I.

He couldn’t remember when he started to like it. The first sip he had he remembered vividly, burning his throat and medicinal vapour in his sinuses , behind his nose. He coughed and sneezed, grimaced and protested but his grandfather and father both laughed.

‘You’ll get used to it boy” they gently teased him as they savoured the whisky in their heavy crystal tumblers.

He remembered it fondly. Every special occasion in the family, every opportunity to celebrate there would be a special bottle. Treated with reverence and opened ceremonially. Just the men though. The foil would be peeled away with purpose by his father, his dirty fingernails picking underneath until it spiralled off. The cork then slowly twisted and wiggled audibly objecting with squeaks until it came away with a deep pop. Always poured with 2 glugs per glass. The same glasses and the same amount every time. He watched and learned and was rewarded with a sniff and tiny sip to taste.

The names of each were exotic to him, almost foreign. Grand titles like Royal Lochnagar or Highland Park. Lots of Glens and Bens. Some were just odd words, Blair Atholl, Tomintoul, Laphroig and then there were ones that sounded funny and made him giggle. Auchentoshan and Knockando. The names would break the reverential seriousness as he would put on a Scottish accent and pronounce them in an exaggerated way.

The single malts were usually overlooked behind the regular stuff. Why did they buy this stuff all the time? He didn’t care for the blended stuff. He saw them as common whisky, for the uneducated. He had his shelves for the special bottles even though they were not great for business. He did have a few regular customers for them and then the people who asked for advice on what would be good for their dads or husbands birthday.

Some of the local Sikh guys were good regular customers but they usually ordered Chivas and Johnny Walker. They always pushed for a better deal through. He barely made a profit from those sales.

Most of the single malts he sold were around special occasions. Coming up to Christmas and Father’s Day. There were a fair few that he suspected he would never get rid of. Not through lack of trying but they were not cheap.

Nor should they be. The craftsmanship and ageing alone should be recognised. Love, care and mastery went into making them. The long slow process.

Ten years, twelve even fifteen. He had had a bottle of MacCallan 18 years for his 50th. Wonderful. He smiled and shrugged. They were good days.

The shop alarm beeped as he set it and then clicked off the light, closed the door and headed up the narrow stairwell. Since the last attempted break-in he was more cautious. It had shaken him but thankfully the alarm had sounded and the bars had stopped them. It was probably kids as they disappeared as soon as he put the shop lights on. He contemplated what he would do now if it happened? Probably nothing he sighed. Let them have what they wanted. Fags and cheap booze.

He turned the key in the heavy lock on the top door, turned and headed across his living room to the heavy wooden drinks cabinet. The flat above the off-licence was small but it was big enough for him.

In the golden light from the dusty old standard lamp beside him he could see the heavy clear glass bottle. It was already three quarters empty. Enjoying this one a bit too quickly.

He twisted out the stopper and carefully poured a measure, lifted the pipette alongside and squeezed in a single drop of cold water. As he stared closely at the amber spirit he could see the droplet diffuse and dance in the glass. As always he lifted the stemless tasting glass up to eye level and swirled it around. His routine was to then pass it side to side under his nose, sniff the vapours first , eyes closed and concentrating. Followed by moving the glass closer, making some small sniffs and backing off, allowing the volatiles to settle in the sinuses for a second or two, repeating this a few times and then tipping his head back and breathing in deeply.

Hmmmmm, he sighed and quietly exhaled as he backed into the tatty velour armchair. Peaty, smoky and rich but pure he declared out loud to himself. Settling back into the comfort of the well worn cushions he repeated the procedure then lifted the glass to his lips and drank the estimable spirit back. Holding it in his mouth for a brief pause then swallowing.

He winced as it reached his throat and he tried to swallow. It was an odd feeling. Initially burning but then pain like a sudden indigestion, a cramp, a grip deep in his chest and his back. It wasn’t the first time and it was getting worse. Hot drinks were particularly bad.

The doctor had told him to stop drinking whisky. It was the only thing that he was interested in when he had mentioned it. Like some puritanical priest looking for a sin to blame. Whisky was the only pleasure he had. The only vice. In fact why was it a vice? He didn’t harm anyone. He didn’t ever go anywhere. He ran the off-licence and that was his social life. He didn’t drink on the job. He had a routine he had kept for years. He didn’t drink to to get drunk. He shook his head to clear the thoughts. Doctors were like that nowadays. Quick answer and out you go.

It actually made the pain better after the first gulp, the wave of pleasure and relief once it started to absorb and become part of him and him part of it. The GP had said it was probably just heartburn although it could be an ulcer. The prescribed pills hadn’t helped. They were too big to swallow and got stuck on the way down. He sicked them up twice with the water. The more he thought about it the more anxious he became. He poured another. This was better than the pills he could swallow the whisky and it calmed him down. He sat back and closed his eyes trying to switch off, just him and the whisky in silence. The spirit his long time companion and friend.

II.

The hospital waiting room was full, standing room only. Behind the desk were nurses in different coloured uniforms, one seated and others disappearing into the wings like actors on a stage. He handed the letter over and the young woman sat behind the desk read out his name and date of birth. George Brian Kelly fifteen three sixty two.

“Brian” he said quietly “I don’t use my first name”

“Mr Kelly, please take a seat and we will call you” she passed back the letter and smiled.

Looking around he shuffled over towards the far side of the artificially lit room. He didn’t like this. Not knowing what was going on and in a room full of silent but unfriendly strangers.

At least in his shop the customers were a familiar type, even those he had never seen before. Mostly he did know them though. Likewise the delivery men and at the cash and carry. If not to talk to he at least recognised people and had become used to the same faces, the same comments and routines. At 10:30am the regulars for White Lightening and Tennants extra. Shaky and desperate. Then over the day it would be the cigarettes and bottles of gin or vodka. He had noticed women were drinking more now. The old days of selling sherry out of a plastic barrel had gone. Two for one Pinot Grigio and Rose were his main sellers now and he could shift as much of the medium sweet rose as the cash and carry could get him. It was cheaper than a bottle of Fanta and more profit for him.

The newspaper he had bought with him seemed a distraction but he couldn’t concentrate.

“Mr Kelly, George Kelly” a voice bellowed across the room.

He moved forward raising his hand to wave but though better of it.

“Hello George, follow me” the nurse had turned before he had reached her and began to walk to a corridor to the right. She stopped and directed him towards a small clinic room where behind a desk a middle aged man in a surgical scrub top stood and pointed to a chair beside the desk.

“George Kelly? …please take a seat”

Before he could tell him it was Brian not George the doctor had begun what seemed a well rehearsed script about history and procedure.

Brian answered the questions and recalled how his swallowing had got worse. The doctor asked him about his weight, his family history and what seemed like an irrelevant and unhealthy number of questions about his toilet habits.

The nurse weighed him. “76kg’ she relayed to the doctor. He had always been 13 and a half stone and tried to do the mental calculation but was moved behind the curtain and asked to undress. He lay on his back in just his socks and his underpants staring upwards, noting the brown water leaks on the ceiling tiles.

The doctor looked in his eyes, his mouth, felt around his neck, his collarbones and then pressed his belly.

Answering in the negative to all the doctors questions the examination finished, the doctor smiled at him then turned to the sink and washed his hands in a methodical manner.

Brian dressed and sat back in the chair.

The doctor tapped on the keyboard a few times and then rotated on his chair, raised his eyes and looked towards him.

“George” he started his voice slow and serious“As I am sure you are aware there are a few things of concern here. You have weight loss, dysphagia and you also may have some nodes”

At this the doctor stopped and oddly tilted his head to one side, then gave a slight smile and his speech changing to a more definite and technical tone “we need to get you some tests – a camera test which will tell us if there is something in your oesophagus or stomach and then a CT scan to see if its has spread anywhere”

He leant back “we can get those sorted for you pretty soon” putting his hands on the desk he lifted himself and stood over Brian finishing with “I will see you afterwards in …. about 2 to 3 weeks time”.

At this the doctor moved straight over towards the door connecting the room with the next and simultaneously the nurse handed Brian a leaflet with the word Gastroscopy in big green letters and directed him back to the reception area.

III.

He had got used to the appointments, the gastroscopy was unpleasant and the CT scan was fascinating to him. Having been well all his life he hadn’t seen anything like it even on the TV. All looked very space age. It was impressive. Much more impressive than the clinic waiting room which was just as full as it had been the last time. It was no more pleasant but this time it was more familiar.

He stood anxiously in the same corner as his last visit waiting to be called.

“George Kelly?” A voice boomed from the desk. He moved forward and was directed to a chain in an empty clinic room. As he sat the side door forcibly opened and the doctor entered along with an older nurse. Brian noticed that she was wearing a darker uniform with different coloured epaulets and a ring binder in her hand.

The doctor sat behind the desk and the nurse in a chair beside Brian.

“Hello again Mr Kelly, this is my specialist nurse, Kathy” the doctor said as he opened a file on the computer. He barely examined it when he turned to face Brian and he leaned forward and brought his hands together. “Do you have anyone with you in the acting room?”

Brian’s throat went dry and he tried to answer firmly “No… No. I am here on my own”

Kathy shuffled her chair a little closer to him.

The doctor continued regardless “it’s not good news I am afraid. The biopsies from the telescope test showed a stricture…. a narrowing of the gullet.” He paused briefly not expecting any response “the biopsies have come back and show an Adenocarcinoma… ” another pause. Brian wasn’t sure if should ask what that meant but the doctor gave that head tilt and that slight smile again “essentially that means its a cancer. Its quite locally advanced but the good news is no nodes are obvious from the scan”

Brian stared trying to take in what he was hearing. The doctors voice had become distant and sounded like an echo. He heard surgery, resection, complications, tubes, recurrence but none of the words between.

Brian looked up a from the desk, but had nothing he could think of saying. The doctor gently nodded and raised himself from his chair.

“I’m sure you’ll have questions and I’ll let you have a chat with Kathy” the doctor was standing in front of him his hand outstretched.

As Kathy moved her chair towards him “George, do you want to ask me anything?” The doctor was already closing the door behind him.

“It’s Brian not George” he meekly said, feeling as if he was in the teachers office at a new school. “It’s Brian”

She apologised and continued to gently explain how this must be a shock and slowly started to reiterate the facts about surgery, resection, recurrence, complications, leaks.

He interrupted “So its cancer then?”

She softened her clinical approach and asked if he had a wife, relatives.

“She left me years ago. Met a bloke in a nightclub. I should never of let her go every week. I thought she needed a break from the shop”

“Any children?”

“Debra. She’s my daughter, she’s in Spain though. We don’t speak much” he was flat in his speech. Quiet. Numb.

“We are here to be your family and support” Mandy explained benevolently.

He simply shrugged. It seemed she wanted him to react. To burst out crying or suddenly be grateful. He was just numb. He didn’t know what to do. He half listened as she explained. He would be seen by an anaesthetist and there were different ways of doing the surgery. He drifted away again. His mind imagined the bottles, the special bottles. He imagined the ritual. The pouring and the smell of the edges of the vapour, new character and subtlety every time.

He took her number and he thanked her only half acknowledging that she would call him to have another chat about things when it all settled in.

IV

He stared at the bottles in awe. Historic years. Pre war labels in perfect condition strolling around the museum he saw photos of presidents and prime ministers, film stars in black and white even royalty. The collection and the information was staggering to him. He had repeatedly pored over the chapters in his books but being here in the distillery itself was a thrill. The facts regarding the peat, the water the landscape were totally different now he was here. It was alive. Gazing though the small stone window the raw elements of whisky in amongst the purple heather strewn hills, the history of uisgebeatha, took his breath away. The streams of peat laden water coursing through the landscape, scenes of struggle, battles and hardship. His imagination wandered into romanticised visions of clansmen ready with illicit stills in the hills and hidden glens around him.

A loud voice boomed out from the ceiling stating that the tour would begin in five minutes, instructing all to go to the small auditorium to see a film. Brian shuffled in and took a seat on the bench in front of the small but noisy group who had been milling around the exhibit area.

The lights dimmed and darkened a dated movie clip crackled into life on the oversized screen. A tartan clad beauty with long ginger locks strode purposefully across the moorland fading through to a covey of grouse, a sprinting white hare and a bellowing stag. It faded back to the red headed beauty who passed a small horn cup to a hairy warrior type adorned in a similar tartan draped across his chest. He drank back the whisky, smiled at her and thrust a claymore sword into the air and let out a war cry. The bench behind him were giggling as the film then zoomed in on a male model dressed as some sort of city type, a lawyer or a banker presumably, focussing in on his hand reaching for a glass and following it as he lifted it to his lips. The shot then zoomed out to reveal the backdrop which was the same highland landscape that Brian had been staring out of the window at only minutes ago. The screen went black and the caption “ It’s in our history” emerged, the text developing ornate serifs whilst a voice over of a deep gruff Scots accent pronounced the same.

The lights came on and they were ushered through into a large whitewashed stone room and given a briefing. A middle aged man in tartan troos and a blazer explained that this was a very exclusive tour and they would be shown areas of the distillery not normally open to the public. House rules of no smoking and of course at the end they would get to taste the product. A laugh and some flippant comments from a few of the couples in the groups.

Brian smiled to himself. He had gone for the best tour he could find. It wasn’t cheap but it had been his dream for a long time and finally now he was here he was thrilled.

He moved towards the guide not wanting to miss anything, absorbing every word attentively. As explanations of the grains used in whisky, he was able to pick a barley grain from a saucer and crunch down on it. He looked at pictures and a mock up model of a malting floor.

Onwards to an exhibition of a peat fired kiln along with old tools and oblong blocks of sods. He handled the tools and the materials and imagined being involved.

As they entered the hot rooms where the huge mash tuns created the wort and the subsequent fermenting room, beer and cleaning fluids the smell surprised him. It wasn’t the smell of whisky, the spirit and character he enjoyed but the smell of beer, of sweet sugary pungent beer.

They moved across a courtyard and into a tall building. Strictly no smoking signs everywhere. A golden glow shone across the room from light bouncing off the gigantic onion shaped copper still at its centre. It was noisy and the guide used hand gestures to direct them towards the far end of a steel walkway.

They reached a glass porthole which revealed a right angled spout running crystal clear liquid into a glass bowl. It wasn’t too different to a modern sink with a tap but the guide explained that this was a sprit safe. This was pure whisky being born. Brian gazed in awe. One of the Americans on the tour laughed and loudly asked if they drink some. The guide, obviously used to such questions remarked that they would have to ask the customs and excise to do that and added that as it was almost pure alcohol they probably wouldn’t want to anyway. He smiled patronisingly back at them.

Outside in the courtyard the air was cold, fresh and crisp. Brian was amazed that nothing smelt of whisky. It smelt of a factory and a brewery and of dampness and rain but none of the aromas he desired.

The barrel warehouse was obvious from the outside. A long low shed with the distillery name in large white letters painted on its roof, blatantly advertising to the overseeing mountains. Inside rows and rows of large barrels were stacked on their sides as far as he could see in the dim light.

Brians nose started to prickle. Above the smell of a damp mustyness a hint of spirit vapour was in the air. Subtle, it was as it someone had dropped a bottle some time ago.

He heard how the whisky that went into the cask at over 60% alcohol but with time evaporation allowed the spirit out and into the air. The legend has it that the Angels share as it was known was the price to pay and the older and better the whisky was the the more you had to give to the angels.

Brian liked this. He smiled at the thought of being that Angel and hovering above the finest casks. As a guardian of this precious spirit every day for eternity, diligent in the role of taking from this vast magnificent process a little heavenly duty.

He followed the group as they walked between the rows of barrels and up a few stone steps which passed though an arched doorway. Inside three heavy grey stone walls were adorned with mounted antlers and coats of arms. The other outer wall was replaced by a full length glass window with a stunning view down the glen and towards the loch below.

Glasses were being filled by the guide and a man in a green tweed suit and horn rimmed half-moon glasses stood behind the small bar.

As the party sat in the heavy leather arm chairs around the perimeter of the room and Brian could feel the shared eagerness and anticipation to join in.

Brian was pleased that the way he tasted whisky was the same as the tweed clad master blender who had taken over the proceedings. They were talked through standard single malt, 12 and 15 year old. Terms like woody, smoky and rich were not enough to describe them and Brian was impressed by the flavours suggested that he would never have spotted. Cloves and butter, leather and fruitcake, fudge and cigars.

They moved on through sherry and maderia cask aged whiskies and how these influenced the taste. The speaker invited them to taste some blends. Brian had always looked down on blended whisky but these were unrecognisable. Clear bottles labelled with letters and numbers. B51.6, B57A2 and D19A2B14. This intrigued him but also the flavours excited him. He had expected a few sips at best but the generosity wasn’t ending.

He grinned to himself, the spirit melting his inhibitions. The others in the room had ummed and ahhed appropriately but all had empty glasses and were chatting and laughing. Brian had a glass in each hand, comparing and contrasting, scribbling notes on a napkin.

The instructor, the master blender caught his eye and gave Brian a knowing nod and a smile. Fellows in the knowledge, the brotherhood of whisky. Brian felt a huge glow within, rising pride and belonging, something he had rarely felt since those days with his family.

The master blender approached him as the others were now being ushered into the shop. Instead of a cursory thank you as he expected the master whispered an invite.

“Afore ye go” the master blender ushered him towards two tartan covered armchairs at the far end of the room and facing outwards towards the vista of the Glen.

The master blender explained that such pleasure and reverence for the whisky was a rare thing. He had those that gulped it down, those that sipped it and left some and those that wanted to impress. They would ask questions about things that were irrelevant but sounded good to their friends. They were tedious. He leant back sighed and closed his eyes. Brian wasn’t sure what to do next. Should he speak? Should he do the same?

Instead he look back into the room and noticed one of the assistants carrying a tray towards them with a half full bottle of whisky and two tasting glasses.

As she placed them on the table the master thanked her and pulled the cork from the bottle. Two generous glugs in each glass, dark rich and golden with an almost orange hue.

The master gestured with a royal wave cast over the glasses for Brian to pick it up. The master watched as he wafted the glass, under his nose. Once. twice. Deeper smell. He patiently and silently waited while Brian sipped. As soon as he sensed the inner emotion this elicited he explained.

This was a bottle from a historic whisky made in 1962. The first year that he had started work there. It had been wrongly stored some years ago after the fire and and the only remaining cask had been recently discovered whilst a dunnage warehouse was being renovated.

This was a unique glass of whisky.

Brian flushed with warmth from within. He didn’t need to speak. He just sniffed and breathed. The intensity was enough on the nose but the length and complexity of the flavour was overwhelming. His eyes closed and he sat motionless in a meditative trance.

It was majestic. Scents of Christmas and creamy porridge, vanilla and cinnamon, chocolate orange and bakers shops. Memories of the smell of pipe tobacco and pencils, new shoes and bonfire night. He swirled it around oily and coating his mouth, there was no burning just a smooth, slick of pleasure. Layer upon layer of flavour.

He rested back. His brain was spinning, overwhelmed with the flood of the tastes and smells and memories of his childhood and his whole life all spiralling together at once.

He opened his eyes. The master had left a note beside the bottle.

“Take it and enjoy it”

He stared into the Glen and out beyond to the Loch and the rising evening mist, tears dripping from his cheeks.

V.

It had been at that moment he had made the decision.

His mind wandering back to the chair, the master distiller, the view over the Glen he leaned forward and lifted the the precious bottle.

Now the ceremony, just as the master had done, as his father had done and his grandfather before he poured. One glug, two glugs.

His hands shook slightly, the whisky was the most precious thing he had. This was a once in a lifetime occasion.

He carefully raised the glass and toasted aloud “Happy birthday” he paused and then ironically added “to a grand year”.

He leant back and started the swirling and the sipping. It was even better than he remembered and the sleeping tablets had not affected his taste despite the struggle to get them all down. He sipped some more and leant back considering how quickly they would take to work. Just long enough to enjoy another.

He poured. Glug, glug and then rested the envelope against the bottle. This might not be a long night and this would be his last one.

He raised his glass and toasted the bottle.

“This ones for the Angels” he whispered as he leant back, closed his eyes and smiled as he floated through the spirit laden air out over the stacked barrels, the Glen and into the mists over the Loch.

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