The Christmas Secret

by Karen Swan

  He wasn’t looking at her now, his gaze stony upon the wall. But she could tell by the rise and fall of his chest that she was pushing on his pressure points. ‘What’s keeping you here, Lochie . . . ? Your father?’

  As she had anticipated, he got up at that, needing to move, to be active, dynamic. He stretched his arms above his head, making himself seem more powerful, masking the fact that he felt vulnerable.

  ‘Tell me about him,’ she said, watching as he paced, refusing to stop.

  ‘There’s nothing to say.’

  ‘I know he died a few years ago.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘He drank himself to death.’ He almost spat the words out. ‘That’s what happened.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, flinching as she saw his pain suddenly exposed and raw, like a throbbing tumour revealed beneath peeled-back skin. ‘I can understand how painful that must have been for you.’

  ‘Can you?’ The hint of a sneer was back. ‘Really? Or are you just making the right noises?’

  She hesitated. ‘. . . Actually, my father was an alcoholic too. I’ve seen how it can destroy lives.’

  He stopped walking and looked at her. ‘Christ, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Well, why would you?’ she shrugged, forcing a lackadaisical smile. ‘It’s not something anyone likes talking about, right?’

  ‘No.’

  He walked over to the nearest table and leaned against it, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, his eyes on the ground. He took a deep breath in and held it, before sighing heavily, letting it go.

  ‘The ironic thing is, he never really drank before my mother’s death.’ He gave a small snort. ‘Everyone used to laugh about how he’d never acquired the taste for whisky; a teetotal distillery owner. But when Mum died . . .’ He stopped and took another breath. ‘When Mum died, it destroyed him. He felt it was his fault.’

  ‘He felt he could have stopped it?’ Lochie’s head whipped up and she shrugged. ‘Daisy told me. I’m so sorry.’

  He shrugged but the effort was Herculean, pain twisting the muscles on his face so that the smile was a grimace. ‘No, it was a release for her. She’d had a long history of depression. I think that . . . uh . . . part of me always sort of expected it.’

  Alex stared at him, glimpsing in this man the boy who had grown up with a mother he knew was going to one day abandon him; it broke her heart to see it and it took everything she had to stay seated in her chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

  ‘Almost the bigger shock was that when she did, Dad . . . fell apart.’ He didn’t speak for a long time nor did Alex fill the silence with platitudes; he had hitched his arms right up now so that they crossed above his heart. ‘I can actually remember the very first drink, the one that started it all off – it was the day of the funeral and we came in from the graveyard and he walked straight over to the bar and poured himself a dram – three fingers. And he downed it, there and then. And then he poured himself another.’

  His grip on himself tightened, his hands clutching the opposite elbows, his head dropped, making himself small again. Alex felt herself mirror his actions, unable to imagine the pain of watching his only remaining parent slowly kill himself too, waiting for the day he too would manage it. Was it any wonder he didn’t trust people when the two who should have put him before everything had put him to the back of the queue, his needs last? Forgotten? He had been abandoned and betrayed – by his parents, by Skye . . .

  ‘He did try to get better. There were several times I thought he was pulling himself back. We would make small targets to aim for – making it to Lord’s for the Ashes, pulling off the MacNab . . . but by then, he was too deep in the hole. His body was wrecked and he didn’t have the strength of spirit to fight the addiction; it had taken hold of him.’ He nodded, biting his bottom lip. ‘As he was dying, he apologized for what he’d done, leaving me. And I do believe he was sorry.’

  ‘But you can’t forgive him.’

  His glance was like the flash of a sword’s blade. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Do you feel perhaps you’ve begun to, with this?’

  ‘How? How does this change it?’

  ‘Because now you can see with your own eyes what it’s doing to you, the impact it’s having on your relationships, your career. You’re locked in a cycle you can’t break: you’re at war with your own family and your board, you don’t have a single person here you feel you can trust or rely on, you’re working here every day surrounded by the very thing that killed your father. How is that status quo sustainable?’ She shrugged. ‘It’s not. Something has to give.’

  ‘And what would that be? That I quit, is that it? Give them all what they want.’

  ‘That’s not what I said. But seeing as you’ve brought it up, let’s explore that: putting aside your sense of responsibility to the workers and the community for a second, is it really such a horrific thought? What’s actually keeping you here? Isn’t the so-called legacy of this company just chains about your neck?’

  He stared at her.

  ‘Is this really how you want to live for the next thirty years? Blocking Sholto with petty moves and countermoves? What are your dreams? Did you ever even consider following them, or did you find yourself down this path before you had a chance to think about it? Are you here simply because you feel you owe it to your parents to continue the so-called legacy? At the end of the day, what’s it all for? This is your life.’

  She gazed at him, seeing how his breath came fast, high emotion colouring his cheeks. She could see it in him, the need to speak, the blockage at his throat. She felt the same in her own throat, words that could not and would not ever be said, leadening her heart even as she sat here in front of him, smiling like she meant it.

  ‘Lochie, Skye is leaving in a few days. She’s got a new job, out of her own father’s shadow. Don’t you think this could be your chance to step out of your father’s shadow too? You could be with her. Start somewhere new.’

  ‘Wha . . . ? No, she’s getting married,’ he said, a dark expression on his face.

  ‘She’s having doubts.’

  He frowned, looking away again. ‘Why are you saying this to me? You can’t honestly think—’

  ‘Skye made you happy once. Yes, she made a mistake – a big one – but I’m guessing you weren’t perfect either. Your father was dying and you pushed her away. You’ve got one chance left to make things right. Be happy, Lochie! Choose happiness! God knows, you deserve it.’

  He stood up, making for her. ‘Alex, you don’t understand—’

  ‘No. You don’t.’ She swallowed, wondering whether she would get the words out. ‘There’s something I need to tell you. Something I found out, only yesterday and . . . I’m sorry, but it’s not good news.’

  He paled. ‘What is it?’

  She took a deep breath and made eye contact with him. ‘You know your grandfather was adopted?’

  He looked puzzled. ‘Yes.’

  She bit her lip. ‘. . . The adoption was never made legal.’

  ‘What?’ He looked baffled.

  ‘It was after the war, a time of chaos. People were displaced, missing . . . It was routine for people to adopt the orphaned children of their friends and relatives. With everything else that needed doing, few bothered with going through the legalities of a formal adoption. And it looks like your great-grandmother was one of them.’

  He frowned. ‘But what . . . what does that have to do with anything? Why does it matter whether or not my grandfather was legally adopted?’

  ‘Because in the company’s Articles of Association, it stipulates that both the chair and CEO positions must be held by a family member. And according to the legal definition of “family”, that means blood relatives, or legal adoptees.’

  He was quiet for a long time, a frown puckering his brow, trying to take it all in. It wasn’t his Rambo boardroom anti
cs that were going to get him the sack, but paperwork? ‘. . . How do you know all this?’

  ‘By accident. Mrs Peggie and I were looking through some old boxes of photographs. There was one of your great-grandmother Clarissa with your grandfather, and Mrs Peggie said Clarissa had adopted him after the war. It was just a passing comment; I didn’t think anything about it at the time until I overheard something the other day that brought it back to mind. I went over to the church and checked the parish records. Sure enough, there’s a marriage and death record for your grandfather George, but nothing else. The clerk told me to check online, which I did – I’ve spent the past couple of days on it while you were in Edinburgh – and although I found a birth record for him in Cumbria, there’s no paper trail for the adoption. Nothing at all. Legally it never happened.’

  He was staring at her, an inscrutable expression in his eyes. ‘No. What I meant was, how exactly did you get hold of the details of our Articles of Association?’

  She swallowed at her error; in her nervousness, she had over-explained, a classic sign of anyone telling a lie – or if not telling an outright lie, at least dodging a truth. ‘I rang your lawyers in Edinburgh and they sent through a copy.’

  ‘And why would they do that?’ he asked, his voice low and slow. ‘You’re not a shareholder.’

  ‘I know.’ Her voice was quiet. ‘But Sholto has given me access all areas.’

  In a flash, distrust flooded his face, her entrenchment with the enemy suddenly laid bare.

  ‘He said anything that might help me help you—’ she said quickly.

  ‘How is this helping?’ he demanded. ‘Do you have any idea of what you’ve just done? You haven’t helped me! You’ve fucked me over! Thanks to your nosing around in confidential business and family matters, all you’ve actually managed to do is flag up to the lawyers that I am not legally a Farquhar. And you can rest assured, it’s only going to be a matter of time before that’s brought to Sholto’s attention!’

  ‘I know, and I’m so sorry! It wasn’t my intention,’ she said desperately, trying to keep him calm as he began to pace. ‘But that’s why I’m still here, saying all this to you. It was why I wanted you to walk through this exercise and see for yourself that you’re better off – far better off away from here and the lot of them—’

  ‘This?’ He indicated to the constellation on the floor, kicking at the papers. ‘You think this can make me feel better?’ Scorn ravaged the words.

  ‘Yes! It should! You could be happier than you can possibly imagine being anchored here!’ She walked over to him and grabbed his arm. ‘Resign, Lochie. There’s a golden parachute clause in the articles. Take it. Leave all this and start somewhere new! It’s not a loss. You’re not losing! You’ll be a wealthy man, you’ll still have a new venture to pursue with Scotch Vaults. Get Skye back. It can be a win-win for you. Abundant mentality, remember?’ She ran out of breath, her hand falling from his arm as she saw the fury burn in his eyes. ‘Please, Lochie. You have no choice. There’s no way you can win this fight. The facts are the facts – you’re finished here.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Islay, 13 May 1918

  ‘Next stop, America! I won!’ she cried, her arms in the air as she twirled and spun, trampling the buttercups underfoot and feeling the sun on her face.

  ‘That’s not fair, you got a head start!’ Ed protested, half-laughing, half-panting as he crested the top of the slope and allowed himself to fall headlong into the long grass. ‘I’ll beat you next time,’ he groaned, rolling over onto his back, his arms stretched over his head.

  ‘That’s what you always say,’ she giggled, flopping onto the ground next to him and seeing how the mild spring was colouring him up, playing its own part as this beautiful, wild, desolate place put him back together again. The cast was off his leg now and he was walking almost all the time without the stick – ‘only when you’re around,’ Sister MacLennan had said, during one of her many tellings-off to Clarissa for exhausting him.

  But Clarissa knew she knew what was best for him. They had spent hours walking on the curved golden beach to get him stronger again, exercising the muscles that had withered during his confinement; they had taken rest stops when he’d needed them and eaten from the picnics she’d packed, meaning he’d put on weight too. They had marched and finally raced up these high-slanting fields to the clifftops, making him fitter and forcing the sea air into his lungs so that his eyes were bright all the time now – ‘only when you’re around,’ Sister MacLennan had tutted.

  He was back to being the man he’d been before he’d hit the rocks, before he’d ever climbed aboard that ship: vital and funny, quietly spoken with his glamorous accent and wistful stories of mountains that made Islay’s look like molehills. In a funny way, a shameful way, she was grateful for everything that had happened that night to bring him here: the Germans for the torpedo that had stopped his ship from sailing silently past these shores, the rocks for breaking him and keeping him prisoner when all the other soldiers had left.

  She watched him as his breathing returned to normal, his eyelashes throwing shadows on his cheeks, his palms brushing absent-mindedly over the grass as he basked in the gentle warmth, his homeland thousands of miles away behind his head and just over the horizon. So near. So far.

  They should never have met. If the world hadn’t gone mad, he would be home in Montana and not lying on a clifftop on a Scottish isle with a girl who had pinned her survival to his. But they had met: disease, war, violence – everything that was ugly – had conspired to bring them together, and now growing out of all that, miraculously, was something beautiful. The night stars glistened more brightly now that she knew he was sleeping under them; the flowers nodded more prettily because he ran past them. The world had its song back, life its laughter. Sometimes she didn’t know if she could bear it, the beauty too sharp, the sweetness too ripe.

  She lay down beside him, rolling her head on the grass and watching the full black moon grow in his eyes as he looked back at her. And it was the strangest feeling, like falling and flying at the same time, the touch of his fingertips against hers, both a burn and a balm. It was the best thing in the world and the worst, because it couldn’t last.

  Because it wouldn’t. She had done too good a job. He was healthy and strong again, fit to fight and his orders had come in. He was leaving in ten days.

  Next stop, France.

  Islay, Thursday 21 December 2017

  The village hall was a short stumpy building, whitewashed with a steepled slate roof and plain windows that looked over the sea with Presbyterian eyes. Its position at the head of the bay – the last building in town before the coast switched back on itself, folding in pleats towards the distillery a mile further on – was isolated and windswept. More snow had been predicted and the sea looked opaque and thick, reflecting back a heavy sky.

  Alex pulled up in the old Landy, her chin almost on the steering wheel as she looked for somewhere to turn; the small car park was completely full and cars had been parked at jaunty angles along the approach lane for the past hundred yards. She looked across at the small building – orange curtains obscured her view in but tinsel at the front door glittered in the outdoor lights and even with her windows shut, she could hear the music easily – the sounds of bows dancing upon fiddle strings at a terrific pace, whoops and calls carrying loftily through the night air.

  She spotted a muddy bank in the corner; it was too steeply pitched for most of the other cars, small runabout hatchbacks with dented bumpers and rust patches on the wheel arches, but this beast could go anywhere and she rolled up it slowly. She turned off the ignition and the lights and tried to make herself move.

  They were in there, the two of them: Skye fishing for clues, throwing out hope and flirtatious smiles; Lochie now only acting the part he had been born and raised for, reduced to a mime artist and merely pretending to be the boss as his employees danced and celebrated around him.

  He had lef
t her without a word in the canteen earlier, the roar of the Aston clearly audible even through the thick stone walls. She didn’t know where he had gone or what he was doing or what his next move was going to be. She had simply had to cut him loose and trust that she had given him enough upside to act on her advice. But would he? Nothing was ever predictable with him.

  She looked over at the golden windows and the raucous party thronging within. She didn’t like herself for what she’d done or how she’d made him feel but she couldn’t run or look away now; it was almost done. She had to see this through and make sure it happened. Tonight had to be the end of it. All of it.

  She pushed on the door and stood, staring in. The sight was joyful and chaotic: kilts were flinging, arms were linking, people were laughing and leaping, others standing by the bar – three deep – holding drinks and chatting. Tinsel had been strung across the roof’s timber rafters, a tiny potted Christmas tree sprayed with fake snow and placed on the stage at the far end where the band was playing – fiddlers and an accordionist tapping their feet and bobbing their heads, a giant inflatable snowman and Father Christmas swaying on either side of them, like outriders.

  She walked in slowly, her eyes scanning the room for the only two people she needed to see tonight. In the corner, she saw Hamish and Bruce – both in kilts – talking intently, their heads inclined, drams held between them; Torquil was in trews and chatting to a red-headed girl she had seen a couple of times in the canteen. But where was—?