‘Oh?’ Merry said, suddenly even more wary.
Sheila’s eyes gleamed. ‘As you know, my daughter refuses to believe that I’m as fit as I’ve always been and perfectly capable of running the odd mile here and there.’
Merry hid a smile. Sheila’s idea of the odd mile tended to stretch to five, along the edge of the clifftops that lined the coast, with no deference to the weather or time of year. ‘She worries about you, that’s all.’
‘She fusses,’ Sheila replied, with an indignant sniff. ‘But I will say she’s been much better since I started running with you. And what with it being the Orkney half-marathon soon—’
And there it was, Merry thought. She held up a hand. ‘Let me stop—’
‘—I wanted to let you know I signed us both up,’ Sheila finished, as though Merry hadn’t spoken. ‘As a gift from me to you.’
The sheer brazenness almost took Merry’s breath away. ‘A gift?’
‘Aye,’ Sheila replied. ‘Just think of all the plotting you can do during our training runs. You’ll thank me one day.’
A half-marathon, Merry thought faintly. Thirteen miles of undoubted pain and suffering when the furthest she’d ever covered was three. It didn’t seem possible she’d ever be able to run that far but, then again, she hadn’t known she could manage three, and it had got easier every time she ran. Maybe she’d be able to do it, given enough time to prepare…
‘When is it?’
‘Saturday ninth of May,’ Sheila said. ‘Plenty of time.’
Merry did a quick calculation in her head. ‘That’s less than three months,’ she said, staring at her neighbour’s complacent expression. ‘You can’t be serious!’
‘Of course I am,’ Sheila said. ‘What’s the point of being alive if you never challenge yourself?’
Ordinarily, Merry would agree with the sentiment, but this seemed impossible. ‘Eleven weeks, Sheila. That’s not a challenge, it’s a death wish.’
‘Hush now,’ Sheila said, frowning. ‘You sound like my daughter. No one is saying you’ll set a blistering pace, but imagine the sense of satisfaction you’ll feel when you cross the finishing line.’
‘If I cross the finishing line,’ Merry pointed out. ‘If running thirteen miles doesn’t actually kill me first.’
‘Naturally,’ Sheila said. ‘Would it help to think of it as part of your Writer in Residence duties?’
Merry cast her mind back to Niall’s email containing the formal terms and conditions of her role: she was fairly certain it hadn’t committed her to kamikaze death runs along Orkney’s peaks and troughs. ‘How?’
‘Contributing to the local community,’ Sheila said. ‘You might inspire me to try my hand at writing something.’
Suddenly, an idea popped into Merry’s head. ‘I’ll make you a deal. You come along to my creative writing course in April, and I’ll agree to run this half-marathon.’
The older woman held out a hand. ‘Deal.’
The alacrity with which she accepted the offer made Merry suspicious, but she knew there was no way Sheila would let her back down now. She took the older woman’s hand and shook it once. ‘I hope I’m not going to regret this.’
‘Like I said, you’ll be thanking me,’ Sheila said. ‘Preferably with a mention in the acknowledgements of your next book. Or maybe you could name a character after me.’
Merry couldn’t help laughing. ‘I’m sure that could be arranged.’
The conversation moved on as they finished their tea. Finally, Sheila got to her feet with a sigh, and reached for her coat. ‘So, I’ll see you in the morning for a run, yes? A nice four-miler should get the blood pumping.’
Merry agreed, although she fully intended to stop when she felt she couldn’t take any more. She followed Sheila to the door. ‘See you in the morning.’
Her neighbour was several paces away when she turned back. ‘I hear you’ve been stepping out with Magnús.’ She paused and fired an innocent look Merry’s way. ‘Now there’s a man who knows how to send a Valentine’s Day card.’
She was gone before Merry could reply, which was almost certainly a good thing. Sheila’s attitude bore a striking resemblance to Jess’s; in fact, if Merry didn’t know better, she might suspect the two women were working together to push her towards Magnús. And a sly little voice in Merry’s head reminded her that maybe she wouldn’t mind if they succeeded.
* * *
Niall insisted on picking Merry up for their tour of the whisky distillery on Saturday.
‘No point in visiting if you can’t sample the goods,’ he told her over the phone on Friday evening. ‘And believe me, you’re going to want to try the whisky. I get the impression they’re laying on a few special treats in your honour.’
He arrived at 11.30 on the dot and raised both eyebrows at the face Merry pulled as she bent to do up her boots. ‘Bad back?’ he asked as she straightened.
‘Bad everything,’ Merry replied, trying not to groan. ‘Sheila made me run for what felt like a hundred miles yesterday and my muscles are making their dissatisfaction known.’
‘Ah,’ Niall said, perfectly straight-faced. ‘Has she talked you into the half-marathon, by any chance?’
Merry reached for her coat and wondered, not for the first time, why her arms were aching just as much as her legs. If the next eleven weeks were going to make her feel this bad, maybe she ought to quit now. ‘How did you guess?’ she said with a sigh.
He laughed. ‘I’ve known Sheila all my life. When she’s determined to do something, she doesn’t let anything stand in her way. And she’s already worked out you’re a soft touch – she probably didn’t even ask you, just presented you with a fait accompli.’
‘Right again,’ Merry admitted. ‘She even suggested it was part of my job as Writer in Residence, although I did persuade her to come to the creative writing workshop in return.’
The look Niall flashed her on the way to the car was one of amusement laced with pity. ‘Excellent work. I suppose I shouldn’t mention that Sheila was one of the first bookings we took, along with Bridget McGinty.’
It took a moment for Merry to grasp the implications of his words. ‘You mean I didn’t persuade her at all? She was already coming?’
Niall started the car. ‘Don’t feel bad,’ he said kindly. ‘Sheila and her pals are famously crafty. There are times when I think even Machiavelli could have learned a thing or two from them.’
Merry managed a rueful laugh. ‘So I’m beginning to appreciate. I can’t wait to see what they write!’
The Highland Park distillery was just outside Kirkwall, which meant their route took them past the Brodgar standing stones. The sky was iron grey, with dramatic dark clouds and a definite threat of rain, and Merry had been looking forward to seeing the ring of tall monoliths outlined against the spectacular backdrop. But the view was nothing like the one she’d been anticipating; the stones were hidden by serious-looking trucks and a multitude of smaller vans that filled the makeshift car park and grass verges. There were a couple of executive coaches parked by the side of the road and it was almost impossible to see past to the stones at all.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
Niall’s gaze flickered to the trucks and then back to the road. ‘Location filming for some movie or another. It happens fairly often around the islands, although it’s hard to get permission to film at the stones themselves.’ He glanced across again. ‘This must be a Hollywood blockbuster or something equally big budget.’
Merry craned her neck to stare as they passed and thought she caught a glimpse of a camera swinging around on a crane over the stones. ‘I wonder what the film is.’
‘I could probably find out,’ Niall offered, as the stones receded behind them. ‘The crew will be staying locally – someone is bound to know what’s going on.’
Merry shook her head. ‘No, don’t worry. I’m just curious.’
Niall gave her a sideways look. ‘I’d have thought you’d have se
en loads of film sets, what with living in London. It feels like every movie made has a scene set there these days.’
‘I’m a writer,’ Merry reminded him solemnly. ‘I don’t get out much.’
The rest of the journey was uneventful, until Niall pulled into the car park next to the grey stone buildings of the distillery. ‘I’ll leave the car here,’ he said, as Merry got out and stretched her grumbling muscles. ‘Pick it up tomorrow. But don’t worry – I’ve arranged transport for later.’
As usual, he’d thought of everything, Merry observed. It was going to be a shock when she eventually went back to London and had to start thinking for herself again.
Iron lanterns glowed invitingly against the gloomy skies, even though it wasn’t long after midday, and lit the doorway to the visitors’ centre. Merry followed Niall inside, where he was greeted with a broad smile by a curly-haired, russet-bearded man in a navy blue checked shirt.
‘Good to see you, Niall,’ the man said, moving from behind a solid-looking cash desk to extend a hand. ‘And this must be Merina.’
‘It is,’ Niall said. ‘Merry, meet Andrew Driver, master craftsman and one of the most intimidating men I’ve ever met.’
Merry laughed. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said as she shook his hand, noticing the rough skin and calloused fingers. Whatever his role at the distillery, she was willing to bet he didn’t spend much time behind the cash register.
‘And you,’ Andrew said. ‘So, I hear you’re a whisky drinker?’
‘I am,’ she answered, wondering what else Niall had said. ‘Although I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve only just discovered Highland Park.’
‘Better late than never,’ Andrew said. ‘And you’re about to discover a whole lot more. I hope you brought your drinking boots.’
Merry opened her mouth to reply, but Niall beat her to it. ‘We talked about this, Andrew. Remember what happened the last time you said that?’
‘Not really,’ Andrew said cheerfully. ‘But I know a very good time was had by all.’
‘Until the hangover the next day,’ Niall said, grimacing.
Merry glanced from one man to the other with some amusement. ‘I’m looking forward to learning about the process of distilling whisky too,’ she said. ‘If there’s time in between the sampling.’
Andrew smiled. ‘We’re giving you the full Orcadian Vintages tour, which usually takes around three hours and includes some parts of the distillery not usually open to the public. It finishes up in front of an open fire, with some of our finest vintages to taste.’
Niall gave her a pained look. ‘And that’s where things started to get hazy last time. But I’m sure you’ll be more sensible than me.’
‘We encourage everyone to drink responsibly,’ Andrew said, shaking his head at Niall. ‘But some of us are more responsible than others.’
This was a different side to Niall, Merry thought, as she followed the two men through a door in the stone wall. So far, he’d been the consummate professional in all his dealings with her, but she sensed he was more relaxed – more off-duty – today. It was almost certainly because of Andrew, who was obviously a good friend, but Merry liked to think it was a sign that he was starting to consider her a friend too, rather than part of his job. She had no intention of over-indulging on whisky, however. No matter how good the vintage samples were.
She found everything about the tour fascinating, from the aged barrels in the warehouse to the smoky scent that filled the air as they neared the rooms with the kilns. Andrew talked as they walked, explaining that the distillery officially dated back to 1798, but there had been an illegal operation selling contraband on the site long before that.
‘And the techniques we use are even older,’ he said, with more than a touch of pride. ‘Most of the senior staff have Viking ancestors and we work hard to preserve the knowledge and skill that’s been handed down for centuries, whether that applies to the whisky itself or the way we craft the casks that hold it.’
‘It sounds wonderful,’ Merry said, admiring the fierce orange glow of the wide kiln. ‘Is that peat you’re burning there?’
He nodded. ‘From Hobbister Moor, a few miles away from here. It’s around four thousand years old and is what gives our whisky its rich, unique taste. If there’s one thing Orkney isn’t short of, it’s peat.’
‘Have you noticed there aren’t many trees?’ Niall asked Merry. ‘Our climate is mild, but we’re open to the elements and the winds can be pretty fierce. There are a few woodlands tucked away here and there, but you won’t find the views obscured by swathes of forest.’
‘Which is ironic, considering we’re an island nation with a strong tradition of boatbuilding,’ Andrew said, grinning. ‘Do you suppose that’s got something to do with the lack of trees?’
‘Well, the peat smells amazing,’ Merry said, knowing the aroma would linger on her hair and clothes for days. ‘No wonder your whisky wins so many awards.’
‘Speaking of whisky, I think it’s high time we drank some,’ Andrew said. ‘Let’s head back to the warehouse and you can try some straight from the cask.’
He led them back through to the warehouse, where he introduced them to a shaven-headed man called Jamie. ‘He’s in charge of the 100,000 or so oak casks we keep on site and I’m pretty sure there are some that only he knows about,’ Andrew said, as Jamie shyly shook Merry’s hand. ‘We’d be in deep trouble if he ever left us, which is why he gets paid more than me.’
Jamie laughed. ‘I wish!’
Andrew tipped his head. ‘I thought Merry and Niall could try one of the 2015 casks – might be a nice contrast with the older vintages they’ll be sampling later?’
‘Aye, that’s a good idea,’ Jamie said, and thought for a moment. ‘I’ve got just the ticket. Follow me.’
The sheer number of casks made Merry’s head spin; row after row of dark brown barrels that all looked the same. She’d known Highland Park whisky was good, but she’d had no idea just how big the distillery’s range was. But Jamie obviously knew his way round the labyrinth of barrels and after a brisk minute’s walk, he stopped beside a row that appeared to be exactly the same as its neighbours. He placed a hand on one of the casks. ‘This one is still maturing – it won’t be ready for a few years yet. We taste a sample from each cask on a regular basis, to make sure the flavours are developing in the way we’re expecting.’
Merry frowned. ‘Why wouldn’t they?’
Jamie shrugged. ‘We’re careful about the casks we use – only the best US and European oak. Our staff are pretty knowledgeable about wood and the art of barrel-making – we even consult with a boatbuilder in Kirkwall from time to time, to draw in more expertise.’
Merry’s ears pricked up at that. How many boatbuilders could there be in a place the size of Kirkwall?
She could only think of one.
Jamie continued to speak, oblivious to the curious look she sent his way. ‘But occasionally we get it wrong,’ he went on. ‘If a cask isn’t stored in the right way or the wood is too green, that might affect the flavour of the whisky.’
‘And sometimes it’s the peat,’ Andrew said. ‘The acid levels have to be just right for the smoky flavour to permeate the barley in the way we need it to.’
Niall leaned towards Merry. ‘Distilling whisky is a dark art,’ he said solemnly. ‘Wait until they tell you about the full moon sacrifice.’
Reaching behind the cask, Jamie pulled out a cluster of small tasting glasses and filled them one by one from the cask. Amber liquid danced in each glass as he handed them round.
Andrew inhaled deeply above the rim of his glass. ‘You’ll notice the peaty smell is strong – it hasn’t had time to mellow.’
Merry watched Niall breathe in the aroma and followed his lead. Andrew was right, the scent from the whisky in her glass was earthy and strong – she thought she detected more than a hint of moss too, although she had no idea if it was just her imagination. And then Andrew took a sip, rolling
the liquid around his mouth for several long seconds before swallowing.
‘Coming along nicely,’ he told Jamie. ‘In a few more years it’ll be smoother than your head.’
Jamie rolled his eyes. Merry hid her smile with the rim of her glass and took a warming mouthful of the golden liquid. Her tongue tingled with sudden heat and immediately, she understood what Andrew had meant: the whisky was good, but it wasn’t a patch on the bottle Niall had given her when she’d first arrived on Orkney. It was rougher, somehow, and lacked the aged quality and polish of the whisky she had back at the croft. It felt unready.
She swallowed, and felt the liquid burn its way down to her stomach. ‘It’s still wonderful.’
Jamie put his empty glass down. ‘Aye, it’s not bad. But I’d be interested to hear what you think once Andrew has stunned your taste buds with the vintage malts.’
‘And on that subject,’ Andrew said, passing his glass back to Jamie. ‘Let’s head that way now. We’ve got a private tasting room all set up – not that we really need it today, since there aren’t any Saturday tours running at this time of year, but there’s a lovely open fire in there that should be just about roaring now.’
‘Perfect,’ Merry said, with a grateful smile. She’d have to find a way to thank Niall for organizing this; it was a wonderful way to spend a Saturday afternoon.
She was just about to follow Andrew’s lead out of the cask labyrinth when she saw a familiar mane of hair swish by the end of a row. Stopping, she peered after its owner. ‘Magnús?’ she called, blinking incredulously. ‘Is that you?’
There was a brief silence, then a tanned face appeared around the line of casks, framed by long golden hair that almost glowed like a halo under the lights. Green eyes stared at Merry for a moment, then the face split into a delighted beam. ‘Merina! This is a most unexpected pleasure.’
Coming Home to Brightwater Bay Page 12
