An Ocean Apart (8 page)

David laughed. “I wouldn't worry too much about it. Anyway, I think he probably more than deserves it, don't you?” As Toby reached the steps of the pavilion, he turned to glare in their direction. David hastily opened the door of the car. “Nevertheless, I think the best thing we could do right now is get the hell out of here.”

Rachel seemed to heed the suggestion immediately, but instead of climbing in, she reached over to the back seat and retrieved her book. She straightened up and stood directly in front of him, looking up at him. “I'll think I'll walk from here,” she said.

“You don't have to.”

“I know, but I need to clear my head. That champagne has just made me feel like going to sleep.”

“Well, why don't you?”

“Because I have a mountain of work to get through this weekend, and because of today's … well … circumstances, I haven't even started.” She clutched the book in her crossed arms and looked down at her feet. “But anyway, it was lovely to meet you—and thanks for the champagne. It was delicious.”

She suddenly reached up and gave him a light kiss on the cheek, then turned away and walked off towards the gates of the cricket park.

“Do you want to meet for a drink sometime?” he called after her.

Rachel turned and smiled. “No, I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I've only got a month before my finals, and I really don't want any distractions.”

“I wouldn't be a distraction.”

“I think you would.”

“Well … er … what about after the finals?” David asked, desperate to prise even the faintest hope of commitment out of her. A thought came into his head. “I tell you what. Christchurch have a Commem Ball this year. Would you come with me?”

“When is it?”

“The twenty-third of June.”

Rachel thought for a moment and nodded slowly. “All right, I'll come, but only on one condition.”

“What's that?”

“You wear your kilt.”

“Okay.”

Rachel swung herself gently from side to side, “
AND
you bring your car and Smokey Robinson with you.”

“That's two conditions.”

Rachel smiled at him. “Well, that's the deal.”

“Okay. Sounds good enough to me!”

Chapter
  
FIVE

Effie pattered her way across the hall to the drawing-room door, knocked quietly, and popped her head around the corner. There was no conversation in progress, only the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth and the contented snoring of one of the dogs lying out in front of it. Lord and Lady Inchelvie sat opposite each other at the far end of the room, he snoozing gently in his large, threadbare armchair, a glass of whisky precariously balanced on one of its sunken arms beside him, while she, clicking away with her knitting-needles, watched the muted screen of the television.

“Excuse me, Lady Inchelvie,” Effie said, almost in a whisper.

Alicia turned and dipped her head to look over the top of her spectacles at the little grey-haired head that peered round the door at about the same level as the handle. “Yes, Effie?”

“That's the dinner through in the dining-room now.”

Alicia bundled up the knitting and placed it on the table beside her, then rose from her chair. “Thank you, Effie. I'm afraid that we're still waiting for David. I don't quite know what he's up to. I called up the stairs about a quarter of an hour ago, but he obviously didn't hear me. I think I'd better just nip up to his room to see if everything's all right.”

“Och, don't you bother yourself about that,” Effie said, appearing in full around the door. “I'm just away upstairs now to turn down the beds, so I'll give him a wee knock on his door.” She looked across at Lord Inchelvie and smiled. “That'll give you time to wake up his Lordship.”

“Oh, Effie, could you? That would be most kind.” Alicia glanced over towards her husband. “I'm afraid the poor man's had a pretty tiring day at the office.”

Effie paused for a moment. “Everything's all right, is it not, Lady Inchelvie?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, it was just that I was hoping that his Lordship was feeling quite well, what wi' him not going to the meeting tonight.”

“No, nothing to worry about, Effie. Just something quite important has cropped up which he has to discuss with David over dinner.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear it, then.” She gave a quick smile in the direction of Lord Inchelvie and then waved her index finger in the air, as if conducting herself back into action. “Now I'll just away and see where Mr. David has got to.”

Effie closed the door of the drawing-room and made her way to the staircase and, readying herself for the ascent by placing one hand on the banister and the other on her left knee for extra leverage, she began to climb the stairs, gently humming to herself as she went. Having made the half-way landing, she stopped long enough to catch her breath and to make a mental note to remove an over-conspicuous cobweb that floated high up on the large dark portrait that loomed above her before continuing on her way.

The door of the bathroom was open wide and the light off, but the steamy air that emanated from within still carried on it the smell of soap and after-shave. She hesitated, wondering whether she was a little premature in knocking on David's door. Her fist was about to come into contact with it when it flew open and David emerged, unaware of Effie's presence on the landing. They both started back in surprise.

“Oh, I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. David,” Effie said breathlessly. “It was just that your mother and father have gone through to the dining-room, and they were wondering if everything was all right with you.”

David, dressed in a clean pair of jeans, an open-necked shirt and bedroom slippers, smiled lightly down at her. “I'm sorry, Effie. I dozed off in the bath. I'm heading down now.”

“That's fine, then.” She stood there uneasily, her hands clasped together in front of her apron. “Well, I'll just away and turn down the beds.”

David closed the door behind him as Effie scuttled off around the balconied landing. He walked to the top of the stairs and stopped, looking across the high divide of the hallway to the other side of the balcony where she was just about to enter his parents' bedroom.

“I'm afraid that I kept Jock out in pretty horrible conditions today. I hope he's not suffering any ill effects?”

Effie turned, her face briefly registering a look of surprise at David's concern over her husband before it broke into a smile. “Och, he's fine, Mr. David. He aye moans a bit when he's working out in the rain, but then again, he does the same when the sun shines. Jock has never been able to extract much pleasure from the weather, I'm afraid.” She let out an affectionate sigh. “That said, you'd have a hard task keeping him away from the garden, whatever the weather!”

David did not reply, but simply nodded and smiled. He turned and took the stairs two at a time, his slippered feet creating loud flat echoes in the hallway as he descended. He crossed over to the dining-room and entered, and his parents, already seated at the top end of the large polished table, both looked up towards him.

“Sorry about that,” he said, nodding a silent greeting to his father. “I fell asleep in the bath.”

“Not surprising,” Alicia said, getting up from her chair and walking over to the sideboard. She began to ladle a savoury-smelling stew onto a plate. “You must be exhausted after working out there in that dreadful weather.”

George put his knife and fork down on his plate and sat back in his chair, chomping on his mouthful and pointing over to the far corner of the sideboard. “I brought the whisky through from the drawing-room for you, my boy, so help yourself to one.”

“Thanks. I will.”

He poured himself a sizeable whisky and added as much water to it again before sitting down at the table. While he settled in his place, his mother hovered at his side before placing the steaming plate of food in front of him. “There, that should be restorative.”

“Thanks,” David mumbled quietly, pulling his napkin from its ring and laying it on his lap.

Alicia returned to her seat and continued her meal. Over the past months, she had come to dread their dinners together, every night the mood of the whole proceedings being orchestrated by David's sombre and silent presence. Previously, it had been the time of day that both George and she had enjoyed the most, sitting quietly together uninterrupted, talking about their respective days and making plans for future ones. Now, if there was any conversation at all, it was still mostly between George and herself, but it was inevitably an exchange of words that sounded as thin and as falsely happy as a Linguaphone lesson. She knew that George understood this, and both came to prefer an uneasy silence to their chirrupy sentences, the three of them sitting together as if observing some monastic vow of quiescence, the high-vaulted ceiling of the dining-room amplifying the irritating sound of cutlery scraping against plate.

But she knew that tonight had to be different. In the drawing-room beforehand, George had told her of his meeting with Duncan Caple, and she knew that sometime during the meal the subject of the States would have to be broached. She therefore gave a small involuntary shudder of trepidation when she saw George put down his whisky glass and turn toward David.

“How are you getting on in the garden?”

The sudden break in the silence took David by surprise. He took a drink of whisky and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Getting there,” he said, his voice sounding croaky through lack of use. He cleared his throat. “I reckon that we'll have finished the whole thing by this time next week.”

“Well, I think it looks pretty wonderful. You and Jock have really done a terrific job. I never thought that we would see the day when the garden would be restored to its former glory.”

He took another mouthful of food, and silence once again fell over the proceedings, all three continuing their meal without looking at the others. David put down his knife and fork and turned to his father. “I thought that I might have a look at that bit of rough ground down by the loch next and see if I can't come up with a plan for that.”

Lord Inchelvie stopped chewing and looked across at his wife. She was caught with her fork in her mouth, her eyes anxiously darting back and forth between her husband and her son. David picked up on the exchange.

“Is something wrong?”

His father sighed deeply and sat back in his chair, resting his elbows on its carved arms and linking the fingers of both hands together on his lap. His brow was furrowed deeper than usual, the loose skin on his thick neck creating a series of double chins as he looked down at his hands. He began to flick at one thumb-nail with the other.

“Well, in a word, my boy, yes.”

A worried look came over David's face. “What is it?”

George Inchelvie looked back at his wife, who gave him the lightest of nods. “Well,” he said, slowly, trying to pick his words carefully, “we have a slight problem in the marketing department at the distillery.”

David paused for a moment, glancing back and forth between his parents. “Duncan should be able to sort it out, shouldn't he? That's what he's there for.”

“Well, it's a little bit more complicated than that,” his father continued. “There is only so much that Duncan can do, and he's finding himself a little short of human resources at the moment.” He looked over at his son, realizing that he'd better just come out with it. “Listen, David, I know that you find it hard right now to give much thought to work.” He paused for a moment. “But the fact is that we have this problem which I don't think we are going to be able to solve … well … without involving you.” He watched as his son let out a deep sigh and began scratching at the back of his neck with both hands. “Duncan brought it to my attention today that our sales have slipped dramatically in the States. He was quite blunt about the fact that he wants to hold an extraordinary board meeting within the next few days so that we can appoint a new distributor over there as soon as possible.”

George glanced over to his wife, who smiled reassuringly at him.

“I'm going down to Glasgow next week for the Whisky Association meeting, and, well, Duncan is heading off to Europe at the same time, so”—he began pulling at his ear-lobe with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand—“it's really just a question of who is going to be able to go over to the States.” He quickly picked up his whisky glass and took a mouthful as a way of giving himself the excuse to be silent while his son came to terms with what was being said.

David leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “What about Robert McLeod?” he said softly. “What's he doing at the minute?”

His father let out a short laugh. “Well, you know Robert better than any. He may be financial director, but he's hardly ever been out of this country, let alone to the States! He'd end up in Alabama or somewhere, and we'd have to send out a search party!” He smiled, but became serious once more when he realized David had not reacted to the light-hearted remark. “Anyway, like everyone else on the board of Glendurnich, Robert's getting a bit long in the tooth to be able to cope with something like this.”

David shut his eyes and nodded slowly. “So, what you're actually saying is that Duncan wants me to go.”

Alicia, who had been sitting quietly listening to her husband explain the situation, cut in. “Darling, the last thing we want in the world is for you to go out there, especially when we know that you don't feel up to it. We, of all people, understand this, David, but you also have to realize the predicament your father is in.”

David rubbed at his forehead with the fingers of his right hand. “It's not only that I don't feel particularly up to it. It's just that I don't want to be too far away from the children at this precise time.”