Vineyard in a Valley

by Gloria Bevan

  ‘Leave your box on the side when you’ve filled it,’ the woman told her. ‘Stephen’ll be along later to pick them all up with the tractor. He left these Palominos until last so they’d be right at the point of perfection. He’s such a perfectionist himself, but I suppose that’s how he’s built up such a tremendous reputation for first-class wines. Just wait till you try his Valley Rose! You won’t bother to sample any other pink champagne after that!’

  As Tracy dropped a luscious bunch into her box she reflected that she was getting awfully tired of listening to Stephen Crane’s praises. Almost as tired as she was of having herself continually likened to her cousin. She couldn’t understand why in this little wine-making world, everyone appeared to look on Stephen Crane as someone special.

  Waving aside the fruit flies that hovered in a cloud around her, Tracy got down to her job. She felt that she was awkward in handling the secateurs and her progress was maddeningly slow in comparison with her workmates, whose boxes were overflowing and waiting to be picked up by the tractor while Tracy’s original one was still only a quarter filled.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ came the soft shy voice of a dark-haired picker a short distance away, ‘you’ll soon get into the way of it!’ And indeed before long Tracy found herself becoming accustomed to the unfamiliar work. She filled her first box with grapes, started on a second.

  At first it was fun. Morning sunshine filtering through the vines was a delight and her companions were a friendly and entertaining group, even though their endless chatter concerning husbands and families meant nothing to her. There was too a sense of achievement in filling the boxes to overflowing with the pale glistening bunches of grapes, in moving slowly along between the rows with a new and empty crate.

  As the sun rose higher, however, she felt her face becoming hot and flushed and already her arms were beginning to ache with the unaccustomed lifting.

  She was reaching towards a heavy cluster when she caught sight of the tractor approaching between the long rows of vines. Stephen was engaged in tipping the filled boxes into a foil-lined bin he was towing behind the tractor. Wasps, drunk with juice from the ripe fruit, staggered around the grape-bin.

  ‘Oh, Tracy,’ she had hoped to avoid being singled out for his attention. Already she had filled a number of the boxes he had just tipped into the bin, so what more did he want? Warily she glanced over her shoulder. ‘Better get back to the house right away and get Lucie to find you a sun-hat.’ His tone was peremptory, very much employer-to-employee. Too much so for her to accept! She was determined net to allow herself to be browbeaten by him.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she returned carelessly. ‘I don’t need it. The others aren’t wearing hats.’ Indeed she had taken particular notice yesterday that none of the women pickers wore sun hats, so it couldn’t be all that important. No doubt he was making a point of it to her because she’d insisted on taking the job against his advice. He just wanted to be officious and bossy!

  ‘The others are used to this climate. You’re not!’

  She laughed. ‘I’ll be all right.’ She hoped her careless tone would convey the words she didn’t quite have the courage to put into words. I don’t need your advice on every single thing, even my own skin! ‘Anyway,’ her glance swept upwards to the masses of billowing grey cotton-wool clouds overhead, ‘there isn’t any sun now.’

  ‘Clouds won’t save you.’ He fixed her with his hatefully stern gaze. ‘Don’t, argue, Tracy. Just do as I say. I know what I’m talking about!’

  She wrinkled her nose in derision.

  ‘Didn’t they put you wise on the ship coming over, about the sun’s ultra-violet rays getting through cloud out here in the southern hemisphere?’

  ‘Yes, but-’

  Fortunately, as she couldn’t think up a sufficiently crushing retort, a woman picker at that moment approached Stephen and she was saved from continuing with this ridiculous argument. It was her complexion and if she liked to risk getting it all burned up ...

  As if reading her thoughts he shrugged and climbed back on the tractor. ‘Pity.’ But whether he was referring to her stubborn opposition or the matter of her health she neither knew nor cared.

  As the morning wore on her face and arms became increasingly and painfully hot, but the discomfort, she told herself, was no doubt due to the unaccustomed outdoor activity. Nevertheless it was with a sense of relief that she followed the other women towards the shade of the towering macrocarpa pines where they had left baskets containing Thermos flasks of tea and coffee and packets of sandwiches. Only then did Tracy realize how very thirsty she was.

  ‘You’ve no tea!’ the woman at Tracy’s side exclaimed. ‘Here, have some of mine. I’ve got this monstrous Thermos—’

  But already Tracy could see a small figure advancing along the rows of vines in the direction of the women pickers. In a few moments Lucie had joined them. ‘Good heavens, child,’ she put up a hand to wave aside a wasp buzzing around her head, ‘I didn’t know where you’d got to so early in the morning, and then Steve told me you were out here. You’re not a magazine writer, are you, dear? I know they often take on unusual work, just to get local colour.’

  ‘Xo, I’m net," Tracy said shortly. She was conscious of a sudden silence around her. ‘I wanted the job fc-r myself.’ Lucie’s small face still wore a puzzled expression and seeing the flask of tea in her hand, Tracy felt a shaft of regret for not having explained the matter further, but how could she? Lucie simply wouldn’t believe her were she to try to tell her that she needed that money. She really did. Net so much, though, as she needed to revenge herself on Stephen Crane. Aloud she murmured: ‘It was good of you to come down with the tea, though I don’t really think,’ she added with a smile, ‘that I’d have gone short of a drink.’

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t, but someone else might. Anyway, you’ll be coming up to the house for lunch.’

  But Tracy had no desire to face her employer at midday. Already she was conscious of the burning discomfort of her face and neck. Besides, she wanted no special favours from him. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll stay here with the others.’ She eyed the pile of dainty sandwiches Lucie was unwrapping from a dampened napkin. ‘That’ll do for lunch, I guess.’

  The ten-minute break hew by, then once again Tracy took her place in the long avenue of vines. At intervals Stephen drove through with his tractor, collecting the filled boxes, but whenever he was near she carefully turned her head aside. She couldn’t bear him to glimpse her burning face, for although the others with their tanned complexions appeared unaffected by the heat, her own cheeks burned painfully and a headache throbbed above her temples. As the afternoon dragged slowly by she felt as though the sun were seeking her out, striking through cloud and vines alike to scorch her already flaming face, that traitorous sun that had beguiled her out to this country in the first place. The worst part of it all was that she was becoming painfully aware that when it came to climatic conditions in his own land, Stephen Crane had been right after all. All the same, she wouldn’t admit that she was wrong, nor would she give up. She’d rather endure the burning sensation which, combined with the ache in arms and shoulders, was becoming harder to endure with every passing moment! And she had to go on picking until five-thirty! It was all his fault, she thought bitterly. He had forced her into this position and now she had to go through with it.

  ‘It’s always worst on the first day of picking,’ the soft-voiced dark woman at her side told her. ‘But what a shame to spoil that lovely complexion!’

  Tracy pretended not to hear as she raised her arms once more to the vines overhead.

  Around her echoed the chatter of the other women as they moved further along between the low rows of vines. Tracy was scarcely aware of the murmuring voices until mention of her own name jerked her to sudden awareness.

  ‘Don’t you love that English voice of hers?’

  ‘Did you notice it too? And she’s pretty enough to take Stephen’s mind off the other one
!’

  First voice sounded puzzled. ‘I wasn’t here at the beginning of the season. I thought it was his brother Cliff who was engaged to the English girl? Wasn’t there a car accident, and then the engagement broken off?’

  ‘It would have been broken off in any case,’ Second voice seemed sure of her facts, and Tracy found she was unashamedly straining her ears. ‘Once she met Stephen! I was here a month ago and I saw the whole thing. You could tell how she felt about Stephen just by looking at her when they were together.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, you know! She hung on his words, and she had that glow about her a woman has when she’s really fallen for someone! I thought from the start that a nice simple guy like Cliff wouldn’t stand a show with her once she’d met the older brother.’

  ‘But what about Stephen?’ Tracy was holding her breath as she waited for the reply. Yes, what about ‘Stephen?

  ‘He—well...’ The voices faded as the pickers moved along the leafy aisles out of earshot, leaving Tracy with an odd little ache in her heart, almost like desolation, a queer sense of loss. Last night, out in the translucent darkness, she had told herself that his odd unpredictable attitude towards her was merely an extension of the censure he felt for Alison and all the havoc she had wrought in the life of his brother, but now ... Wearily she pushed back her hair, damp with perspiration, from her forehead and reached once more towards the vines. Would this endless working day never be finished?

  The break for afternoon tea revived her a little and afterwards she returned to the vineyard with renewed determination. Unfortunately, however, determination made no difference to discomfort and weariness. To make matters worse she had forgotten to wear her wrist watch and she had no idea of the time. At last, just when she had begun to think that knocking-off time would never ever arrive, it did. She bade a brief goodbye to her companions and was turning towards the pathway when she felt a needle-sharp stab of pain. Involuntarily her hand swept down to brush away a large wasp that had chosen that moment to pierce her ankle with its red-hot sting. No one nearby had noticed the incident and she hurried away. What was the antidote against a wasp sting? She couldn’t remember; had never needed to know until this moment. To her surprise the flesh surrounding the tiny pinprick was already swelling. She would have to keep the matter to herself, for how delighted Stephen Crane would be at this fresh proof underlining his argument that Tracy Cadell and work in his vineyard just didn’t mix! As she moved towards the house, pain like fire swept up her leg, but she told herself that it couldn’t be painful like this for long.

  But all the time she showered, slipped into a crimson trouser suit that would conceal the strip of bandage around her ankle, plastered make-up thickly over her reddened face, the throbbing pain, far from abating, increased in intensity. The swelling too was growing larger with every passing moment. With some vague intention of finding vinegar, or was it baking soda she needed to put on the sting, she went into the kitchen and began searching amongst the jumbled jars and bottles in the cupboards. Before she could locate either article, however, she heard Lucie’s approaching steps and hurriedly left the room.

  ‘Ready for tea, dear?’ the older woman inquired brightly. ‘I got it ready earlier than usual. I thought you’d be pretty tired tonight with the heat and the picking—you might want an early night. How did it go—’ she broke off. ‘Did you want something in the kitchen?’

  ‘No, no, it doesn’t matter.’ It really wasn’t worth troubling anyone about, a tiny wasp sting that would probably before long stop paining and swelling.

  The evening meal was set out on a table on the terrace, high above the vineyards below. A cool fresh breeze was blowing and Lucie’s home-prepared Chinese food looked delicious, yet for some reason Tracy could only pick at her plate.

  ‘Don’t you care for chow mein?’ Lucie asked with concern. ‘If only I’d known I could have...’

  Conscious of Stephen’s penetrating gaze, Tracy crushed back the words that rose unbidden to her lips: I’m just too tired to eat. Instead she mumbled something unintelligible that Lucie took to mean an aversion to Chinese cookery.

  ‘Let me boil you an egg?’

  ‘No, no,’ Tracy protested quickly. ‘It’s just that I’m not ... very hungry ... somehow.’ Indeed she was feeling mere than strange. Stephen’s intent face wavered visibly before her eyes and the throbbing in her head sounded louder than the voices of those seated around her at the table. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. Faces swam dizzily, faded, came back into focus. Then as from a distance she was aware of one voice piercing the mists swirling around her. ‘Tracy! Tracy!’

  She tried to answer, but a terrible feeling of helplessness swept over her. ‘My ... tongue...’ She could scarcely get the words out, for her tongue seemed to fill her whole mouth with a frightening choking sensation, almost like drowning. Vaguely she was aware of Stephen rushing to her side, shaking her back to consciousness. ‘Tracy, listen to me! You didn’t get a wasp sting today, did you?’

  In her twilight world the answer came subconsciously and she nodded her head..

  ‘Where?’

  Dutifully because it was less bother than arguing, she extended her foot, and as Stephen dropped down beside her she noted in a dreamy way that the swelling on her ankle was so advanced that the material of the crimson pants was pulled tightly over the flesh. In a flash of his pocket knife he had slit the straining crimplene and after one glance, a low whistle, he hurried towards the telephone in the hall. ‘I’ll get Doc Milligan over right away!’

  ‘If he’s out, get Doctor Milne. Number’s on the pad!’ Lucie’s urgent tones reached her as from somewhere far away. In this world of floating sensation and throbbing pain nothing seemed to matter very much. The next time she was aware of her surroundings, Stephen was saying: ‘Hell! I can’t raise either of them. No matter, I’ll run her into hospital ... no time to waste! By the look of things any minute now she’ll be slipping into a coma.’

  ‘No time to waste ... no time to waste...’ The words beat a refrain in her bemused brain as Stephen stooped to pick her up. Then the overpowering drowsiness that was taking over blotted out everything else. The last thing of which she was conscious was of lying limp in his arms as he carried her down the steps and out to the waiting car on the path below. After that impressions came and went of men in white coats, women’s voices, all fading into a mist that was closing in around her. Vaguely she was aware of a word that should mean something significant, but she couldn’t pinpoint it. ‘Coma ... coma ... she’s slipping into a coma.’

  She awoke to find herself in a high hospital bed in a sunny room. With surprise she realized she was wearing a white utility nightdress. Even more surprising was a realization that a man was standing looking down at her. Her gaze moved upwards to focus on his face. Stephen. She surveyed him with blank astonishment. She couldn’t understand it at all. Had there been an accident? Could she have sustained a head injury that had clouded her mind? ‘What—happened?’

  In a dreamy sort of way she was aware that for once his strong face had lost its satirical expression. Indeed, had he been anyone else she would almost have thought that he appeared immeasurably relieved.

  ‘You’ll be all right now.’

  ‘Yes, but...’ she glanced perplexedly up at him, trying to focus her whirling thoughts. ‘Was there an accident, or what...?’

  ‘You could put it that way.’ He grinned. ‘If you could call a wasp an accident.’

  ‘Wasp!’ She shot into a sitting position, pushing back the long hair from her face. ‘You don’t mean to tell me that one silly little sting—’

  ‘That one little sting happened to strike someone who’s allergic to wasp stings!’ She was aware of the deepening timbre of his voice. ‘One of those people who could die in an hour or so without medical attention. You had all the symptoms of serious allergy ... swollen tongue, drowsiness, terrific swelling. I’ve struck it once or twice before i
n the vineyards with the picking staff. Thing is it affects the lungs. You were in a coma by the time I got you here, even though I shot through red lights all the way in from the Valley, broke all the traffic rules to make it to the casualty department in time. But even so,’ he took a long shuddering breath, ‘it was touch and go, Tracy.’

  He leaned over her, his voice strangely gentle. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I’d never have let you come near the vines, not in a thousand years, even if you’d had the medication right there with you every minute!’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she said simply. Adding with a flash of her old spirit because after all he was still Stephen Crane and would no doubt revert to his all-important, horrible self once she was well again, ‘And anyway, it wouldn’t have stopped me!’

  There was a little silence and the way he was eyeing her, the softening of his glance, made her feel suddenly confused.

  She raised shadowed eyes in a wan face. ‘So you ... saved my life?’

  ‘Let’s just say,’ his bantering tone was very gentle, ‘that I owed you something, seeing that between the lot of us, Alison, Cliff, myself, we got you into all this.’

  The magic moment was shattered. Alison. It always came back to her. The way he was looking at her, maybe this was the right moment to ask him something that had been on her mind ever since their meeting.

  ‘I’ve been thinking ... about Alison...’ Her voice died away as she met his look, alert and guarded, eyes chilly as grey ice. It was hopeless, of course, she’d known that from the start, but still she floundered on. ‘Your aunt,’ she went on in a low uneven tone, ‘told me that Alison had left a letter for me, explaining everything, but she can’t seem to find it and I wondered—’