AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘That was remarkable. I had no idea you were going to throw in a ghost story.’ Liz grinned. ‘Is it true? About the archive being haunted?’
‘Oh. Well, not really. It is true that Iain was the one that founded the distillery.’ Grenville placed both of his hands on his heart. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I made the rest up. About the lost vintage. People love that kind of thing.’
‘I won’t tell a soul,’ Liz whispered. ‘And it is quite spooky in here. You’re not wrong about that, though I did see you shaking whatever’s in that bag.’
‘Ha! You have a sharp eye, Miss Parsons. Nothing gets past you, does it?’ he chuckled. ‘Anyway, look, before I have to be wonderful again, I was wanting to tell you about Evelyn McCallister.’ He tapped his temple. ‘Must remember, I thought, if I see you. And now, here you are.’
‘Okay. What did you want to tell me?’
‘Well. I hear that Evelyn is going to be one of your new whisky poster girls,’ Grenville began. ‘And you know about her being a Master Distiller, back in the day?’
‘Yes. I found that out at the castle.’
‘Ah, Hal Cameron’s records. Yes, the Camerons have always been very good at that.’ Grenville nodded. ‘But what I doubt you know is that Evelyn was my great aunt.’
TWENTY-NINE
‘Evelyn McCallister was your great aunt?’ Liz was taken aback. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, yes. She’s the reason I have the shop,’ he continued, as they walked around the archive with the tourists as they took photos and peered at the barrels and dusty bottles. ‘Evelyn worked up at the distillery all her life. Her father, Tommy, trained her up when he went into World War One. Thankfully, he lived through it and returned home in 1918. However, he wasn’t really up to the job when he got back, and so Evelyn more or less took over until she passed it onto Simon’s father in the 1950s. Tommy was always the titular Master Distiller apart from those three years he was away, but Evelyn was really the one doing the work.’
‘So, her sister was your grandmother?’ Liz asked, amazed at the connections that existed in tiny communities like Loch Cameron.
‘Yes. Isabel. Bel, she was called in the family. Bel had four children that lived: my mother, and my three uncles. But she died when I was still quite young, and Evelyn used to help my mother out with me and my brothers and sisters when we were small. We were quite a handful: five of us.’
Liz nodded, thinking about how hard it must be to have so many children, but also feeling her heart twist just like it did every time she thought about children at all.
‘So you were quite close to your great aunt?’ she asked, instead.
‘Oh, yes. She was quite a character. Never married, as you know: that’s how she ended up an old maid, as you noticed from the village graveyard. She was dedicated to her work, and she loved us kids. Many was the day she brought us up here to the distillery to watch us. I loved it up here, as a child. Running around the mash tuns. The smell of the grain.’ He looked wistful.
‘So, how did the shop come about?’ Liz prompted him.
‘Well, I grew up fascinated with whisky, because of Evelyn.’ Grenville shrugged. ‘When I was a young man, there was a system in the village where you could make a proposal to the Laird – that was Hal Cameron’s father, at the time – to take over one of the commercial properties when they came available. The shop was sitting empty, and I said, what about a whisky shop? He liked the idea. I’ve been there ever since.’
‘Wow. I had no idea,’ Liz mused.
‘Indeed, indeed. But the really interesting thing is that I own some of Evelyn’s things,’ Grenville continued. ‘And, one of those things is her diary. I thought you’d like it. For your launch of the new whiskies,’ he added. ‘There might be something in there you and Ben could use. I’ve flicked through it and it’s mostly whisky notes. But there are some other quite… interesting things there, too.’ He gave her a curious look. ‘Ben would probably be quite keen to hear about what’s in there. I’ve often considered sharing the diary with him, over the years, but it never seemed like the right time. Somehow, you feel like the catalyst.’
‘Oh, my goodness! Grenville, this is amazing!’ Liz took the small book from him and opened it, peering in the dim light at the handwritten pages. ‘This is absolutely invaluable! Are you sure you don’t mind me borrowing it? I’ll give it back, of course.’
‘Not at all, dear. I’m happy to help, and happy that Evelyn’s getting some of the attention she deserves after all this time.’ Grenville patted Liz on the arm. ‘You’ll let me know if you use anything from it? In publicity or something? Or…’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Ben might like to talk to me about what’s in there. Let him know that I’m here when he wants me. Okay?’
‘Oh, of course!’ Liz was flabbergasted. This was such an important find.
‘Good, good. Right. I’m going to lead this lot into the gardens now and get back in the fresh air,’ he said, raising his voice to call out to the group. ‘All right, everyone! Follow me now back up the steps, we’re going outside. Be careful of your feet, it’s slippery! This way.’
Liz waited for the group to go ahead of her, following them out of the cellar with its many cubbyholes and corridors. She couldn’t wait to read Evelyn McCallister’s diary, and she felt somehow honoured that she held it in her hand. It was a link back in time to another woman that had worked here and made a success of her work; it was also more of a clue about Evelyn’s life. More proof that she wasn’t just an Old Maid.
THIRTY
Diary, 1921
March 21st
Papa coughs all the time. His lungs have never recovered from the war, and I worry about him. It seems to be getting worse. Mr Douglas says that Papa shouldn’t be around the stills for fear that he will infect the brew, but that is ignorance talking. Whisky is alcohol, and alcohol is sterile. It beggars belief that a man such as Mr Douglas, with an education at Eton, should think such a thing. I benefitted from the ministrations of the local school and fared much better.
Still, I know that I should keep such opinions to myself. Mr Douglas entertains me under sufferance, which I know. However, it worries me that when Papa finally dies (may his life be long), I may lose my standing at the distillery.
