The Dog Share by Fiona Gibson

Author:Fiona Gibson [Gibson, Fiona]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2020-12-24T17:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Six

Suzy

The distillery tour hadn’t been like this. Back then, in the mists of time, when I’d still loved Paul and thought we’d just gone on holiday for fun, Jean had greeted our tour group with a twinkling smile as she’d patiently explained how whisky is made. We were given samples to try, plus fingers of sugary shortbread to nibble on. We’d posed, grinning, as our obliging guide had taken photographs of us in front of the gleaming copper stills. We were told how that particular metal removes any sulphurous traces from the fermentation, and why the stills are shaped like gorgeous curvaceous, coppery onions.

‘Thank you,’ I told Jean at the end of our tour. ‘We’ve learnt such a lot.’

Of course now I realise I know virtually nothing at all. But how quaint and delightful everything seemed that day, with the cooper (‘Our barrel boffin,’ as Jean put it) explaining that the wooden casks originally came from Spain, where they’d have contained sherry, or from the grain whisky distilleries of Kentucky.

Today Kenny, who’s busily repairing barrels, barely grunts in response to my hesitant hello, and Jean looks up distractedly from the office with a mere, ‘I’m here all day if you need anything.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m just going to sort of … be here and … you know.’

She adjusts her gold-rimmed spectacles and peers at me from behind her orderly desk. There are framed photos on it because of course, no one ‘hot desks’ here; it’s her personal space and I assume they’re her three grandchildren, beaming broadly in their blue school uniforms. I catch a hint of her rose perfume – plus powerful ‘I am actually extremely busy’ vibes – as I take myself off to the malting room to make a nuisance of myself there.

In the vast, vaulted space, barley lies quietly germinating on the floor. It’s tended by Liam, the lumberjack shirt man who’d been so angry during my first meeting here.

‘Hullo,’ he says gruffly, as if I have come to pick fault with his practices. Of course I wasn’t expecting a big smile and a hug, like I’m some long-lost pal. I’m regarded with similar coolness and suspicion as I get in the way of the women in the box packing area, and the man who manages the kilns, where the barley goes to be – well, kilned is all I know about that part of the process.

It’s understandable that my questions are answered curtly, especially when I casually ask about Harry’s situation now (I have learned that he was widowed several years ago). No one wants to be seen to be fraternising with the enemy, I realise. But I’d hoped there might be a glimmer of warmth, and that at least some of the team would understand that I have come here to put things right.

I hover about in the bottling room, feeling like the kid at the party who’s only there because the birthday girl’s mother insisted on it. ‘For God’s sake, Emily, just invite her.

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