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“Well,” he says at last, looking from me to Jack and back again. “It looks like we have a toilet to investigate.”
* * *
“Did ye ken yer grandad had died saving mine?” McTavish asks as we stand outside the red-doored barn a short while later, watching McTavish attempt to wrestle the key — which, sure enough, was inside the toilet, just as Hamish had said it was — into the rusted old lock.
“I had no idea,” says Jack. “All I knew was that he died during the war. My grandmother never really wanted to talk about it much. Although I suppose she might not have known either. I’m starting to think there’s a lot of things I don’t know about my family, actually. This is just the tip of the iceberg.”
I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he runs his hand through his hair in the way I know means he’s feeling anxious or uncomfortable. We didn’t drive back to the farm together — he’d brought his own car to the nursing home, while I’d arrived with McTavish — so this is the first chance I’ve had to speak to him. Which would be fantastic; if I only knew what to say.
I mean, where do I even start?
“I cannae believe the auld beggar put the key in the toilet,” says McTavish Senior, who’s come out to watch the opening of the barn. “If we didnae just use that room to store feed for the chickens, I’d have found it years ago.”
McTavish struggles to turn the key in the rusted lock. I risk another look at Jack.
“It was really nice what you said to him,” I venture timidly at last, worried that if I don’t saysomething, we’ll just stand here silently forever. “McTavish’s grandad, I mean. About being worth saving. That was a lovely thing to say.”
For a second, I think he’s going to ignore me, then, just as I’m about to shrivel up and die, he speaks.
“I said it because it was true,” he says, not looking at me. “He was worth saving. Everyone’s worth saving, Emerald.”
“Even us? Are we worth saving, Jack?”
The words are out of my mouth before I can think twice about them. Before Jack can answer, though — assuming he was evenplanningto answer — there’s a loud cheer from McTavish Senior as his son finally gets the key to turn in the lock, and the barn door swings open for what must be the first time in decades.
“Right,” says McTavish, rolling his sleeves up. “Let’s see what he’s been hiding in here.”
* * *
The interior of the old red barn smells musty with age, and it takes a few seconds for our eyes to adjust to the gloom inside.
Part of me’s hoping the barn will be a bit like a time-capsule of sorts: that it’ll be filled to the roof with old family secrets, and long-lost heirlooms. Actually, though, there’s just a few pieces of ancient farm equipment I’m not even going to try to identify, and, right at the back, a collection of dusty old wooden casks which presumably hold the remains of the infamous first blend of The 39 — the one Jack’s spent the last few years meticulously trying to recreate at the distillery.
“Well, would ye look at that,” says McTavish. “I’m amazed they didnae just drink it all. Especially Grandpa McTavish.”
He steps forward for a closer look, and I hang back, my interest in decades-old whisky already at its limits, while my interest in Jack, and what he’s thinking right now, has never been greater.
What was he going to say to my question?
And how can I find a way to bring the subject back to it when everyone’s obsessing over bloody whisky?
“Grandpa was right enough,” says McTavish, grinning widely as he picks up a bottle that’s sitting on top of one of the casks and dusts it off. “D’ye think this’ll still be drinkable, Jack? You’re the whiskey expert here. I just like to drink the stuff.”
He hands the bottle to Jack, who accepts it in the manner of a man being given the Nobel Prize for Peace, and holds it reverently aloft. At first I think he’s going to make a speech of some sort — or start one of those Gregorian chants, maybe — then I realize with relief that he’s just holding it up to the light so he can get a better look at the handwritten label on the front.
“The 39: Blend No. 1.” he reads aloud. My spine tingles, and my eyes fill with unexpected tears. I might not care much about whisky, but I care very much about Jack; enough to know that, for him, this must feel a bit like finding the Holy Grail — albeit in a somewhat unexpected shape.
As if on cue, a beam of sunlight finds its way through a crack in the roof of the old building and hits the bottle, briefly illuminating the amber liquid inside. There’s an awed silence. Even McTavish Senior is quiet as the light bounces off the glass like a kaleidoscope, dust motes dancing in the sunlight and making the air around us seem to come alive.
By rights, this moment would have some kind of swelling soundtrack; like when Ariel regains her voice, say. Or the ‘Ah Zabenya!’ bit in The Lion King. Instead, the barn itself seems to hold its breath until Jack finally speaks.
“I can’t believe it’s been here all this time,” he says, in an awed voice. “This is the very first blend of The 39. A real piece of history. Imagine how they must have felt making this. And how surprised they’d be if they knew we were standing here looking at it, all these years later.”
His eyes shine with excitement as he turns to me, having obviously forgotten that I’m not the person he’s supposed to want to turn to anymore when he’s happy, or sad, oranything, really. We’re still on this stupid break. But, for just a second, break-time’s over. He seeks me out in the darkness of the barn as if I’m still his person, and I can’t help but smile back at him, watching as his cheeks dimple and his face lights up when he finds me.
Then he remembers we’re not together, and it’s like the lights go out across the world. Jack’s smile fades as he turns back to McTavish, and away from me.
It feels a bit like getting all six numbers on the lottery — or, okay, four at least — then realizing you forgot to buy a ticket this week.
