Page 77 of Coming Home to Winter Island
I frown. ‘But the gin, it’ll be made here?’ I confirm. And he shakes his head.
‘We’ll make it at our base. Much easier. It’ll still be branded Teach Mhor gin, though. We’ll do some lovely labelling with a picture of the house, maybe an old photograph. List the ingredients, maybe use a map of the island to show where they’re usually found.’
‘Usually found?’
‘Yes, once we’ve got the recipe, we can use our own suppliers. I mean, water’s water, right?’ He laughs.
‘No, not right,’ I find myself saying. ‘The water comes from the waterfall up the mountain. It runs into a burn that flows across the island and the flavours are gathered on its journey out to sea. That’s the point!’
‘Excellent story, excellent story!’ He nods.
‘It’s not just a story,’ I say, suddenly horrified. And right there, I see the future of this place. ‘It’s about Winter Island. So you can shut your eyes and taste the place. What about the crowdfunders? The people who have supported us? Jobs and business for the island?’
‘We’ll make sure everyone who’s bought into the crowdfunding gets their gin, and then we’ll buy them out with a gift of goodwill.’
Someone clears their throat behind us. I turn to see Lachlan standing at the front door.
‘The ferry’s leaving soon. People have to go,’ he says.
I turn back to Jack Drummond. ‘It’s much more than an excellent story!’ I say, my hands and my voice shaking.
Chapter Forty-seven
I walk slowly back into the busy dining room, where Mum and Jess are serving more gin. Hector is in his chair still, looking out over the bay, his tea and scone untouched.
I walk up to the microphone. Jess’s voice is in my head:Do what you have to do.
‘Thank you, everyone, for coming today.’ The room falls silent. ‘Thank you to all those who dug deep and helped us reach our crowdfunding target!’ A small cheer goes up. I take a huge breath, pulling up my chest and my backside. ‘Many of you know that I came here for one reason and one reason only...to sell Teach Mhor.’ There’s a ripple around the room. ‘As Hector’s next of kin, I had to agree to sell the house so he could move into the care home.’ I see Fraser in the audience and a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
‘Away from the island,’ shouts one of the Cruickshank sisters, and I nod.
‘But in order for that to happen, the gin business needed to be revived and the recipe had to be recovered. Today, we’ve done that. And I have got exactly what I have dreamt of and worked towards for the past fifteen years, right here...’ I look down at the envelope in my hand. ‘But I know it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t come here and met...’ I look at Lachlan, unable to say it out loud, ‘if I hadn’t met Hector, my grandfather. I realise that he and my father were just like the stags out there locking horns, and I only wish they’d seen sense a long time ago. Before it was too late.’
‘Ruby, we have to go,’ says the A&R woman. ‘The contract?’
I glance down, then hold the envelope out to her. ‘Thank you, but no thank you. Being here on Winter Island has brought my voice back. It has taught me why I love singing and how it makes me feel. How it makes others feel. The memories it makes.’
I look over at Hector’s chair.
‘But I won’t be signing the contract, or leaving the island, and neither will my grandfather. Teach Mhor and its distillery isn’t for sale.’
A cheer goes up.
‘I’m going to stay and look after him, make sure he has the care he needs and oversee the gin business with the help of its shareholders here on the island. The island is at the heart of that business, and at mine too. So I’m sorry, but like I say, I won’t be signing with you.’
‘Okay,’ says the A&R woman slowly. ‘Well, if you change your mind...’ She smiles. ‘Though I can see you won’t.’
‘I may, however, set up the island choir again and collaborate with the care home to show how music can help people with dementia. Perhaps your record company would like to support that project to help raise awareness of music and dementia?’ I look at the producer.
‘Now that could be interesting,’ he says.
‘A Christmas single, recorded right here on the island?’ I say, and beam. ‘In the distillery. “Gingle Bells”, a Christmas medley!’
‘I’ll send over the paperwork,’ he says with a grin, and with that the two of them leave through the French doors and the helicopter blades start up again, blowing up the settling snow.
Everyone is crowding around me and congratulating me. I look around for Lachlan, but can’t see him.
‘Are you sure about this?’ says my mum.
