaking up the warmth from the tarmac, their heads thrown back as they cudded, like a couple of haughty old ladies complaining disdainfully to each other about this unscheduled disturbance to their peace; and finally a flashy new four-wheel-drive vehicle parked haphazardly at the side of the road, the empty fishing-rod holder on its roof indicating that its driver was somewhere down on the banks of the river, plying its pools and eddies for salmon.

Two miles before Aberlour, David turned right and crossed a high iron-latticed bridge that spanned the river, then immediately swung left past the large brown sign which bore the name
GLENDURNICH DISTILLERIES LTD
in gold lettering. The road had at one time twisted down the hill to the riverside in a series of hairpin bends, but had had to be re-routed to allow easier access for the long and unwieldly triple-axled lorries that delivered bulk malt from the maltings at Inverness and took off the casks of mature whisky to the bottling plant near Glasgow. Now it descended in one huge sweep, yet so designed to still leave the distillery completely hidden behind the screen of densely planted fir-trees, save for the two pagoda-style chimneys, the characteristic emblem of all Scotch malt distilleries, that sat over the old kiln-house and jutted their arrowhead-shaped tips above the cover.

Rounding the bend, he left the shelter of the trees and at once the distillery came into view below him. Set in a fifteen-acre site, it stretched out on a plateau twenty feet above the river, bounded by a series of tarmacked roads which, in turn, were bordered by a wide expanse of newly mown banks and lawns interspersed with bright well-kept flower-beds. The road dropped down the incline, so that David began at the same level as the dark grey metal roofs of the four identical maturation warehouses before descending to the plateau and driving alongside the original stone-built still-house and mash-house with their small white irregular windows, and then on past the malt silos to the new office block at the far end of the complex.

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.”