‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
She took in a shuddering breath. ‘It breaks my heart to see his winery without him in it. He’d spend all day every day in there, just tinkering. It crossed my mind not to carry on working here, but he’d want me to, I know that really.’
‘Gosh, you mustn’t leave!’ I clasped her arm dramatically. ‘You’re my only paid member of staff.’
A fact that I wanted to get to the bottom of soon: how could the business be running with such a tiny team?
She emitted a giggle and shook her head with amusement. ‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’
Pippa led me along a path that ran down the side of the house and we started to head downhill. To our left leading from the house was a large patio which must have a fantastic view across the entire valley. We went down some steps and through a delightful garden bursting with a tangle of pretty summer flowers: phlox, peonies, roses, aquilegia, cornflowers and a host of others I couldn’t identify. She stopped to open a gate in the middle of a long stone wall which ran at least twenty metres in either direction. At the far side of it was a set of double gates, wide enough for a vehicle to pass through, and a line of tall conifers stood like a row of soldiers leading downhill.
‘I was wondering how grapes would grow well enough to produce a decent crop this far north,’ I marvelled. ‘I guess this wall and those trees protect the vines from some of the worst winds.’
She smiled. ‘Correct, plus we grow cool-climate varieties.’
We went through the gate and the breath caught in my throat.
‘I’ve never been in a vineyard,’ I said, whistling. ‘It’s quite a sight.’
The lush green vines were held in check by thick wires which ran horizontally from post to post and ran in perfect lines to the bottom of the hill. Stripes of long grass dotted with wild red poppies ran between every row and their natural beauty complemented the symmetry of the vines perfectly.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ said Pippa with a happy sigh. ‘It’s such a special place for me; I love being here.’
I eyed her curiously. ‘Did you not want the job of vineyard manager? Surely you’d have been the obvious choice rather than an incomer who knows nothing about winemaking or viticulture?’
She shook her head. ‘All the volunteers asked me the same question but I didn’t want the responsibility. Managing this place would have taken the pleasure out of it for me.’
‘And you’re sure none of the volunteers wanted it either?’ I bit my lip. ‘Because I don’t want to be treading on anyone’s toes.’
‘You won’t be,’ she assured me. ‘Butterworth Wines is a hobby for everyone else. They aren’t here regularly enough to keep a handle on what needs doing and no one wants to take on the commitment.’
‘And the vineyard can run on such limited help?’
Pippa pulled a doubtful face. ‘The vines cover about ten acres and between us Ted and I used to be able to just about manage. The last few months have been a bit of a stretch for me. The volunteers have been great since Ted became ill, putting in extra time, but they all have their own lives to lead.’
‘So no one is going to resent being managed by a complete novice?’ I asked doubtfully.
‘Godfrey rang me last night to tell me about your appointment. We’re all really pleased. Believe me, you’re doing everyone a favour.’
‘That’s good to know,’ I said with relief.
Pippa pulled a small tube of suncream from her pocket and rubbed it on her bare shoulders. She caught me looking. ‘Even with factor fifty on, I can burn, I’d love a nice tan like yours.’
‘Ah, but one of us will look like a leather sole when we hit sixty and one of us won’t,’ I said with a grin. ‘So tell me about the vines.’
We walked on and Pippa explained in quiet, economical sentences that the grapes grown here were Chardonnay, Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier – the three varieties traditionally used to produce champagne. British producers weren’t allowed to call their sparkling wine champagne, of course; the name was protected by the French. But Butterworth Wines had been perfecting their own brand of sparkling wine for years and according to Pippa, who’d had it on good authority from Ted, it was as good as anything to come out of France, and without the price tag.
Each row was eight hundred metres long with a break halfway down to allow easier access. I learned that there were ten thousand vines, roughly a third of each variety, and that it was possible for one mature vine to produce enough grapes for one bottle of wine.
‘And these are mature, by the look of them,’ I said, trailing my hands through the soft leaves.
‘Most of them are about nine years old, so yes, fully matured,’ Pippa confirmed. ‘They’ve more or less finished flowering now, but there’s still a few vines in flower in the cooler corners. Look.’
She lifted the leaves of a vine to show me a thumb-sized stem covered in tight green buds. Some of the buds had sprouted fine white threads which gave the bunch a fluffy effect.
‘The white fronds are the flowers. And once they’ve been pollinated they’ll form grapes and then these little bunches will hang downwards instead of facing up towards the sun.’
‘They’re much prettier than I imagined.’ I bent to smell the flowers. ‘Pear drops.’
‘Exactly.’ Pippa looked pleased. We carried on down the row, tucking overgrown tendrils back into the wires as we walked.
‘This is where I spend my time when I’m here,’ she said, breathing deeply, ‘just tidying and tucking in, checking for disease and, as summer progresses, plucking off leaves to let the sun get to the grapes. It’s very calming. I used to bring Wiser with me, our – I mean my – old chocolate Labrador, but it’s too far for him to walk these days, but I don’t mind; I’m used to solitude. I heard you worked in a crematorium before coming here, so you must be used to peace and quiet too?’
‘It was rarely quiet and although there was sadness, mostly there was a lot of love. It was quite a special place, actually.’
She sighed wistfully. ‘There’s love here, too. Ted lavished it on all his vines, now it’s up to us to do the same.’
I wrapped a springy tendril around the wire and tucked the end in.
‘I’ll do my best,’ I promised.
We headed back uphill towards the house after I’d seen all I needed to for now. Some of the vines were a little overgrown and I made a mental note to draft an action plan for a major prune as soon as I had the chance.
‘So what do you do when you’re not working here?’ I asked.
‘I’ve been the librarian at Fernfield library for ten years.’
‘That long?’ I laughed with surprise. ‘You don’t look old enough.’
She nodded. ‘I started straight after my A levels. I was a shy girl, bookish, not brave enough to leave home. The job in the library was a natural fit. I’ve never seen you in there, though.’
I laughed. ‘I never really got into books. I was always a doer rather than a reader.’
‘I envy you,’ she admitted, tucking her hair under her hat. ‘I’ve done nothing with my life; I live vicariously through my books.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said, sweeping my arm out to encompass the vines as we arrived back at the gate. ‘This doesn’t look like nothing to me.’
She gave me a reserved smile but didn’t elaborate. She struck me as the sort of person who could sit next to you on a long-haul flight and never strike up a conversation. I couldn’t even stand in the ten items or less queue at the supermarket without spilling my life history to the poor person behind me.
‘Does the library have any books about vineyards?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes. We have an entire shelf on viticulture.’ Pippa eyes sparkled. ‘In fact, that’s how Ted and I met. He came into the library and asked that very question. But you don’t need to borrow books from the library. Ted has collected books from all over the world – ask Betsy if you can borrow some.’
We�
��d reached the yard again and I asked Pippa if she’d help me take the remaining boxes out of my car. Five minutes later I was all unloaded and dying for a cup of tea.
‘So I’ve learned about the grape growing part of the business,’ I said, inviting her into The Stables and putting the kettle on. ‘Who should I ask about how the wine is made?’
Pippa took off her sunhat and ran a hand through her hair. ‘Now that is the sixty-four-million-dollar question.’
I looked at her quizzically. ‘Why?’
Pippa took a deep breath. ‘Ted and his brother Ron used to make the wine together. Ron died five years ago in a motorbike accident. Marjorie was injured too, broke her spine, that’s why she’s in a wheelchair.’
‘I had no idea!’ I gasped. Poor Marjorie and yet I’d never met anyone so determinedly bright and cheerful. If I’d loved her before, now I was even more inspired.
‘So that left Ted to do it by himself. And now …’ Her voice faded and she shrugged. ‘There’s no one. Last year’s harvest is sitting in tanks waiting to be blended and bottled.’
‘So there could be ten thousand bottles’ worth of wine sitting in the tanks?’
She nodded. ‘Well, less than that, because we’ll keep some back for blending. And once it’s bottled, it’s another year before it’s ready for sale, which means that the previous vintage is now ready for sale. Matt and Clare are the two volunteers who help out in the winery, but Ted handled sales by himself.’
‘So another ten thousand bottles?’ I stared at her.
‘Then of course there’s the new crop on the vines. It’s only three or four months until harvest and we’ll need those tanks for the next pressing.’
‘What are we going to do?’ I said, feeling desperately out of my depth already. I passed her a mug.
Pippa looked at me meekly. ‘I don’t know. You’re the boss.’
That’s right, I thought with a gulp. I am. The notion that the next six months were going to be a time for stress-free healing and gentle reflection was beginning to evaporate like a morning mist.
Chapter 11
I spent the rest of the day touring the estate on the quadbike with a pad and pen, making a note of urgent jobs and creating a logical schedule for maintaining the vines and getting to grips with the various pesticides and fertilizers, and the machinery for applying them, all of which I found in an immaculately organized shed behind the winery.
Godfrey had dropped by at three to check how I was getting on and gave me a potted history of the vineyard. Ted had been in the police force and in his spare time he’d learned how to grow grapes and make wine, taking Betsy on wine holidays across Europe and researching which varieties would grow in Fernfield’s sandy soil. His dream had always been to establish a vineyard as soon as he retired. Planting had taken place over a period of years, with a team of workers from Belgium arriving each spring to do the hard work. Once the vines had matured enough to produce a viable crop, Ted got the chance to use his winery for the first time. Since bottling his first vintage seven years ago, making wine had become Ted’s raison d’être. He’d always been an introvert: not keen on parties or socializing or even holidays if there wasn’t an educational point to them.
From that first vintage, Butterworth Wines had become better and better until, according to Godfrey, the sparkling wine, made in the traditional champagne method, could give any French fizz a run for its money.
Before he left, Godfrey had written down the names of all the volunteers and their phone numbers and by five o’clock I felt like I was beginning to get to grips with the task ahead of me.
I went back to The Stables, poured myself a cold drink and sat down on the doorstep to gather my thoughts.
Butterworth Wines had always been a family business, but apart from Marjorie and Betsy, there didn’t seem to be any family around to carry it on and although I’d never met him, I reckoned that that would have been a disappointment to Ted. Betsy seemed to have her mind fixed solely on the next six months; I wondered what she was planning to do after that, and what, if any, thoughts she’d had on what to do with the full tanks of wine needing attention in the winery right now. I finished my drink and got to my feet; there was only one way to find out.
I rang the doorbell but couldn’t hear it chime so I knocked on Betsy’s front door instead. I tried a couple of times but there was no reply. I knocked one last time for luck and was about to give up and walk away when I heard approaching footsteps.
‘All right, all right, where’s the fire?’ Betsy chuntered crossly before opening the door.
She had a crease on one cheek and her hair, usually so immaculate, was fluffy on one side and had partly escaped from the clip at the back. She stretched her eyes as if adjusting to the daylight.
‘I’m so sorry, did I wake you?’
‘Good heavens, no,’ she said, appalled. ‘Asleep at four o’clock in the afternoon? Not me.’
‘Oh good,’ I said brightly. It was well after five; someone had had a nap and lost track of time.
‘Well, don’t stand on ceremony, come in.’ She turned away and marched off through an open door, trailing her hand along the wall as she did so.
I stepped into a hall with wood-panelled walls and a lovely worn herringbone wood floor. Overhead was a huge Tiffany chandelier which even when it was not lit from within created rainbow patterns on the walls where the light hit it. The house smelled of vanilla, lemons and furniture polish and a faint hint of wood smoke; it was a welcoming home and I had the strange sense of being wrapped in a warm embrace. I smiled at my sentimental thoughts, shut the door and followed Betsy into a large old-fashioned kitchen. It was exactly how I imagined it would be: from the original deep butler sink with its lovely copper taps to the oiled oak worktops atop cream cupboards with worn metal handles. A family-sized table and chairs stood beneath a large picture window that had views out across the patio and the vineyard beyond. Bunches of dried herbs, a garland of garlic and a string of onions hung from a wooden drying rack which had a pulley system. But perhaps, unsurprisingly, the most dominant feature was the huge floor-to-ceiling wine rack which, next to a sturdy oak dresser, took up most of one wall.
‘You have a beautiful home, Betsy.’
‘Hmm, you should have seen it when we moved in. A pigsty, in more ways than one. Sit down, I’ll make you a cup of tea; it’s just straightforward English – I don’t hold with that herbal stuff.’
‘Thank you. No milk for me, please.’
I took a seat at the table and inhaled the scent from a jug of sweet peas which sat in the centre on a small lace mat. Starsky trotted in, eyed me warily and then flipped over on to his back presenting me with a pink tummy to stroke. I obliged and he squirmed happily.
Betsy shook the kettle and topped it up at the sink. ‘The kitchen was the first room I did up when we moved in. Needs redoing now, but I shan’t bother.’
‘I think it’s lovely,’ I said, meaning it, taking in the row of knives on a magnetic strip fixed to the wall and an earthenware pot with at least fifteen wooden spoons and spatulas of varying sizes and the orangey-red cast-iron pots stacked in the corner. ‘It feels lived in and loved, like the heart of the home should be.’
Starsky rolled on to his tummy, curled into a ball and closed his eyes as if to prove just how much he loved this room.
‘It was.’ Betsy sighed so faintly that I barely heard her. Then she seemed to give herself a shake. ‘I always hankered after a large range cooker. Ted promised me one, but then decided we needed a quadbike more. He said as soon as we started making a profit from the wine we could have a whole new kitchen. I’m still waiting.’
A little alarm bell rang; did that mean that the vineyard had never made a profit? Or that Ted had always found something better to spend the money on? I decided that I wouldn’t ask those questions today, even if Betsy didn’t mind that I was nosy.
I remembered Marjorie saying something about Betsy burning herself and joined her by the k
ettle.
‘I’ll pour the tea, shall I?’ I said. The mugs she’d dropped teabags into were ringed inside with caffeine stains and looked like they could do with a good scrub.
‘No need.’ She took a small device from a drawer and clipped it on to the side of one of the mugs.
‘What’s that?’
‘Aha! It’s a magic alarm to tell me when I’ve poured in enough liquid. My eyes find it hard to judge the level of water. Stops me burning myself. Despite what Marjorie may think, I’m not an idiot; I do keep myself safe. You can pass the milk, though.’
I opened the fridge and a whiff of something off made me gag. On the top shelf was a half-eaten carton of peeled prawns which had a greeny tinge to them. The use-by date was last week. What should I do? Tell her and risk embarrassing her, or … let her smell them for herself? And what if she didn’t, what if she ate them?
‘I was going to have prawn sandwiches for supper, if you wanted to join me?’ said Betsy. ‘Hurry up with that milk, dear.’
The question startled me and I ended up slamming the fridge door harder than I’d intended.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but I’m planning on doing some reading this evening. Pippa said there might be some books on growing grapes you could lend me?’
‘Just a hundred or so,’ she said wryly. ‘I’ll find you some later. Come and watch my magic thingy.’
I watched as Betsy poured the boiling water into the mugs until the beeping noise alerted her to stop.
‘See,’ she said stoutly, handing me my mug. ‘Perfectly safe.’
‘Indeed.’ I wiped the hem of my T-shirt around the rim of the mug surreptitiously. I’d have to find a way of dumping those prawns in the bin, perhaps if she left the room …
‘Do sit down, dear, you’re cluttering the place up. I’ll find us a biscuit to tide us over. Should be a tin of shortbread in here somewhere.’
I did as I was told, hoping that whatever she was looking for wasn’t six months past its sell-by date. My stomach contracted at the thought. I wasn’t sure I could even drink my tea after sniffing the contents of that fridge, let alone swallow a biscuit.
A Vintage Summer Page 11