Milkshake

by Matt Hammond

  His father stood aside revealing his workbench conspicuously covered by one of his mother’s best white linen tablecloths. Set on the cloth were a number of small whisky glasses and a decanter of liquid. Patrick smiled as he recalled its colour - cat sick brown his mother would have called it. “This, my son, is going to make us rich. Mr Templeton here is from one of the big distilleries and he’s made me an offer on the rights to make this stuff on a commercial basis.”

  “What is it?” Patrick asked innocently.

  “This my boy, is a mixture of the finest Irish poteen, the best cream in County Cork and a few secret ingredients which I shall divulge in full to Mr Templeton on satisfactory conclusion of our negotiations. Now back to bed with you before you catch your death.”

  “Can I try some?”

  Paddy took a perceptible step back in mock horror, more for the benefit of his wife and their guest. He was secretly quite proud his ten year old son was showing such a keen interest in alcoholic beverages. Young Patrick had no idea what it was.

  “Sure you can, son.”

  Patrick took the freshly filled glass from his father, barely half a mouthful even for a small boy. He held it up briefly to inspect it, as he had seen his father do in the past, and knocked it back in one go.

  In hindsight, the vaporous aroma should have warned him a split second before his tongue caught first the smoothness of chocolate and cream, instantly followed by the spirit, burning all the way down his throat and into his stomach. He wretched and, holding the glass out for his father, ran out the barn, across the yard, through the door and into the kitchen where he clasped his lips around the cool metal of the cold water tap and gulped until the heat in his mouth receded and the awful taste had gone.

  He blocked that evening from his mind until a few months later when one Saturday afternoon a brand new Range Rover pulled up outside the house. Patrick came running out to greet the stranger.

  He’d never seen such a big car. He’d never seen a new car. It was pristine, except for the tyres already encased in mud from the mile long drive up the track from the road. It reminded him of Mr Templeton; immaculate except for the shoes. Then there was the colour. His dad called it tan. But it was the same cat sick colour of the drink he had sold the rights to in order to purchase the new vehicle.

  Patrick had long forgotten this, until he met up with a group of student friends one Friday evening fifteen years later at a bar in the centre of Dunedin where he was in the first year of his chemical engineering degree at Otago University. Patrick had been fancying one of them, a beautiful young Maori student, for some time. As the evening wore on, growing louder and more alcohol-fuelled, he finally plucked up the courage to strike up a conversation with her:

  “Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you my life story.” Anika had purred as she swivelled her bar stool and ordered the same again. Patrick never registered what the barman was pouring, so entranced was he by the deep black shine of her hair as it cascaded down her back. She spun back round to face him: “Cheers, Bro’.”

  As she raised her glass towards him, Patrick’s keen nose caught the unmistakeable scent of childhood that night in the barn as he’d raised a glass of his father’s concoction to his own lips. He instinctively pulled back, recoiling from the memory, and focussed on the contents of her glass. The familiar cat sick brown colour, the aroma, was unique. Surely it couldn’t be?

  “Could I …. do you mind if I just …. ?” He gently prised the small glass from Anika’s hand, brought it to his own lips and took the smallest of sips. His palate, now more developed than when he was ten, transmitted the signals to his brain in an instant - smooth, creamy, a hint of chocolate, then the pleasantly warm burn as the liquid slid downwards.

  For a moment he was lost in the memory, trying to come to terms with the implications of what his father had achieved. Why had he never told him? Or perhaps he had told him as a ten year old that afternoon, sitting on his father’s lap, behind the wheel of the Range Rover, as Dad proudly pointed out its finer features in the same way the salesman had shown him.

  It was unmistakeable. It was the drink his father had invented twenty years before.

  The basic recipe had been sold to a distillery which had been taken over by the biggest and most famous brewery in Ireland. In silence, Patrick scanned the shelf behind the bar, looking where the barman had placed the bottle. There it was.

  He’d seen full page advertisements in glossy magazines, watched television commercials at Christmas for this drink. It was one of the most famous, most recognised drinks brands in the world, and his dad had invented it in his barn. It was an unlikely chat up line. Instead, he handed the glass back to Anika. “Sorry about that, I just had to have a sip. I tried it once, years ago and I just wanted to see if it was still as bad as I remembered it.”

  The rights to the drink not only paid for a new family car. Patrick remembered a new kitchen for his mother and a holiday in Spain. As he attempted to strike up a meaningful conversation with the woman he had already decided would one day become the next Mrs O’Sullivan, he realised the royalties also paid for the state of the art research laboratory his father had insisted on constructing, in place of his ramshackle barn.

  Patrick struggled to hear what Anika was saying through the confusion of six pints of stout and the sudden recall of old memories being put into context for the first time.

  Paddy was now free to indulge in a small project he had been dabbling in, on and off, for a number of years. He believed milk from the domestic cow contained within its chemical structure a potential source of fuel, not just for the human body but also for machines. Now, in 1974, with the world price of crude oil poised to rise dramatically, Paddy had the opportunity and financial freedom to fully investigate his theory.

  He had a laboratory constructed and could afford to employ a small team of expert and enthusiastic staff. Paddy handed over all the notes and schematics compiled from the previous fifteen years of night-time barn research.

  He’d got to the point of identifying the correct temperature which would allow the raw whey to react with yeast and split the lactose into its two sugar components - galactose and glucose. He’d successfully fermented these sugars and developed a basic process for removing the yeast and distilling the remaining liquid into a crude ethanol. But the work had been time-consuming, taking hundreds of litres of whey and weeks at a time to produce the tiniest quantity of ethanol.

  Paddy’s newly-formed team was able to speed up the process. With full time application to the task, they were soon routinely producing up to a litre of ethanol a day, a huge leap compared to his amateur efforts so far.

  Soon the work of the laboratory was having an effect on the profitability of Paddy’s farm. As the lab demanded greater quantities of the herd’s yield, so smaller quantities of raw milk were being collected at the farm gate. Word soon got round that Paddy O’Sullivan was in trouble, either his herd was sick, or something had happened to drastically reduce their milk production.

  Paddy paid little attention to local gossip, particularly as he was now powering four tractors and most of his farm on his own, home-produced fuel. Within two years he’d have a patented process, sell to the highest bidder, and make even more money than his drink discovery had.

  But his apparent lack of concern at his reduced milk sales, together with the increase in activity around the mysterious sheds that had sprung up on his property, once again attracted the interest of local paramilitary leaders. Paddy O’Sullivan was definitely up to something.

  He’d managed to keep the sale of his drink formula secret, due in part to the fact that it had been purchased by a company in Dublin, so there was no local knowledge of the transaction. Paddy attributed his new found wealth to an inheritance.

  But when the local bank manager noticed one afternoon that a loan application he was processing for one of Paddy’s employees listed his employer as O’Sullivan Agrochemicals Ltd, he got straight on the phone.

&nb
sp; Paddy had been careful to place his legal and financial affairs in the hands of solicitors a hundred miles way, in Cork, and hadn’t expected his secret to slip out in such an innocent and unforeseen way. The local IRA assumed he was in the pay of a rival faction and was using the cover of a legitimate agrochemical business as some kind of bomb making factory.

  The assumption was made and they worked backwards from it. All the signs were there - mysterious strangers posing as farm hands, increased deliveries to the farm of all sorts of large containers and drums of chemicals (much of it either yeast or whey being shipped in from other farms), and the unexplained drop in milk yield that Paddy refused to either confirm or deny.

  One Sunday morning in late September 1974, a group of men watched as Paddy drove his Range Rover through the farm entrance, taking the family to church in the village five miles away. They’d watched for the two previous Sundays and reckoned they had no more than ninety minutes.

  There was no point in making it look accidental. The purpose of the exercise was to destroy two concrete buildings behind the old barn on Paddy O’Sullivan’s property, together with their contents. If he was making explosives, they’d make it look as if the contents of the buildings had ignited. The old barn would protect the house from any blast. This wasn’t malicious. It was simply to stop weapons production, not harm Paddy, his family, or personal property.

  The white Transit van sped down the drive towards the farm, pulling up behind the deserted labs. The driver stayed in his seat with the engine running. Five others grabbed cans of kerosene and jumped into the mud of the farmyard.

  As Patrick looked back, he found it hard to believe how easy it had been to destroy his father’s dream. There was no security. The raiders had simply kicked the doors in on both buildings, smashed all the laboratory equipment and then emptied the kerosene cans over the entire room.

  The commander placed a man at the doorway of each lab. On his signal, each lobbed a hand grenade and made a frantic run for it back towards the van.

  Two dull thuds stopped them in their tracks. Hardly the spectacular, destructive explosion they’d been hoping for. The only indication the grenades had done their job were gentle wisps of smoke wafting from cracks in broken window panes.

  The men who’d thrown the grenades stood, half crouching, looking at each other. Had the grenades gone off at all? Their expressions needed no words, each asking the other if they should perhaps go back and check. Instinct and training told them not to. Suddenly, from the lab closest to the van, then moments later from the other, came two huge explosions. The kerosene had ignited, setting off a chain reaction. The two men, still without a word, ran towards the van. The commander was revving the engine furiously, impatient to leave the scene. A huge cloud of black smoke was already billowing high into the sky, indicating to Paddy’s neighbours something catastrophic had happened on his land. Of course, all his neighbours were seated in the same pews as Paddy. When they emerged into the cool autumn air an hour later, the pall of smoke had gone.

  Paddy knew something was wrong. Approaching the farm gate, he noticed a fresh set of muddy tyre marks leading from his track, out onto the road, heading south. Someone had been on his property whilst the family had been attending Mass. The farm buildings were set in a slight valley and couldn’t be seen directly from the road.

  As they drove over the brow, Paddy’s worst fears were realised. He could see through the remaining smoke that his laboratories had been destroyed. He knew too that it’d been an arson attack. Nothing flammable was kept in either building, at least anything that could’ve caused devastation on the scale he could now clearly see as he pulled the car to a stop a safe distance from the wreckage.

  Patrick remembered the acrid stench, the mess of rubble, concrete, steel and wood, and his father just walking straight into the midst of it all, completely oblivious to the still-smouldering framework of the buildings as he picked up random pieces, trying to salvage something from the ruins.

  As the white van headed south, the driver turned to his front seat passenger indicating the contents of his lap - four large ring binders. “Old Paddy wasn’t making bombs back there, but whatever is in those might make us a few quid. We’ll let the boss take a look at them.”

  Paddy knew exactly where the research files and test results had been stored; a shelf on the back wall. The blast damage appeared to be worse around the doorways. The shelves, although now on the floor, were in one piece and largely unscathed. So why had the files gone up in flames? Why were the metal bindings not amongst the charred mess around his feet? It dawned on him that he’d been the target of deliberate sabotage. His paperwork seemed to have been carefully removed and the building set ablaze in an attempt to destroy the evidence. Paddy’s supposition was only partially correct but his reaction would inadvertently change the course of history.

  Paddy’s files were handed to the Provo’s high command which had no clue as to the significance of their contents. It was only when they were passed over to sympathisers in the United States that their true potential was recognised.

  Through a number of intermediaries, the information eventually found its way into the hands of the American Government. Their payment was ultimately used to purchase weapons to further the Irish Republican cause.

  Paddy was no fool. Unknown even to his own employees, he kept a small Xerox machine in one of the old barns. Every Friday night he’d take a copy of whatever had been consigned to the ring binders in the preceding five days. On Monday morning he’d post a plain envelope containing the copied documents to his lawyer in Dublin for safe-keeping.

  The sealed brown envelope was still sitting on top of the copier where he’d left it on Friday night. He left Mary to explain to the staff on Monday morning why their workplace was now just a pile of smoking rubble, and drove to Dublin before catching the next plane to London. From there he bought a ticket to Los Angeles and onto Auckland.

  It was another fifteen years before Patrick learned the full story of why his father had suddenly disappeared for a month in the autumn of 1974; the day after the new buildings mysteriously burned down.

  Patrick O’Sullivan graduated with a First in Chemical Engineering from Otago University, having been encouraged by his parents to pursue the dream of exploring the country his father had mysteriously visited years previously. The day after the graduation ceremony, as he was preparing to ship his belongings back to Ireland before travelling back himself, he received a letter from his father’s lawyers in Dublin.

  The last time he’d received such official looking mail had been two years before. His father had died and he’d returned home for the funeral. Returning to Dunedin, and university life, the painful memory of his father’s passing returned each time he received a letter from Dublin.

  More details of his father’s will and his inheritance of the farm. The familiar writing on the envelope and the Irish stamp brought the memories of that time flooding back once more. Patrick was curious why Messrs O’Halloran were writing to him again after nearly two years.

  Dear Mr O’Sullivan

  Please accept our warmest congratulations on the successful conclusion of your studies. In accordance with your father’s last will and testament, we are now obliged to inform you that as a result of the acquisition of your degree, you are hereby entitled to claim a forty-nine per cent share in the business known as Dairytree Limited.

  The necessary paperwork (enclosed) has been prepared in order for you to claim your stake in accordance with New Zealand law. Should you have any further questions please do not hesitate to contact us at the above address.

  Still holding the letter, Patrick walked over and opened the fridge. His expectation was confirmed. There on the shelf, Dairytree butter and Dairytree milk. He sat down, shaking his head in disbelief. How had his father managed to secretly acquire a forty-nine per cent stake in New Zealand’s largest dairy producer?

  He had to wait until ten o’clock that night before he cou
ld find out. Nervously he dialled the telephone number for O’Halloran Lawyers and asked to be put through to the senior partner, Edward O’Halloran.

  “Patrick, congratulations, my boy! Your father would’ve been so very proud of you and I’m sure he would also have been particularly keen for you to carry on his work down there in New Zealand. Now, I expect you’re a little confused by the letter and all the papers I sent down to you, so let me enlighten you on a few of the details. Back in 1974, your father believed he was on the way to developing a process to produce fuel from cow’s milk. For various reasons he wasn’t in a position to continue the work here in Ireland, so he sold the rights to develop the process to what is now the Dairytree Company of New Zealand. He knew that dairy farming is a big part of that country’s economy and that Dairytree were, and indeed still are, one of the major players. As part of the deal he negotiated a stake in the business, so he could still benefit from any development and commercial success of his original idea. That stake has been held in trust all these years, gradually acquiring more and more of the company. It now passes directly to you and, with your recently acquired knowledge and expertise, it was your father’s fervent wish that you use this to go on and fully develop the process which, up until now, Dairytree have failed to develop to its fullest potential.”

  Patrick had read some of the preliminary papers Dairytree published about their research into bio-ethanol production from whey as part of his own studies. He could never have dreamt that it was actually his father’s original experiments in the concrete bunkers on the farm all those years ago. From what he had read and already understood about the process, he was being handed something that was on the brink of a major breakthrough.