The West Country Winery

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘Your wine, well, it isn’t as... It isn’t as good as it could be.’

  She sighs again. I think she’s about to protest but she takes me completely by surprise.

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘It’s absolutely terrible. And now we have all these grapes to press and I’m so worried that this year we’re just going to have twice the amount of frightful wine that we usually have.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Christabel.’

  ‘No. No, of course you aren’t. But I do have an idea.’

  ‘You do? Let’s have it, then. No time for delay. Tell me.’

  So I tell her.

  I SPEND THE rest of the week, in between sidestepping Melina’s bin bags and avoiding Rob, trying to sort out a contract to have the grapes pressed elsewhere. It turns out the press really is beyond salvaging and they should cut their losses and pay someone else to do it, as I learn from Melina a lot of small vineyards do. But this is proving tricky for two reasons. Everyone is hard-pushed this year with the surplus of grapes. And it costs money. Money which is in short supply for Eve and Des.

  By the time we go to work and school on Friday, it looks like the first of these problems could be sorted. According to Eve, the new owner of the Chudston Estate, next door, has some contacts at the winery up the valley. Apparently they owe him a favour which he has called in, making me picture him as Al Pacino.

  Which still leaves the lack of cash. Eve and Des will have to find the money to pay the bill so this means I need access to their books and accounts. Spreadsheets rather than juicy grapes are calling me back to Home Farm.

  And while the vineyard’s problems are being addressed, that still leaves the worry of explaining Rob’s plans to the girls this weekend, while we are away from home, which he and I are both hoping will provide the perfect opportunity.

  THIS IS HOW we end up in a queue on the South Circular, leaving London at the busiest time of the week, Friday rush hour. The girls on phones, Rob staring out of the window, me driving, biting my lip so hard I can taste a smattering of blood. That is how we end up in a tailback approaching Stonehenge as the sun sets over Salisbury Plain. For a moment I get a whiff of what Rob is going on about; adventures other than the A303. Far and beyond. Another land, another country. Another continent.

  After making it through Somerset, into Devon, and onto smaller roads, then lanes, then a single track, we finally turn into the gateway of the shambling old house of my childhood. The moon is big and bright, the stars in schoolbook formation, even Mars putting on a show of fire, while a glow from within lights up my mother and Des in the kitchen window, heads bent together over the table. A cosy tableau of which I’m immensely jealous. I’ve never wished I could come back here. But now I do. And the truth of that prickles behind my eyes. Why has it taken me so long to recognize the insane beauty and peace of this place? Why have I never seriously considered moving back home before?

  Is this home?

  Am I not happy in London?

  I thought I was. Until the other night. When Rob told me he didn’t want to be with us any longer. At least not for a year. Which is a flaming long time.

  He wants to go away. And it hurts. It really, really hurts. And then there’s the worry. The fear that – like Nathan before him – Rob might never come back.

  But no time to dwell because an enormous dog is poking its head through the window of the car.

  ‘Hello, Luther.’

  AFTER SHRIEKS of welcome, from the dog and from my mother, and after bear hugs all round from Des, we are hurried into the kitchen and wine is forced into our hands, even the girls’. Before I have the chance to object, Eve says: ‘It’s perfectly allowable for fifteen-year-olds to have a glass of wine. There’s no law about it. Not in your own home.’ Meanwhile the girls thank the gift horse and neck the booze before it’s too late.

  From being grumpy in the car, they have now perked up. Scarlet’s soon lying in the dog basket with Luther, the elderly Irish wolfhound, stroking his ears like he’s a (ten-stone) puppy. Ruby’s showing Des a video of her school orchestra performing the Pirates of the Caribbean film score. Rob has wandered off to bring in our stuff from the car, which leaves Eve and me alone. She ushers me into the hall. There’s a large cupboard under the stairs where she still keeps the old Bakelite telephone with its crackly line. You can shut the door and have quiet conversations, which was perfect for the days before mobile phones – and just as useful now, what with the signal being so dodgy in this valley.

  She switches on the light, a bare bulb hanging bereft of a shade, and shuts the door so we are very confined. Just the two of us in a weird time capsule. Seventies flowery purple wallpaper, old tins of Quality Street and Crawford’s biscuits, the smell of jasmine.

  ‘Tell me what’s going on?’ she urges in a stage whisper.

  ‘How’s your arm?’ I whisper back.

  ‘Stop deflecting,’ she says, normal tone resumed. ‘And the wrist’s not too bad. Nothing painkillers and wine can’t handle.’ She holds up her plaster-casted arm like it doesn’t actually belong to her, this woman who is never ill or damaged or broken in any way. She winces slightly and lowers it again. Uses her good hand to grip my shoulder, all the better to gaze deep into my eyes with that glint I find hard to refuse, using all the dark arts of the mesmerist. ‘Tell me.’

  So the two of us sit cross-legged on the floor inside the cupboard, which might as well be the portal to Narnia with the other-worldliness I’m feeling. And now Eve is producing a bottle of wine and two glasses from a secret stash, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, blowing off the dust and using the corkscrew on her Swiss army knife that is somehow always to hand.

  The wine is sharp and bitter but I plough on regardless. It’s amazing what you can drink when you’re confined in such a small space with your mother and she’s on a mission. But Eve isn’t saying much. She’s employing that knack of hers, that calm, intense poise that hunting cats use and which always has this effect on me: I spill the beans. I tell her bit by bit what’s happened. Rob’s revelation. Africa.

  I suppose I’m hoping for backup, motherly support. After all, I know she’s not exactly Rob’s biggest fan. They’re different souls. With different priorities. Different principles. Surely she’ll be on my side? She is my mother, after all. And so it is quite a surprise when she asks: ‘Do you love him?’

  I only wait a second. ‘Yes, I love him.’

  ‘Well, in that case, though it might not be the best timing – in your book, that is – you have to let him go. If you love him.’

  ‘I do. I do love him. I just don’t like him very much right now.’

  She makes a dismissive scoffing noise. ‘There’s plenty about Des I don’t like. He eats too much, drinks too much, spends too much. He’s loud, crude and over-thetop. But I love him and if he wanted to go away for a year I’d let him, though he wouldn’t get any further than Totnes. And, if the tables were turned, he’d let me go.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t want to go.’

  ‘Really? You’ve never had a hankering to travel? To watch the sun rise over the Indian Ocean? To ride a camel? To travel the Silk Road?’

  ‘I wanted to go to Tenerife this summer. There was a great all-inclusive deal...’ I trail off. I sound beyond boring. I do have a certain amount of self-awareness. ‘But I love London, Eve. I love our life. And Rob clearly doesn’t.’

  ‘Rob is unhappy. He’s an ad man, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like Rob. Why are you sticking up for him?’

  ‘Of course I like Rob. And I’m not sticking up for him. I’m simply looking at the bigger picture and so on. If you let him do this, he’ll come back to you, and your relationship will be all the happier for it.’ She tops up my glass. ‘End of sermon. Let’s find the others and get those beds sorted. Early start tomorrow.’

  I am knackered so I’m not going to argue now. I don’t have anything to actually argue about with Eve. I
just feel narked. And worn out. But mostly narked. With Rob. Bloody Rob and his bloody bike.

  I help Eve up and she gives me a hug, cramped and stooped as we are in the cupboard. I get a mouthful of her long grey wavy hair and inhale that heady scent of jasmine. For a moment I think she’s going to say something else. But I sense a hesitation, and any words get lost in her brain somewhere, never making it out into the damp warmth of our confessional.

  ON SATURDAY MORNING I open my eyes to a soft dawn light, having forgotten to draw the curtains after flopping into bed, exhausted, gone midnight. A glimpse of distant hills. Frayed power lines. The thatched roof of the barn. And beside me, an empty space. Still warm. Hopefully Rob’s on an errand to bring tea.

  The countryside is very noisy. Birdsong. Tractors. Dogs. Gunshots. Must be from next door. The new owner. Old Joe never had shooting on the estate. And surely pheasants can’t be mown down till 1 October? This guy’s a bit keen.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  I think of those pretty, stupid birds and feel a wave of sympathy with the girls’ newfound zeal for animal rights, though I suspect if Des were to offer Ruby a bacon sarnie she’d put that zeal aside for another day. And then, with a jolt, I remember the conference happening today. Panicked, I text Declan.

  All OK?

  Stop stressing!

  How rude!

  Good luck with the harvest.

  I know he’ll be fine running the event but I can’t help the worry. Always the worry to get everything absolutely, perfectly right.

  BY THE TIME it becomes clear that a cuppa is not going to materialize, I’m showered, dressed and parched. Too much wine with my mother. In the cupboard. Her wine. Bad decision.

  As I enter the kitchen I’m greeted by Luther and a chorus of ‘Hi!’; my girls are washing and drying up. Rob is nowhere to be seen. So much for our plan to talk to them.

  ‘Hello, sleepyhead.’ Des envelops me in his meaty arms and my mother puts a glass of orange juice and some headache pills on the kitchen table.

  ‘Join us when you’re ready,’ she says. ‘Rob’s made a start with the first of the volunteers. He was up before any of us.’

  ‘He was?’

  ‘He wanted you to sleep in a bit,’ Eve says. ‘Which is nice.’

  Her expression is hard to read. Some unsaid words still lurk but she’s not going to release them just yet. Which is not like her. Not like her at all.

  ‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘Very nice.’

  Suddenly everyone’s in a rush – Mum, Des, the girls – and I’m alone in the kitchen with only old Luther for company, sitting up close to me, hoping for toast crumbs.

  ‘You need a bath, Luther.’

  Luther sighs, drools a bit, continues his death stare.

  THERE’S AN ARMY of volunteer pickers already at work by the time I reach the hill. It’s a clear day. A blue sky, a few fluffy clouds, a cool breeze, lovely picking weather. Which is just as well; up close I realize that, apart from the London contingent, there’s not one helper under pensionable age. However, they all seem to be made of stern stuff, issued with gloves and secateurs and much enthusiasm, baskets waiting at their feet to be filled with ripe, juicy bunches of grapes – a real hive of activity.

  ‘These off to be pressed, then?’ I call out to Rob as he heads past me downhill, lugging a crate of grapes.

  He nods. ‘Can’t stop,’ he shouts over his shoulder, all busy-busy.

  I watch him stride towards the barn where the picked grapes await transportation to Chudston Winery, twelve or so miles away up the valley – a contract I’ve negotiated. I smile, satisfied to see my organizational skills paying off.

  Ruby’s helping Rob with the ferrying to and fro.

  ‘Isn’t that a bit much for her?’ I ask him a few minutes later as he whizzes past again.

  ‘It’s all right, love. She’s used to heavy loads with her harp. And she doesn’t want to hurt her string-plucking hands on the grape vines.’

  I wonder, briefly, if this is possibly the most middle-class thing I have ever heard but I swipe that thought away.

  Scarlet, meanwhile, is snipping busily, working in tandem with... wait a minute... Melina?

  ‘Melina? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hello, Chrissie. I decide I must come. I call your mother and I say I will help.’

  ‘Right. OK. Well, that’s very kind of you.’ I don’t have the mental capacity to pursue this matter any further right now. I can’t get over the fact she is actually here. In Devon. On my mother’s land, picking grapes.

  ‘Barbara, lady with big hair, she has spare basket,’ Melina says. ‘You ask her and she will give it.’

  I’m too stunned to speak so I approach Barbara, the lady with the big hair, and she directs me to a pile of baskets at the bottom of the row. Why do I feel like I’m in a dream?

  My mother pairs me with Clara, a woman from her t’ai chi class. She has quick hands and light limbs. So I get stuck in, do my best to keep up with her, even though she must be three decades older than me. She chats constantly, a steady stream, in a West Country burr that stirs something long forgotten, that tells of ploughed red fields and wild hedgerows. It’s hypnotic and reassuring.

  TIME PASSES QUICKLY. My back tugs a little. My knees creak. And now, here’s Eve, sidling up to me suspiciously rather than in her usual strident way.

  She opens her mouth to speak, clamps it shut. Starts again. What is going on with her?

  ‘It’s coffee time,’ she says eventually. ‘Can you help me?’

  WE GATHER IN the courtyard. Ruby and Rob have put out plastic chairs and there’s a couple of picnic tables so that the olds can have a breather, which includes me. Luther waits patiently while I hand round the coffee and biscuits, for which Eve apologizes.

  ‘Shop-bought, I’m afraid. Not much I can do about that with this hand.’

  Nobody’s bothered. There’s much chat and camaraderie, the caffeine/sugar combo doing the trick. If Rob wasn’t about to bugger off to Africa for a year, this unexpected scenario would actually be enjoyable.

  But he is. And so it’s not. And when are we going to tell the girls?

  A sudden gust of wind swoops past, ruffling leaves and flapping hair. It’s gone before we have a chance to complain and here’s Des, giving us a pep talk.

  ‘Keep it up, everyone. There’s ham or cheese ploughman’s for lunch soon. And nuts and dust for any vegans in our midst.’ He winks at Scarlet, expecting her to laugh.

  ‘That’s not funny,’ she says, stony-faced.

  But the wind blows away her words and we watch something like tumbleweed bowl across the yard.

  ‘Desmond,’ Eve says.

  ‘Yes, my love?’

  ‘Back to work now.’

  ‘Of course, my cherub.’

  And off he ambles, back to the vines, oblivious to his crassness, and my heart aches a bit to see how old he looks from behind. Should he really be doing this manual work, what with his aches and pains? Wouldn’t he rather be dabbling with his paintbrushes?

  ANOTHER TWO HOURS of picking and it’s harder than I imagined. I realize how unworked my hands actually are, soft-skinned from too much time in the office and not enough soaking in dirty dishwater. I’m cultivating a blister. Nobody else seems bothered, apart from the odd stretch here and there. Half an hour till lunchtime; I can make it.

  Thankfully the sky’s clouding over and it’s cooling off but I’ve slowed down considerably. Melina’s filled ten crates already. She catches me watching her while I’m surreptitiously shaking out my hand, giving it some air.

  ‘I come from farm,’ she says. ‘I help grandmother with pigs. And now, in UK, for five years I clean every day. Hours of cleaning and bleaching and scrubbing. You think this is hard? This is easy.’

  ‘I’m not complaining—’

  ‘Your mother she is workhorse but she is old. She needs help. I help her. I ask if I can move here maybe.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Scarl
et and Ruby must help clean your house. They are lazy slugs.’

  ‘But Rob...’ This time I stop myself as Scarlet’s close by.

  ‘Dad’s what?’

  ‘Er... Look, Scarlet. We need to have a chat, the four of us.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘He hasn’t done anything yet. It’s what he wants to do.’

  ‘He’s not going on about another new bike, is he?’

  ‘It’s a bit more than that.’

  I’m sorely tempted to tell her but I don’t get the chance to explain; Des is banging a gong for lunch, which is probably just as well because Rob and I agreed to talk to them together. Only Rob has been mysteriously busy. Obviously concerned about the fallout of his impending revelation. Obviously avoiding it.

  As we troop into the barn, all of us looking forward to some hearty food, he won’t even catch my eye. The coward. Luther holds up the rear, nose close to my midriff, believing me to be the weakest link. Maybe I am.

  BACK ON THE hill for the afternoon shift. We’re making steady progress, vine by vine, moving in pairs down the rows. Scarlet is doing her very best to keep up with Melina, though I notice Melina helping her so they can keep the pace going. Rob, with Ruby shadowing him, is treating the whole thing like a training exercise, back and forth to the barn, staggering under the yoke of grapes, the only thing missing his bike. Des is overseeing the crates being loaded onto a truck for the first journey to the press. A truck loaned by the new owner next door. This new owner appears to be some sort of super-neighbour because he’s also lent a couple of his own labourers, Tomasz and Michal.

  ‘Polish,’ Melina tells Scarlet as they take a moment to watch the men while they get stuck in.

  Despite my burgeoning blister, I find the repetitive work comforting; the snip and rhythm, the bending and stretching, helping me avoid contemplating the inevitable discussion, the return home tomorrow and what will happen after that. This big thing – Africa – is lurking offstage. Thankfully, my partner Clara is rabbiting non-stop. The village post office. The latest bus route closure. Her grandson’s ADHD diagnosis. On and on and on. There’s not a chance to think about anything else.