‘Yes,’ Melina says, somehow managing to keep impatience at bay. ‘The same and the one.’
‘Right,’ Eve says. ‘And where is your Dr Tomasz now?’ She looks around as if he might be hiding under the table. ‘We must celebrate.’
‘He is next door. He stays with two other friends in Nathan’s castle. Nathan says he has work for them. But first I think they must help with pruning.’
‘Ah. Yes. The pruning.’ Eve shakes her head. ‘We’ve been making very slow progress with that. You’ve returned at the perfect time.’
‘Yes,’ Melina agrees. ‘Perfect time.’ And she twiddles that ruby ring of hers.
LYING IN BED that night, I’m thankful for the return of my friend safe and sound: sad for her loss, but happy for her engagement. A little jealous too, perhaps, at the obvious signs of her being in love. I close my eyes and try to remember that feeling, but it was such a long time ago. And now, with my eyes shut, instead of my loving husband, all I can visualize are the flames licking the roof of the barn.
LUCKILY, WHEN YOU taste wine properly, unlike when on a drinking bender, you don’t imbibe it, so we can’t be accused of getting drunk on a school day.
Des, Eve, Melina and myself head up the valley to Chudston Winery. It’s a much bigger concern than ours. Not as pretty a place, more commercial. Not that I see ‘commercial’ as a filthy word in the way that Eve does – though it has to be said, ever since her portrait sold so well on eBay, she’s been much more interested in things of a financial nature. Maybe a leopard can change her spots? I don’t think I’ll ever see her and Des move into a bungalow, but now I’m living at Home Farm and the girls are settled and doing so well, I can see us staying here for the longer term, and so there’s no need for them to downsize.
There, I’ve said it. To myself at least. I wouldn’t mind staying. Which of course means I wouldn’t mind giving up my London life.
But where does that leave Rob?
Right now, in Kenya, somewhere between the Tanzanian border and Nairobi, in the lead-up to what they have been warned will be the toughest part of their journey, North Kenya. A long way from home. A long way from being my husband.
WHIZZING ALONG THE Devon B-roads in Des’s old Capri, everywhere looking dirty from recent rain, reddish-brown rivulets running down the gullies of the lanes into the high hedges on either side. A glimpse of a pink-stained sheep or two. A horse in a blanket looking over a gate. The River Chud full and flowing on the nearside of the car.
We almost overshoot the turn-off to the vineyard but, as we swerve into the entrance, there before us are the southerly slopes with row upon regimented row of spindly vines.
We park in front of the family-run winery – a very modern, clean, shiny barn. It’s right up Melina’s street and she’s already out of the car, wellies on, before Des has turned the engine off, striding ahead to see for herself the hive of industry within.
Eve and I head with Des to the cafe so he can show us his commissioned painting of the vineyard in situ. The place has a young, fresh vibe to it – industrial chic, copper pipes and bare Edison light bulbs.
‘It’ll look lovely when it’s finished,’ Eve says, not a hint of irony.
The painting, however, looks fantastic, we’re all agreed on that. It hangs above a long refectory-style table on the far wall, almost as if it’s a window. Des is recognized straight away by one of the staff and we’re whisked off for a tour and then to sit down for the tasting. This takes place informally, in the family kitchen, around a table with a white linen cloth. Plenty of wine glasses, a water jug and tumblers, a spittoon, napkins. The owner’s mother is called Ruth. She’s the old friend of Des’s and is the one who’ll be looking after us. She is a fine wine connoisseur and we feel confident in her care.
Ruth is no fool. She has a selection of Chudston’s wine for us to try; she knows we have no stocks of our own yet and need to build up our reserves so we can use them for blends in the future – not every harvest will be good. We also need some bottles now and for the intervening years.
What else are we supposed to drink, after all? And how else can we market our vineyard without wine?
‘Try this,’ Ruth says, bringing me back with a jolt to the here and now.
A frisson of excitement bubbles up around the table.
‘It’s your Pinot Noir,’ she explains.
We try our Pinot Noir.
‘I can smell raspberries. And strawberries,’ I say, feeling a little naive and childlike in my observations.
‘And on the palate, a touch of incense,’ Eve adds, impressively.
‘Sensuous and fragrant,’ Des says, breathing deeply and then glugging.
‘This will add backbone and body to your wine,’ Ruth says, clearly impressed with our response. ‘Now your Chardonnay.’
We try our Chardonnay. I remember the white grapes so clearly, hanging in big succulent bunches on the vine. And here it is as wine. Flowery. Lemony. Nutty, even. More of a delicate fragrance.
‘This will be slower to develop,’ Ruth says. ‘But it ages very well.’
‘Like us, eh, Ruth?’ Des teases.
‘Just like us, Des,’ she agrees with a chuckle. ‘What do you think, then?’
‘I’m blown away,’ I say without thinking. It’s quite an emotional response. Remembering those grapes, Rob ferrying them from the vineyard to the barn. The blisters from the secateurs. The volunteers. The pickers. The appearance and discovery of Nathan. It seems so long ago, despite only being a few months. Rob’s been gone all this time, having adventures, following his passion, and what I thought was going to be a terrible year has turned out to be an adventure of our own.
‘Try our Pinot Meunier,’ Ruth urges gently. ‘It’s an overlooked blending grape.’
‘Ruth’s a big advocate of Meunier,’ Des tells us, sniffing deeply from the massive glass.
‘It can make lovely wines in its own right,’ Ruth says. ‘It’s not without its challenges. It’s not the easiest to grow. The leaf is furry, velvety, looks like it’s been dredged in flour,’ she continues. ‘It’s known as the miller’s grape.’
Ruth’s a veritable bundle of knowledge. Maybe I should be taking notes.
‘Unlike Chardonnay,’ she goes on, ‘which has very straight shoots, Meunier is more bushy, which means there’s a lot of canopy work. But the buds appear a little later and so it’s less prone to frost. And even if it does get caught out by the frost, it can go on to produce a good secondary crop. You’d never get that with Chardonnay. Try it.’
We try her Pinot Meunier. Another black grape. It’s aromatic. Fruity. A little smoky. Earthy. Acidic.
Melina is missing out on all this. Where is she? Has she fallen into a vat?
‘As well as adding richness to your sparkling wine, the Pinot Meunier will help it age more quickly.’
‘Well, that’s sorted then, as my granddaughters might say.’ Des laughs out loud, pleased with himself, then becomes a little more serious. ‘Good wine is worth waiting for but I don’t know how many more years I have on this planet.’
Serious but not morbid. He’s never worried about his own mortality, not when he has so much to enjoy in the here and now.
So it is agreed. We will work with the winemaker here to make a vintage blend, the cuvée, with a combination of our Pinot Noir and Chardonnay and their 2018 Pinot Meunier.
But there is a niggle. Quite a big niggle, actually. And I just have to bring this niggle to the table. ‘You don’t think we’re competing, do you?’ I ask Ruth.
‘Competing? My dear girl, no. Not at all. We are lovers of wine – your family and my family. We want to spread the joy. Share the love. There’s a big enough thirst for many more vineyards on this island. The people of this country will never tire of drinking wine. And what we do the best is sparkling wine. The way forward is collaboration.’
Eve nods vigorously in agreement. She is oddly quiet this afternoon. I think she’s also somewhat blown away at the prospect and at the r
ealization of having produced decent wine.
‘As we divide from the rest of Europe,’ Ruth goes on, ‘we need to find ways to tie us together. We can be a part of an international wine community. But we can also be neighbours who make wine together and alongside each other. Like so many do in France.’
‘I can almost hear the “Anthem of Europe”,’ Des jokes.
‘Ah,’ Ruth says. ‘Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”. What a cracker.’
They share a dreamy look.
‘“She gave us kisses and the fruit of the vine”,’ Eve adds and a rueful sigh whooshes around the table.
I need to bring this meeting back on track. ‘Have you ever considered doing weddings here, Ruth? Like I said, I don’t want us to pit ourselves against you because I don’t think we’d come out of it too well.’
‘Nonsense, my dear. From what your parents tell me, you’ll make a wonderful job of it. And Home Farm will be the perfect setting. Once you get your new roof. Besides, we don’t want to go down that route. We want to concentrate on the winery, the tours, and the cafe – probably a decent restaurant. We may do some events – corporate, mainly – but not weddings. And there might well be some work for you here too, Chrissie.’ She smiles. ‘There’s no competition, just collaboration.’
‘Really? Well, that’s good then, I suppose. I mean, it’s really good.’
And before I make a fool of myself by being mushy in my thanks, in rushes Melina, almost falling through the kitchen door in excitement.
‘The wine is very good,’ she says. ‘My babcia would approve.’
LATER, FALLING ASLEEP, I realize my mind is less cluttered, that things are coming together. I feel less pressure, as if my life has slowed down to a particular rhythm. A rhythm that’s much easier to keep time to. A country rhythm in tune with the seasons and all those who went before us. You don’t get the constant rumbling of traffic out here – but you do get all sorts of other noises. At first I couldn’t get used to it. Now I sleep through most of them.
Tonight, however, something wakes me in the small hours. Something I don’t usually hear. A click. A dull thud. Like a door closing. I lie there, imagining burglars. Imagining all sorts. So I get up, panicky, to check there isn’t a murderer on the loose.
Every step is creaky. This is a very old house – hundreds of years old, I remind myself. A click or a thud could be anything.
With a raised heart rate, I use the torch on my phone to make my way downstairs in the proper country darkness. I check the study, living room and studio. All clear. So on to the kitchen. Silence. I hold my breath as I switch on the light, not sure now whether I really expect to see an intruder. There’s no one. Not even Luther, who must have snuck upstairs to sleep with Scarlet.
The back door is locked, and after I’ve checked the boot room, laundry and pantry too, I head back to my room, heart rate lowered considerably. My feet are freezing and I can’t wait to climb back into bed and curl up; I’ve got used to sleeping on my own. Those sultry nights of tangled sheets with Rob seem very far away now.
I put my head round Ruby’s door. Fast asleep. Deep breathing and very still. The creases that have marred her forehead of late smooth again. Maybe she’s come through the worst.
Don’t divide the skin while it’s still on the bear. I can hear Melina whisper this in my ear and I actually physically shake my head to get rid of the nag. I won’t count my chickens, thank you very much. Actually I have just checked on one of my chicks. So better do the other one.
Scarlet is all tucked up, her head almost covered by her duvet. She looks snuggly. Especially spooned next to Luther, the big lump. He lifts his head, dares me to move him. When he knows he’ll get away with it, he drops his head back onto the bed – the pillow, I ask you – and sighs. Then in a blink he’s fast asleep and snoring.
I’m an idiot. If a burglar was creeping round our house, Luther most certainly would’ve mentioned it.
I am a worryguts.
Sometimes you need to listen to your guts. But right now, I’m looking forward to blissful sleep.
CRACK! CRACK!
Gunfire. This is probably the last shoot, because it’s almost the end of the pheasant season so hopefully Scarlet can then relax a bit.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Time to get up, then.
EVE IS ON her own at the kitchen table by the time I’m showered and dressed.
‘Morning, Christabel. Sleep well? You look refreshed. Your bags have shrunk.’
‘My bags?’
‘Under your eyes.’
‘I wasn’t aware I had bags under my eyes.’
‘Well, it’s hardly surprising given the last few months. But not to worry. Sleep seems to have sorted them out, so don’t fret about it.’
I wasn’t fretting until she mentioned it, but now of course I am considering how many bottles of sparkling wine will pay for cosmetic surgery.
‘There’s tea in the pot. Builder’s. Just how you like it.’ Eve is oblivious to my new plight. ‘Can you manage some eggs and bacon?’
‘Yes, please.’ I’m six years old again, waiting for Eve to rustle up some Saturday morning magic, wishing I could watch Saturday Superstore like everyone else in my class, but we didn’t have a telly. ‘I should check on the girls first though.’
‘Let them sleep,’ Eve says. ‘It’s Saturday. They’ve had a busy week.’
She puts my mug of tea on the table and nods at me to sit down, so I do as I’m told because sometimes it’s easier.
‘I’ll let them have another hour.’
BUT IN LESS than an hour, Scarlet is standing in the kitchen, fully clothed in black trousers and fleece, hair stuffed into a bobble hat, army boots shedding mud over the flags. The only colour is a streak of blood running down her face. It appears to be coming from a cut above one eye.
‘Scarlet! What’s happened? I thought you were in bed.’
‘Those bastards,’ she seethes.
‘What happened? Who did this to you?’
She doesn’t answer because in comes Ruby, also dressed in black, as if the pair of them have been to some bizarre funeral.
‘It was one of the hunters,’ Ruby says. ‘On the shoot.’
‘You’ve been on the shoot?’
‘Yes. Well, no. Not actually on it,’ she says.
Scarlet hasn’t said another word. Her mouth is set in a grim line. Her hands are shaking with rage. Eve moves her to the window seat and dispenses a dose of Rescue Remedy. Asks calmly what happened. Far more calmly than I am capable of being.
‘What on earth has been going on?’ Both girls look at me warily and I realize my voice sounds a little high-pitched.
Eve takes control. ‘Why don’t you get Ruby cleaned up in the bathroom,’ she suggests, quite firmly. ‘She’s covered in mud. And is that a scratch on her cheek?’
‘I’m fine,’ says Ruby, touching her cheek to see if it hurts.
I take a closer look at her face. It is dirty and sweaty but I can’t see any blood. Why is Eve fussing over Ruby when Scarlet’s the injured one— Oh. I catch a mother-to-mother movement of Eve’s eyes. I take her point and reluctantly leave them to it, taking Ruby with me to the bathroom so we can talk without upsetting her sister any further. So I can get to the bottom of this. Because if anyone will tell me, it’s Ruby – the little grass.
‘It was Scarlet’s idea,’ is Ruby’s opening gambit.
‘What?
‘Sabotaging the shoot.’
‘What?!’
‘Morley was in on it too. Then Barney and I said we’d help out. Scarlet’s spent ages on the planning.’
It hits me now. I’ve been an idiot. I thought Scarlet had caught the rambling bug. But all the time she’s been ‘hiking’, she’s actually been on recces, working out ways to disrupt the pheasant shoot. I don’t know whether to be angry or proud. A bit of both, if I’m honest.
‘And what happened? Why’s she bleeding?’
‘One of the blokes got
all shirty. He threw a stone at us and it hit Scarlet above the eye. Then Nathan was there, ordering everyone around. He punched the bloke. Then the police were called.’
‘The police? Who called the police?’
‘Dunno. All of a sudden a car was there and two rozzers were questioning everyone. Then they just told us to go home and so Jackie brought us back.’
‘Jackie?’
‘She was on the shoot—’
‘For God’s sake! What is wrong with that woman?’
‘Well, she has first-aid training and she looked at Scarlet’s cut and said it always bleeds a lot there, above the eye, and it looks worse than it actually is.’
‘But I thought she’d given up hunting?’
‘Only foxes. She’s moved on to birds, because you can’t eat foxes. She makes pheasant stew. Only Scarlet said that most of the pheasants don’t even get eaten. Butchers won’t have them because of the lead shot. And some of the birds just get wounded and die a horrible, painful, slow death.’
I know someone else who might suffer a horrible, painful, slow death when I get my hands on him.
‘Don’t be angry, Mum. You look really angry. Jackie’s all right. A bit weird. But she dropped us home, said she’ll be back after she’s dropped Barney off and had a word with him. He’s in trouble. Am I in trouble?’
‘I’m not sure, Ruby. Do you think you should be in trouble?’
‘The police just told us off and said it could have been a nasty accident. Someone could’ve got shot.’
The thought of one of my girls felled by a gun is too much. The bathroom floor slides and I have to sit on the edge of the bath where Ruby has chucked her muddy socks so that she can wash her feet in the bidet. From here I can see across the vineyard to the row of trees behind, the estate boundary, and I feel the anger bubbling inside.
‘Tell me again what happened, Ruby.’
It turns out that last night, Scarlet and Ruby crept out of the house while everyone was asleep, taking Luther so he wouldn’t wake us up with barking, and because they are both afraid of the dark. Which accounts for the thud waking me up, which was them returning from moving the pheasant feeders Scarlet had located on previous recces. The feeders were at the top of a hill in a line, so they moved them as far as they could to draw the birds away from the shoot.
The West Country Winery Page 22