Vineyard in a Valley

by Gloria Bevan

  ‘Not for quite a while. My fault.’ Over his shoulder he sent Tracy an unexpected grin. ‘I just didn’t know who I was looking for.’

  ‘Come along into the house—’ The slim little woman with a carefully made up complexion and untidy blonde hair led the way up the steps. ‘Just call me Lucie, Tracy, everyone else does around here!’ They passed through a sunny balcony, then moved into a spacious lounge room furnished with comfortable floral linen-covered chairs. The floor was half covered by a sheepskin rug evidently in the process of being made, for loose fleeces of all shades were scattered over the polished boards. ‘Don’t take any notice of the mess!’ With a teenage-fashion type shoe the older woman kicked an orange-coloured sheepskin out of the way and bent to retrieve a pot of carpet glue. ‘I’m making a big rug to cover this room. Steve says he doesn’t want it, but I think he does, and I’m making it anyway. Trouble is, it’s getting so big!’ Chattering gaily, she guided Tracy along a carpeted hall towards an open doorway. ‘This is the nicest room, the one Alison had when she was here.’ Once again Tracy caught the odd inflection when her cousin’s name was mentioned, but could you wonder at it, after all the upsets? Oh dear, she simply couldn’t stay here of all places, not after what had happened. ‘Just put the bags on the bed, will you, Steve?’ the older woman was saying.

  He put the luggage down, then turned away.

  ‘He’s always so busy,’ Lucie said with a sigh. ‘Never mind, though, at least he didn’t bring you back at some ghastly hour this morning before I had time to put my face on. You’ve no idea what you look like when you’re sixty-six, first thing in the morning! I just couldn’t bear you to see me like that!’

  Privately Tracy thought that the warmth of her welcome here meant infinitely more to her than the most impeccable make-up. What matter that the pale gold hair was at odds with a tanned and wrinkled complexion? Or that the high fashion little-girl frock was more suited for wear by a seventeen-year-old? Lucie was kind and welcoming and blessedly ordinary, and somehow today these particular qualities counted for quite a lot!

  ‘What a pretty room!’ She was glancing around the pale blue walls and ceiling, a violet-tinged bedspread, the floor covered with a luxuriously fluffy white sheepskin rug. At the wide open windows snowy Terylene curtains billowed in the breeze, affording a view of rolling hills and bush-clad slopes beyond.

  ‘I’m glad you like it, dear. I copied the colour scheme from a furnishing magazine and made the rug myself. This is the wardrobe,’ crossing the room, she slid open a folding concertina-type white door. ‘Heavens! I’d forgotten that was still there!’

  ‘That’, Tracy realized at once, was a long white bridal gown exquisitely fashioned from guipure lace. On the shelf above she glimpsed a sculptured headdress and trailing net veil. Looking a trifle flustered, Lucie snatched down the hanger, reached for the headdress and veiling and bundled the trailing frock over her arm.

  ‘Such a waste of money, all this, but it couldn’t be helped! It was delivered here by the boutique in Auckland the day we got back from our trip, but of course your cousin (‘your cousin’ again, Tracy thought uneasily) had gone away from here by then. Here’s something else your cousin left behind, or didn’t want to take with her!’ Lucie was peering into the back of the closet. ‘May as well leave it there, I don’t suppose she’ll even miss it. I never knew a girl to have so many expensive outfits.’ Her brown eyes twinkled across at Tracy. ‘But that’s just jealousy. I expect I’d be just the same if I were her age, and had the funds’. And that perfectly gorgeous complexion that you English girls seem to take for granted. It’s the sun over here that’s our undoing. It makes you so tanned and dried-up looking. You just can’t help it. Not like women of my age over in England. I went there for a trip last year and I did envy them, the oldies, I mean, with their pretty pink and white look. Oh well, I do love to sunbathe, and you can’t have everything!’

  ‘Don’t bother taking Alison’s things away,’ Tracy said quietly. ‘I haven’t come to stay, you know. It was just that Stephen—he’s your nephew?’

  The older woman nodded. ‘Oh yes, I’m very proud of him.’

  Tracy tried not to look too surprised. ‘It was just that he insisted on my coming here and of course I wanted to meet you, but I—’

  ‘Let’s discuss all that later. Right now you’ll want to freshen up. Bathroom’s next door, and I’ll have coffee ready on the terrace.’

  ‘We had coffee in the terminal lounge,’ Tracy demurred, but Lucie dismissed the matter with a lift of slim shoulders. ‘That’s not the same thing at all. Come along when you’re ready, child, and don’t argue!’

  Tracy flung her a laughing glance. ‘Just as you say, Lucie!’

  ‘That’s better!’

  Left alone, Tracy dropped down to the bed and sat motionless, lost in thought. Everyone here seemed reluctant to discuss Alison, but of course that was understandable considering the havoc the other girl had left behind her. If only Alison had left some message for her. A letter, perhaps? Swiftly she leaped to her feet and began opening bureau drawers in swift succession, but there was nothing. She could only hope that Alison would write her a note from the cruise ship explaining what had actually happened to put a finish to all her plans.

  In a gleaming lilac washbasin with its chrome finings, Tracy washed her hands, drying them on a thickly textured mauve towel. Then back in the bedroom she ran a comb through her hair, added a touch of pale pink to her lips. She was making her way along the passage when she paused, arrested by a framed photograph hanging on the wall, a blown-up colour print of a party of climbers silhouetted against a sky of blazing blue. Roped in pairs the mountaineers stood braced with ice-axes on the slopes of a sheer snow-covered peak. Underneath was a caption.

  Moment of triumph atop Mt. Cook.

  Climbing party led by Cliff Crane.

  Crane, who has climbed in Nepal and Peru, is one of the four men who have scaled Mt. Cook’s treacherous Caroline Face.

  She studied the picture curiously. Cliff ... not like his brother, that was for sure, except for the thick dark hair. A man of slighter build with a sensitive face and shy smile. The sort of man, the thought came unbidden, who would provide a ready-made foil for Alison’s gay sophistication.

  Intent on the photograph, she was unaware that Stephen had come to stand at her side until with a start she turned to find him beside her, his expression grim and forbidding. She forced a smile. ‘Your brother?’

  He nodded. ‘That’s Cliff. Lucie’s rattling cups out there like mad. Think you can drink another ration of coffee?’

  She turned away. ‘Glad to.’ She forbore telling him that she had scarcely been aware of the earlier coffee session. She had been too shocked to realize anything but the significance of what Stephen was telling her. All at once she felt a pang of conscience. ‘I’m sorry you had to leave your work to go all the way into town to meet me today.’ His closed look was anything but encouraging, but she hurried on, ‘I suppose it’s a busy time for you in the vineyards just now?’

  ‘It’s always a busy time,’ he said, and followed her out through the wide lounge room to the sun-splashed terrace with its wrought-iron railings.

  ‘Not for me, thanks—’ He waved aside his aunt’s inquiring look. ‘I’ve got to get cracking.’

  ‘Oh, Steve!’ Lucie regarded him with reproachful brown eyes.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ his cool gaze went to Tracy, ‘plenty to do outside... see you later.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Lucie murmured apologetically as she picked up a coffee percolator and began to pour a stream of brown liquid into pottery beakers, ‘he isn’t always like that, so cross and horrible. It’s only since ... since...’

  ‘Since Alison, you mean?’ Tracy’s clear candid gaze went to the older woman.

  Lucie sighed. ‘Yes, that’s about it. Did Steve tell you?’ Tracy took the beaker and seated herself on a coolie chair in the sunshine. ‘Well, he did ... sort of.’

 
; ‘That’s the whole trouble. He doesn’t like talking of it. If only he’d discuss it all he’d feel a whole lot better about things.’

  Tracy helped herself to raw sugar in a pottery jar. ‘You know something,’ she said with her engagingly frank smile, ‘I don’t really know yet what actually did happen about Alison—and Cliff. Your nephew told me that there’d been an accident after the engagement was broken off when you were all down south on a tour, that Cliff was badly hurt. Only...’ her voice died away on a puzzled note, ‘somehow it all seems so ... odd.’

  ‘Well, actually that’s about it. It all happened so suddenly.’ She avoided meeting Tracy’s gaze and hurried on in a quick, nervous voice. ‘I never saw Alison again after that last night. She just—took off.’

  Once again Tracy had a suspicion that something was missing from the bald explanations she had been given, something concerning Alison. Clearly, however, the older woman had no wish to revive the pain and embarrassment of the past few weeks, and Tracy could scarcely pursue the subject. At this rate, she thought with a sigh, she would never know the truth. Stephen? She remembered his grim expression. No help there. It couldn’t make the slightest difference to her anyway, whatever the cause of the shattered romance. Yet in some strange way that she couldn’t understand, somehow it did matter—awfully.

  Aloud she said hesitatingly, ‘It’s just ... I mean, I know that Alison rushed off and all that, but I thought she might have left something, some message for me—’

  ‘My goodness!’ Lucie ran her fingers through her hair, making it more untidy-looking than ever. ‘Thank heaven you reminded me! She did! She left a note that I was to give to you and I stuck it in my handbag that morning and never thought of it again. At least, I think I put it in my handbag. If only I could remember! It must be somewhere—Getting to her feet, she began to riffle through a pile of envelopes on the mantel, then opening the door of a cabinet, she tumbled the papers out on to the floor. ‘Maybe it’s still in my bag.’ Hurrying from the room, she returned in a few moments carrying a capacious lizard-skin handbag which she proceeded to tip upside down.

  A miscellaneous collection of objects fell to the floor. Lipstick, wool labels, fragments of fleece, shells, notebooks, pen—but no letter. ‘I do hope I haven’t lost it,’ she murmured anxiously to Tracy, who was down on her knees searching through the litter. ‘But not to worry, dear. It couldn’t have been anything that you don’t know already, and anyway, it’s sure to turn up.’ Picking up the tangled mass, she jammed it all roughly back into the depths of the handbag. ‘Things always do, sooner or later.’

  Tracy tried to hide her disappointment. If only Lucie had been a more methodical type of woman! If only she had placed the letter in a safe place. Now probably it was gone for ever.

  With an effort she brought her mind back to the light tones. ‘It’s got quite a name, Valley Vineyards, as being one of the most picturesque vineyards in the country! No wonder Steve’s so proud of it. He’s really wrapped up in this place,’ she confided. ‘It was his father’s first and his father’s before that. Winemaking is all Steve’s ever wanted to do. They say that winemakers aren’t made, they’re born, and that’s Steve! By sheer hard work and determination he’s brought his wines up to world class! Do you know, just the other day his special sparkling wines were chosen from all the local wines to be served at a special wine-growers’ dinner in London. Not bad for such a small place! It is small, you know, compared with the large ones, the well-known vineyards around here that are really big business these days. Steve’s is the only one in the district that’s owned by someone of non-Dalmatian descent. It’s so funny, no one in this country used to care a thing about serving wine in their home a few years ago and then suddenly folk have gone crazy over it! Must be something to do with gracious living or something. Anyway, Steve could sell all that he makes, only he happens to be more interested in quality and making a name for Valley Vineyards. Anyone can make an intoxicating beverage from grapes, but there’s more to it than that, a sort of mystique somehow. There’s a saying around these parts that to make good wine you must love your grapes, and unless you love winemaking you should leave it alone. Steve ... well, he knows the work and loves it. Not like Cliff...’

  Tracy glanced up from her beaker. ‘Your nephew said his brother is a mountaineer?’

  Lucie’s expression of animation faded. ‘Was, dear! He won’t be doing any more climbing, but,’ her brow cleared, ‘I always said it was a dangerous game!’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Cliff used to say that was the attraction held for him. “Dicing with death”, he called it, and yet,’ a deep sigh escaped her, ‘in the end he was hurt in his own car. But that’s the way things happen! It just seemed so hard,’ she went on as if speaking to herself, ‘the engagement to your cousin finished—he thought the world of Alison—and then the smash-up. All the same, it might have been all for the best, seeing—’ She broke off in some confusion. ‘Have one of these biscuits, dear? I made them myself.’

  As she took one of the light almond-topped confections Tracy wondered what it was that the older woman had been about to say. It was clear that she held no brief for Alison, considering her nephew well rid of the girl with whom he had been deeply in love. Why? And Stephen, what were his feelings in the matter?

  A rifle shot from somewhere close at hand jerked her from her thoughts—and Lucie smiled at Tracy’s expression of alarm. ‘It’s only Steve shooting over the heads of the birds to scare them away. They’re his main problem out there now the grapes are ripe.’

  ‘Oh, is that all?’ Tracy relaxed again. ‘I was wondering, have you been here long?’

  ‘Only a couple of years. Before that I was with my husband on a sheep station further south. When he died I did think of putting a manager on the place, but in the end I decided to sell out, have a few overseas trips—I just adore travel, don’t you—and make Steve and Cliffs place my home base, as it were. The two of them were here on their own and it seemed a good idea. I thought for a while that Cliff would be moving out, but that’s all changed now. Anyway, they seem to like to have me around to see to their meals. What they don’t like is my trying to smarten up the place for them! Talk about a bachelor establishment! You should have seen it before I moved in with them—ancient wallpaper, fly-speckled walls, lots of comfort and precious little else!

  ‘How did you like the bathroom colour scheme?’ she went on. ‘Lilac and green go well together, I always think. And the bedroom carpet in your room, I made that myself. I was so busy all the time we were on the sheep farm, you’ve no idea. The days just flew! But all the time I was putting aside the longest and fluffiest of the sheepskins—we used to cure them ourselves. One day I thought, when I have time, I’ll make rugs out of all these, and that’s just what I’m doing! I’ve dyed a lot of the pieces myself,’ she gestured towards the scattered multi-coloured fleeces. ‘It’s so easy. You just get some hessian, a bottle of carpet glue and you’re away! I’m starting with the border first, I thought a Mexican design, all in tawny yellows and russets, then the centre filled in with the white fleeces. It’s just as well that I enjoy craft work, for I’m sure Stephen won’t appreciate all this. He’d probably just as soon have the worn old mats that were on the floor when I came here. All he cares about is the outside layout, and Cliff’s as bad in that respect. I must admit, though, the way the grounds are laid out is quite lovely. Mind you,’ she finished slowly, ‘I don’t think your cousin thought much of it.’

  ‘Oh, but she did!’ Tracy cried. ‘She sent me a photograph of it. A gorgeous photo, so clear! You mightn’t believe this, but that snapshot of the vineyards had a lot to do with bringing me all the way out to New Zealand!’ She stirred her beaker thoughtfully, groping for the right words. ‘I didn’t want to come here today,’ she said in a low tone, ‘be a nuisance to you after ... after what happened before. It was just that your nephew said you were expecting me, so I thought...’ Her voice trailed unhappily away.

  ‘Of co
urse you had to come,’ Lucie protested briskly, ‘and stay here a while too. You’re very welcome to make this your home for as long as you like!’

  ‘It’s awfully kind of you to say that, but,’ she raised clear sea-blue eyes, ‘now that everything’s ... different ... I’ll have to make other plans. I thought, though, just for a day or two until I got my bearings?’

  ‘You stay just as long as you wish,’ Lucie returned warmly. ‘I’d love to have you.’

  But it’s not your home. She could scarcely say that. All she could do was murmur ‘thank you’ and shelve the problem meanwhile. Now that she had no need to hoard her slender resources for expenses connected with a family wedding, she could afford to take some bus tours of the North and South Island, see something of the scenic attractions of the country.

  ‘You know,’ Lucie was saying, ‘you’re lucky, Tracy. You’ve happened to arrive here on the one day when there happens to be something rather special on in the city. I bet you wouldn’t even know that Auckland’s a hundred years old this year and we’re putting on a month of centennial celebrations! That’s why tonight there’ll be dancing in Queen Street, singing, radio broadcasts, fun. All the young folks will be there—Steve can take you in to see it!’

  ‘Oh no,’ Tracy protested hastily, ‘he’ll be busy, I expect. I’m sure he won’t want to be bothered piloting me around.’

  ‘Who says so?’ Tracy glanced up to find him standing in the opening of the doorway. He had changed into work garments, a short-sleeved open weave grey shirt, shorts, sandals. A battered felt kiwi hat that he held in his hand went spinning across the room to land on a sideboard. ‘What makes you so sure I won’t take you into town tonight?’