The West Country Winery

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The West Country Winery Page 18

by Lizzie Lovell


  I feel embarrassed. I’ll have to ignore him. And anyway, I’m not at his beck and call.

  ‘Chrissie!’

  Maybe there’s actually a slight edge, an urgency to his calls? Is he in trouble? Has something happened? Is it Ruby? I only left her an hour ago. She’s been with safe people in a safe environment, what on earth could’ve gone wrong?

  I’m deciding whether to step outside when the door is yanked open and there he is, backlit by the hall light.

  ‘Why are you hiding in the dark? Is this a game of sardines?’

  ‘I was having a moment. What is it?’

  ‘It’s your daughter.’

  ‘Ruby?’

  ‘The other one. Scarlet.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Scarlet? Where is she?’

  ‘In the kitchen.’ Now that I can actually see his face, I recognize a touch of anger there. Or is it fear? ‘I found her wandering about on the estate with a couple of her friends.’

  ‘Is that it? I thought something terrible had happened. Were they smoking or something? I’ll have a word—’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. Give me a chance to explain.’

  ‘All right. Explain. What were they doing?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ he says, frustratingly. ‘Scarlet insists they were just out walking. I suspect there was some smoking and drinking involved. I’m not judging, I know what we were like at that age.’ A brief flashback to summer nights on the moors, wild camping and bottles of Merrydown. ‘I got angry with them for trespassing when it’s dangerous out there, but they wouldn’t come inside so I had a bit of a go at Scarlet.’

  ‘Dangerous? Why would it be dangerous?’

  ‘There’s a trained marksman after a fox,’ he goes on. ‘And I don’t want any accidents.’

  I must look horrified, because he says, ‘Don’t worry, it’s over and done with very quickly and much better than being torn apart by hounds.’

  For a second I must look even more horrified before I realize he’s talking about the fox, not Scarlet, and I’m just so relieved he’s brought her home. She’s safe. Alive.

  ‘Where are her friends now?

  ‘Waiting in my car so I can take them home.’

  I rush to the kitchen. There she is, sitting at the table, arms folded, the old look of fire in her eyes. I am so pleased to see it, I bend down and give her a huge hug and don’t say a word. After a moment of this she hugs me back and whispers into my ear, ‘Nathan’s a jerk.’ And I love her all the more for these words of wisdom and clarity.

  ‘He is,’ I agree. ‘He really is.’

  TONIGHT IS THE big one, ‘Carols by Candlelight’ at St Mary Magdalene. To add to the festive excitement, it’s also a Christingle service. Alongside the singing of ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ and ‘We Three Kings’, there will be small children holding candles precariously aloft, stabbing their fingers with cocktail sticks and spitting out dolly mixtures. There will be weeping and wailing and half-hearted, awkward parental singing, phlegmy coughs and little noses bubbling with snot. Rob and Melina don’t know what they’re missing.

  My husband has reached Victoria Falls, according to his blog, where he and his Doncaster mate, Jumbo, have been spending the last couple of days resting and recuperating. Though I hardly think a bungee jump over the Zambezi River can be either restful or recuperative. Still, tomorrow they cross the border into Zambia and he will be one country closer to home.

  Melina, by contrast, is in mourning – her beloved grandmother passed away earlier today, in the bed she was born in, surrounded by her family. Melina will stay on for the funeral and probably into the new year so she can help her uncle and aunt sort out the legacy of a very long life.

  AFTER NATHAN’S ANGER at Scarlet and her friends the other night, I finally manage to grab a word with her in a spare moment following another of her hikes. I drag her to the cupboard, where we’re surrounded by the seventies wallpaper and the musty smell of home. We sit cross-legged, knee-to-knee, like we’re about to sing ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’. The old Scarlet would never enclose herself in such a confined space with me, or with anyone who wasn’t an immediate friend. So this is progress. But still. I have to ask her the question.

  ‘Why the moonlight walks on someone else’s property?’

  She opens her mouth as though to tell me in no uncertain terms exactly why, but then she changes her mind, containing her temper, obviously weighing up how to answer. There’s no I have every right to walk wherever I damn well please! or, The rich just get richer while the poor get poorer! or anything that the old Scarlet would have preached about – which, though idealistic, would have made perfect sense to me. Instead, she doesn’t lecture me. She keeps quiet.

  ‘There could’ve been a terrible accident,’ I tell her, her calmness rubbing off on me.

  ‘Shooting is not accidental,’ she replies, calmness evaporating. ‘You have to intend to shoot a target.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Unless you’re one of those American toddlers who kill their siblings by mistake.’

  ‘Also true,’ I agree. ‘We should be thankful the worst you ever did to Ruby was shut her finger in the car door.’

  ‘That was an accident!’

  ‘I know! I’m not accusing you. Anyway, we’re getting off track. Why were you there, on the estate?’

  ‘It’s beautiful land,’ she says. ‘We wanted to explore it.’

  ‘In the dark?’

  ‘We’d get caught in the day.’

  Logic at its finest. ‘You only have to ask Nathan,’ I remind her. ‘I’m sure he’d be more than happy to let you walk there.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ There’s an enigmatic set to her mouth.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I prod her knee with my knee, jokey, keeping it light.

  ‘I told you,’ she says. ‘He’s a jerk.’

  ‘I know that but why do you think he’s a jerk?’

  She waits a second and then she says: ‘Because of what he did to you and Rube, of course.’

  ‘Well, yes, there is that.’ The evidence of his jerkiness is very hard to dispute.

  ‘And he shoots animals,’ she adds, firing up now. ‘I’m not talking about the foxes; I can sort of understand him shooting foxes even if I don’t agree with it, because they do kill poultry – though maybe they shouldn’t actually keep poultry, because if they were vegans they wouldn’t need to eat eggs.’ A deep breath. ‘I know it’s better to cull foxes with a trained marksman at night than to tear them apart with hounds by day, but why does Nathan have to let idiots kill defenceless birds for pleasure?’

  ‘I don’t know, love,’ I tell her while she takes another pause for breath, most of the oxygen in the cupboard having been sucked away. ‘I don’t like shooting either. I don’t like field sports. But it’s not going to change.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ she says with a grim determination, and my stomach feels like it has a pebble in it.

  RUBY HAS ALREADY been at St Mary Magdalene for a couple of hours for a final run-through by the time I arrive, shepherding Eve, Des and Scarlet. We sit midway down the nave, which is already filling up, near the table in the aisle that is crammed with Christingle oranges, candles waiting to be lit. There’s a wonderful smell in the cool air of spices and citrus which will no doubt be upstaged by the pong of singed fringes further down the line. I’ve already noticed the strategically placed buckets of sand and fire extinguishers.

  It’s a joyous occasion, and we’re surrounded by a hum of expectation and anticipation. The choir sing that one from Home Alone, ‘O Holy Night’, and people hush and listen, fidget gently in their seats, getting coughs out of the way, sweets from pockets, tissues from handbags.

  We’re welcomed by Isabella, the rector, dressed resplendently in her purple Advent robes. She’s in charge of several rural churches but always has the Christingle service here as it’s the prettiest and most central location with a connection to the Chudston Estate
. I’ve seen her around in the village, in town, up at the school. She’s hands-on and involved in the community – and receives great praise for this from Eve. Quite different from the old parson back in the day, who used to give me the creeps and sing the mass in Latin.

  The orchestra and choir fire up with a jazzy version of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ and we’re off. Ruby is a picture of concentration, her hands moving fast over the strings and her foot on the pedal. She shadows Malcolm and I remind myself to thank him later for his efforts over recent weeks to keep Ruby on board.

  After all the usual suspects, with the lighting of the Christingle candles accompanied by ‘Away in a Manger’, Isabella delivers a brief Christmas message. The relevance of Jesus’s birth today. How he was born in an animal feeding trough. In an occupied land. How he became a refugee. How the God of Love is on the side of the vulnerable and powerless.

  While Scarlet is listening intently, focusing on this woman of the cloth and the message she’s delivering so succinctly, one of the church wardens passing down the aisle offers her an orange. She accepts it with a coy smile, her eyes sparkling with childlike joy.

  As he lights the candle for her with a taper he says, ‘You’re never too old for one of these.’

  Then he pats Des on the back, obviously a friend or acquaintance of his, and I wonder at all these people and where they’ve come from to get to this point, here and now, in this little piece of the West Country.

  The children – including Scarlet – are entranced by the flames they are allowed to hold so close to them, going against all the warnings they have ever heard about playing with fire. The glow of the candles, the beauty of the music and the incense and orangey smell make me realize with a rush that Christmas Eve is tomorrow and Rob is still away. I think there was a small part of me that thought he might have given up by now. That he’d have come home with his tail between his legs, rather than his bike. But no. He has persevered and I can’t help but feel quite in awe of him. Impressed that his usual butterfly brain has stayed focused for all these weeks. Whether he can keep it up, though, is another matter.

  But now the service is ending. We are dismissed with a blessing and a prayer, and as the band put away their instruments and music, and the parents chivvy out their kids, it’s time to go home.

  ‘My dear?’ An arm slips around my waist and it’s not Des’s, though it could be.

  ‘Malcolm? Everything all right?’

  ‘Everything is joyous. Marvellous. Peace and goodwill to all men and women and even to young musicians.’

  ‘Is that a reference to Ruby? Is she getting on all right? She seemed to be enjoying the playing. Actually more than I’ve seen her before.’

  ‘I believe she has talent. And that she could perform rather well if she gave herself the chance.’ He beams at me.

  I’m not entirely sure what he means or how she would give herself the chance to do this.

  ‘How does she do that?’ I ask him.

  ‘By channelling her wayward teenage emotions into the music.’

  ‘Wayward teenage emotions?’

  ‘She has a fire within.’

  ‘She does?’

  ‘Don’t look so worried, my dear. An internal fire is a very good thing. She can use it to fuel her harp-playing.’

  ‘Right. Have you been talking to Des, by any chance?’

  ‘Only about the state of his grapes. Talking of which’ – he checks his watch – ‘it must be time to get back home for a tipple. It’s nearly Christmas, after all.’ He gives me another of his beaming smiles and I wonder if anyone other than his students receives this grin. His wife died many years ago, Des told me. He has no children...

  ‘What are you actually doing on Christmas Day, Malcolm? Anything nice?’

  ‘Very nice, thank you,’ he says. ‘I shall be dining with the best company.’

  ‘Oh really? Who’s that?’

  ‘Myself, of course.’ A cheekier grin this time.

  ‘You’ll be alone?’

  ‘You’re never alone if you enjoy your own company.’

  ‘I suppose. But still. Christmas.’ And before I can stop myself, I ask: ‘Would you like to spend it with us?’

  ‘With you?’ He sounds bewildered. So bewildered that I wonder if spending Christmas Day with us is that horrific a prospect. But no. ‘How very kind,’ he says graciously. ‘And thoughtful.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I should be delighted to accept your invitation.’ He gives a little bow.

  ‘Eve and Des will be very happy.’

  ‘Not so Ruby?’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be very happy too. Inside. Deep down. Hopefully.’

  He has a chuckle. ‘We’ll get that fire stoked by hook or by crook. Or failing that, good old hard cash.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You leave it to me, my dear. You leave it to me.’

  WHEN I WAS a child, Christmas Eve was my favourite day of the year. It was all to do with excitement and anticipation. By the day after Boxing Day, the house would be in disarray, the tree wonky and half-bald, paper chains hanging limp in the draughts. Half a dozen baking trays encrusted with burnt offerings would be rusting outside in the yard alongside a crate of empty wine bottles.

  As an adult in London, things were different. I was organized, for a start. Well in advance. Though by the time the girls woke us up early on Christmas morning I’d be shattered from the previous weeks’ run-up of school concerts, work events, parties, presents and preparations. In they’d creep, dragging their bulging pillowcases, heaving themselves up onto our bed with cold hands and feet and noses, with big smiles and bright eyes, while Rob and I fought to wake up. And then in the dark days between Christmas and New Year I’d have a plan of activities ranging from the panto to ice skating. A new diary. A list of resolutions. A clear-out for the charity shops.

  This year, I’ve decided to let go of stress. What will be will be. There are no traditions that need to be upheld, except that the girls are still demanding pillowcases. Even the prospect of Malcolm combined with sprouts and booze is not going to faze me.

  BUT THERE WILL always be surprises. Shocks, even.

  At twelve o’clock, as I’m at the sink peeling the carrots for the next day, a taxi pulls into the yard. We’re not expecting anyone so I have no idea who it could be.

  I wipe my hands on Eve’s Mother Christmas apron, the one she’s insisted all week that I wear, hand-made by a women’s cooperative in Nepal, and go to the door to see who it is.

  Ingrid?

  Why the hell is my mother-in-law standing in the middle of our farmyard in her polished court shoes, twinset and pearls and Mad Men-style coat?

  And not only that. Why the hell is Declan standing beside her in his best Paul Smith?

  ‘What on earth are you two doing here?’ My heart’s all a-flutter. ‘Has something bad happened?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Ingrid says. ‘We’ve come to stay for Christmas.’ And she looks most put out by the lack of a fanfare.

  THEY MET AT the railway station, apparently. Somehow discovered they were coming to the same place and so shared a ride. Declan tells me this. In the cupboard. Where he’s followed me after I tried to retreat with a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream while Eve deals with Ingrid.

  ‘Tell me again why you’re here, Dec? On Christmas Eve? With Ingrid?’

  ‘Like I said, I didn’t plan it. I spotted her waiting for a taxi and we got talking. It took her a while to recognize me, but then she remembered seeing me at one of your barbecues. Apparently my appearance made quite an impression! Did you know she hates your barbecues – thinks they’re nonsense! – but accepts every invitation just to get to see her granddaughter?’ He looks incredulous and then immediately sheepish.

  ‘Soz,’ he says. ‘Did I say too much?’

  I ignore his apology. After all, it’s not Dec’s fault Ingrid’s so snobby. ‘She thinks our barbecues are “nonsense”?’

  ‘
Er... Yes.’

  ‘Why the bloody hell is she here? Did she tell you?’

  ‘She did. It’s Christmas Eve and she always sees you on Christmas Eve. She was quite firm about that.’

  ‘But that’s when we’re in London. That’s when Rob’s here. I thought we’d get away with it under the circumstances. I sent her an amaryllis and a Christmas card. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Evidently not.’

  ‘And did you see all those bags?’

  ‘I did. She’s brought John Lewis with her.’

  My heart sinks. ‘Poor John Lewis. What did he do to deserve that?’

  Declan chuckles, tops up my drink, then reaches for the hip flask in his jacket pocket like a cowboy going for his gun.

  I’m so glad he’s here, even if it is a few days earlier than expected. But... ‘Why on earth are you wearing a suit anyway? This is Devon.’

  ‘You never can tell who you might meet on a train journey,’ he says with a wink. ‘Though if I’d known it would be your mother-in-law, I wouldn’t have gone to such trouble.’ He pulls his cuffs down and straightens his tie. ‘Though there’s always a chance I might meet a hot farmer. Do you know any hot farmers?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Shame.’ He juts out his bottom lip in mock sadness. A mock sadness that is no doubt covering over some genuine sadness.

  ‘Maybe it’s time you had a break from men?’ I suggest.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Have you heard from Mark?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too.’ He takes another swig from his hip flask and hands it to me because I’ve drained my own glass.

  Brandy. Hot. Shocking. Delicious.

  ‘ROBERT IS DOING ever so well with his epic journey,’ Ingrid tells Des a little later, during a late and hurriedly assembled lunch. Des nods in all the right places, uncharacteristically quiet. ‘He’s raising money for elephants.’

  ‘Elephants?’

  ‘Elephant conservation.’

 

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