A Vintage Summer

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘Okay, ready!’ called a bright female voice from the depths of the winery.

  ‘Right you are,’ shouted a deep masculine voice in reply.

  A mechanical whirring noise followed, which reminded me that I had a headache and I swigged at my water in case I was dehydrated.

  I headed to the back of the room and found a man and woman working at different steel tanks, a thick hose running between them, connected at the base of the tanks with large chrome valves. The man, roughly my age, was crouching crablike, elbows resting on knees. He had long dark hair tied in a ponytail and huge biceps bulging from a faded black T-shirt. The woman had shoulder-length, highlighted hair with a heavy fringe, a wrist full of tinkly silver bangles and wore a long apron over a coral shirt and tight cropped jeans.

  I coughed gently so as not to make them jump and the man looked up.

  I waved. ‘Hi, are you Matt?’

  ‘The one and only.’ He grinned, getting up from his crouched position. He was tall and broad and looked somewhere between a pirate and one of those American wrestlers with comedy names like Warrior and Crusher. ‘Wait up, Clare, we’ve got company.’

  The woman dried her hands on her apron and clasped them together in prayer. ‘Please say you’re Lottie?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Yes!’ She punched the air.

  ‘Pleased to meet you both.’ I smiled back, delighted to get such a warm welcome. Even though Pippa had insisted that no one else wanted to take on the top job, I was still half-expecting to meet resistance from someone. It didn’t look like it would be Clare.

  Her Adidas trainers squeaked on the floor as she scurried over, smiling broadly to reveal a gap in her front teeth. I stuck my hand out for a handshake and she took it in both of hers and squeezed gently, finally releasing it with an affectionate pat.

  ‘We are so thrilled that Betsy agreed to employ someone. What a bloody relief!’ she said, pretending to mop her brow. ‘Now we can get motoring again.’

  She had perfect nails, I noticed, and they were painted the exact same shade as her shirt. How did people manage such casual coordination? I thought I was doing well if I put red nail polish on at Christmas. And by Boxing Day most of it was chipped off.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind me interrupting but I’ve come for a lesson in winemaking, if that’s okay?’

  Matt loomed over me and took my hand next, pumping it up and down in his big hands. ‘If only we had someone who knew what they were doing, eh, Clare?’

  ‘You tease.’ She punched his arm. ‘Ignore him, honey. We’ll happily show you around.’

  We chatted for a few minutes, introducing ourselves. Matt ran a pub in a nearby village with his girlfriend but they had grand plans to move to France and open their own guest house one day; and Clare, who I guessed to be in her late forties, seemed to split her time between the vineyard and the gym, and was involved with lots of committees to keep herself busy now that her children had left home. Despite Matt’s comment, they both seemed very knowledgeable about Butterworth Wines.

  For the next twenty minutes or so I helped them with ‘racking off’, which I learned meant filtering the wine to get rid of the sediment by transferring it from one tank to another.

  ‘This is last year’s Pinot Meunier,’ said Matt. ‘It’s been in the tank for eight months now.’

  ‘When will it be ready for bottling?’ I asked.

  Clare pulled a face. ‘We’ve never had to make that decision; it was always Ted’s job.’

  ‘But I think it’s there, as near as dammit,’ said Matt, rubbing the dark stubble on his jawline.

  ‘And can you handle the bottling when it is ready?’ I asked.

  ‘Bottling is no problem.’ He sniffed, puffing out his chest. ‘I can work all this kit with my eyes shut.’

  ‘It’s blending that’s the tricky bit. The 2017 vintage has all got to be blended first before bottling to make our three wines,’ Clare chipped in, chewing her lip. ‘None of us are confident enough to do that. It’s a massive responsibility.’

  I nodded; Pippa had said something similar last week. It seemed to me that a winery manager was needed as much, if not more, than a vineyard manager.

  Matt agreed with Clare. ‘Get the blend wrong and that’s an entire harvest down the drain.’

  ‘All our lovely new tanks are full.’ Clare pointed to the row to our left. ‘These are the Meuniers, the Chardonnay is at one end and the Pinot Noir is at the other.’

  ‘New?’ I said, taking in the long line of gleaming stainless-steel vessels.

  She smiled sadly. ‘Ted was so excited to make the first sparkling wine from these tanks this year. So sad he’ll never get to taste it.’

  ‘Surely between us, we can carry on without him?’ I said. But looking at the doubt on their faces, perhaps not. ‘Or is that impossible?’

  ‘Truth is, the only person who really knows, or should I say knew, how to create the perfect wine was Ted.’ Matt folded his arms and flexed his biceps one at a time. ‘We’ve got to find a way to do him proud. I owe a lot to that guy. This wine’s not leaving Butterworth’s until it’s as good as he’d have got it. Not if I’ve got anything to do with it.’

  ‘We all owe a lot to Ted,’ said Clare, giving his arm a motherly pat. They shared a sad smile. ‘Now, why don’t we give Lottie some wine to try?’

  ‘Do I have to make slurpy noises?’ I asked, remembering how Marjorie and Betsy had sloshed it around.

  Matt laughed. ‘The point of rolling the wine around your mouth is for your tongue to get the full effect. The tip of your tongue tastes the sweetness, the sides get the acidity and the alcohol hits the back of it. Slurpy noises strictly optional.’

  Clare fetched three wine glasses. ‘Matt, will you do the honours?’

  He walked to one of the Pinot Noir tanks, turned on a small tap one third of the way up and squirted half a glass of wine into each.

  I watched them hold the glass to the light, swirl it round and plunge their noses over it. I followed suit. It had a golden tone and smelled fresh and earthy and full of minerals. I lifted the glass to my lips and took a big sip. Matt and Clare squelched it around their mouths making ‘Mmm’ noises and nodding to each other. I rolled the wine self-consciously from one side of my mouth to the other before swallowing it.

  ‘Well?’ Matt raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You go first,’ I said, in case I’d got it completely wrong.

  ‘Light on the nose,’ said Clare.

  ‘I’m getting honeysuckle and fruit,’ Matt agreed.

  ‘Maybe raspberries?’ I suggested.

  Matt nodded enthusiastically. ‘Exactly. Well done.’

  Clare smiled fondly. ‘Clever girl.’

  ‘So if you know how all the machinery works, Matt, why can’t you blend the wines?’ I asked, trying not to show how pleased I was with their compliments.

  ‘See that little cubbyhole in the corner?’ He was pointing to a small area that had been sectioned off with softwood panels. ‘That’s Ted’s lab. All the refractometers, hydrometers, test tubes, packets of everything from yeast to oak flavourings are in there. And that was where he used to do his blending. He made notes on every wine he ever made but we think the notebooks must be in the office in the house. Until we get those, we don’t know what proportions of each variety he used in the past.’

  ‘But even with the notes, blending isn’t straightforward,’ Clare put in. ‘Every vintage has its own characteristics, its subtle nuances. To make good wine, it’s not just a case of following a recipe.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I frowned. ‘Can’t you just start from scratch, make a blend that we all agree tastes good?’

  ‘I wish,’ said Matt with a laugh.

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ Clare explained. ‘Butterworth has a house style for each wine; customers know what to expect and we need to be consistent. I think this is nearly done, Matt.’

  We left Clare to finish off the filtering process
and Matt led me through to the wine store.

  ‘Ted has always made three different wines.’ He picked up a bottle from the uppermost shelf and another from a lower shelf further along.

  ‘This is the Butterworth Classic Cuvée, our best seller. One bottle from 2015 and the other from 2016. It’s got almondy-brioche flavours which customers love. Imagine if this year’s ends up tasting flinty with a hint of gooseberry? We’d get complaints.’

  ‘And I’m guessing that’s hard to achieve?’ I doubted my taste buds would ever be able to decipher the flavour of French pastry.

  ‘Without an experienced winemaker, it’s impossible.’

  ‘Gosh,’ I said with a sigh, ‘and I thought the biggest problem was going to be keeping the grapes alive until harvest.’

  Matt chuckled. ‘You’re right, actually; that’s impossible too.’

  ‘Thanks for the encouragement,’ I said wryly. ‘I don’t know whether I need a lie-down or another drink.’

  ‘If in doubt, always go for another drink,’ he said, winking a dark brown eye at me.

  I held my palm up. ‘I’m actually heading back out in the sun, so maybe not. And I certainly don’t want to drink that.’

  I pointed to the bottle from 2016 which wasn’t labelled and had a thick sludge of sediment inside.

  Matt laughed. ‘Don’t worry. This one isn’t finished yet, what you can see is the dead yeast, called “lees”. The 2016 vintage is ready for the next stage now, called dégorgement and dosage. It’ll be crystal clear after that.’

  I winced. ‘That sounds like a medical procedure.’

  ‘It’s French for blasting out the old yeast and topping up the bottle with a dosage – a mix of wine and sugar. Great fun. Then you can drink it.’

  ‘In that case, count me in to help with that.’

  ‘Getting the dosage right is a delicate process too, and something else that Ted was brilliant at.’ Matt frowned. ‘If we get it wrong, it could ruin us.’

  ‘I’ll have a look for Ted’s notebooks as soon as I get the chance,’ I said.

  ‘That would be a start, thanks.’ Matt smiled grimly, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. ‘Clare asked Betsy to look for us, but she got short shrift. Godfrey thinks it’s because she doesn’t like admitting how bad her sight has become. Whatever the reason, we’ve put off asking her again. But now we’re running out of time.’

  I promised to do my best and as we carried on the tour of the winery, Matt told me how he and Ted had met eighteen years ago. Matt had been living rough, he confided, and Ted had still been in the force.

  ‘I’d been nicked a couple of times for shoplifting. Ted sat me down with a cuppa and gave me a talking-to about life choices. Then he helped me get a job at a pub and, long story short, I’m now the landlord of my own pub, The Golden Arrow in Flittham. As soon as he got the winery up and running, I asked if I could get involved. If I didn’t come here I don’t know what I’d do with my spare time.’

  ‘You never wanted to work here full time?’ I asked, thinking what a good manager he’d have made.

  ‘Nah. The pub is doing well, my girlfriend runs the food side and I’ve got a great team of bar staff. It’s busy, noisy, hectic and I love it. Coming here is like the antidote to the pub and a few hours here, tinkering with the tanks, with nobody to manage, is like therapy, but I like the balance as it is. I’ll leave the management of this place to you.’

  ‘Me? No!’ I laughed. ‘I couldn’t manage the winery; I don’t know the first thing about wine.’

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ said a smooth voice from the doorway.

  I turned to see Jensen, leaning on the door frame, arms folded and a wry smile on his face. My stomach flipped; was I destined to say or do something idiotic every time he saw me?

  ‘Oh, hello!’ I felt the heat from my earlier sunburn turn up several notches. ‘What I meant was—’

  ‘Lottie’s too modest,’ Matt interrupted. ‘She’s not got a bad palate, actually. She’ll probably know as much as any of us within a fortnight.’

  ‘I take it back.’ Jensen cocked an amused eyebrow. ‘Seems you’ve made a good first impression.’

  ‘The feeling’s mutual.’ I smiled at Matt and then held Jensen’s gaze, wondering what sort of impression I’d made on him.

  We stared at each other until Matt broke the moment.

  ‘Good to see you, Jensen.’ He crossed the gap between them and gave him a manly thump on his back.

  ‘You too, Matt,’ said Jensen, returning the bigger man’s greeting with a more reserved pat. ‘How are you getting on here?’

  He looked past Matt to the tanks.

  ‘Well …’ Matt sucked in air.

  ‘The winery isn’t part of my remit,’ I jumped in, ‘but we urgently need to talk to Betsy about a plan of action. No one has the experience to progress the wine from tank to bottle.’

  ‘She’s right.’ Matt’s brow furrowed. ‘And we can’t seem to get through to your gran how important it is.’

  Jensen stroked his chin pensively. ‘I thought as much. The wine business was Granddad’s domain; I don’t think she can face it without him.’

  There was a loud gasp as Clare noticed Jensen’s arrival.

  ‘Jensen!’ She flew across the winery, arms wide and kissed him. ‘I haven’t seen you since the funeral. You look tired, have you been eating properly?’

  He did look tired, now I looked at him properly.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Jensen laughed, prising her hands from his face. ‘A bit tired because I’ve had to work this weekend, but I like to be busy.’

  ‘You’ll get used to this.’ Matt cupped a hand to his mouth and pretended to whisper to me. ‘Clare mothers everyone whether they like it or not.’

  ‘It’s true. Can’t help it,’ she said with a giggle, giving Jensen’s cheek one last pat. ‘My daughter, Frankie, is in Australia, married with a beautiful baby, and my son, Ben, is in the army currently posted to Afghanistan, so I’ve got no outlet for my maternal love.’

  ‘I’m sure you manage to show them you love them across the miles,’ I said. It took all my will-power not to offer myself up as an ‘outlet’; Dad was the best dad ever, but even he had been no substitute for a warm and comforting hug from my mum.

  Clare looked wistful. ‘I do my best. And I have all of you to look after and that keeps my mind off things. Although I miss fussing over Ted.’

  ‘I miss Granddad more than I thought possible,’ said Jensen softly. There was such raw emotion on his face that it brought a lump to my throat.

  Matt hooked an arm around Jensen’s neck, which was more like a rugby tackle than a sign of endearment. ‘We all miss him. He was the life blood of Butterworth Wines.’

  Jensen acknowledged Matt’s heartfelt words with a smile. ‘He was a man of few words, my granddad, but he was a good judge of people.’

  Clare perched her bottom on the desk and sighed. ‘I’ll never forget the time he caught me crying over my shopping trolley in the breakfast cereal aisle. All emotional because I’d automatically put a seventy-four pack of Weetabix into the trolley for our Ben before remembering he’d be waking up in Kabul and getting goodness knows what for his breakfast.’

  ‘What did Ted say?’ I asked.

  ‘He produced a hanky from his pocket and said the key to enjoying my new freedom was to find a hobby. Then he asked me if I’d like to learn how to make champagne and he’s been paying me in Butterworth sparkling wine ever since.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Matt. ‘I usually go for the Blanc de Noir.’

  ‘Talking of which,’ said Jensen, giving himself a shake, ‘Gran has sent me over to grab a couple of bottles for tasting with lunch.’

  Matt held up a finger. ‘Take the 2015 Classic Cuvée. It had a year on its lees and it’s now had six months in the bottle since dosage. Six months.’ He stressed this last bit before jogging into the wine store to retrieve the bottles.

  Clare
chewed her lip. ‘He means we need to sell it, Jensen. Sales have ground to nothing since Ted became ill. And your gran doesn’t seem interested. We’ve all offered to go through the emails, but …’ She shrugged.

  Jensen winced. ‘I’m on it. I hadn’t realized quite how bad her sight was. I think now that’s out in the open things will get easier.’

  He looked sideways at me and I felt a flush of relief that I didn’t have to keep that particular promise to Betsy any more.

  Matt wiped the dusty bottles on his jeans and handed them over.

  ‘Thanks.’ Jensen looked at me. ‘Lottie, Gran would like to know if you’d care to join us for lunch. My great-aunt is here too; they’re both on the terrace. There are things about the vineyard I’d like to discuss if you’ve got the time?’

  My face had cooled down a bit since he’d first arrived but I was still conscious that I was in a grubby vest top and shorts whilst he was immaculately dressed in soft indigo jeans and a pale blue linen shirt which brought out the colour of his navy eyes. From nowhere my stomach churned with nausea; possibly too much sun, although my head felt better.

  ‘You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’ Clare peered at me. ‘Do you need to sit down?’

  I breathed deeply and shook my head. ‘I’m okay, thank you.’

  ‘Not the most enthusiastic response to a lunch invitation I’ve had from a woman,’ Jensen teased. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  I produced a smile. ‘Absolutely, but would you mind if I just joined you for a drink, rather than lunch? I don’t have much of an appetite at the moment.’

  We left Matt and Clare to finish off what they were doing and lock up the winery for the day and we set off across the yard. Jensen did a double take when we reached the centre and stopped by a patch of new cement.

  ‘Someone has filled in that big pothole.’

  ‘I did,’ I said lightly. ‘I googled it and worked out how to fix it. I didn’t want your grandmother to fall down it. Nor your great-aunt’s wheelchair, come to that.’