A Vintage Summer

by Cathy Bramley

  His eyes slid sideways to me. ‘You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?’

  I shrugged. ‘That’s nothing. You should see me twenty feet up a tree with a chainsaw.’

  He laughed, assuming I was joking, and I just smiled sweetly, not bothering to correct him.

  ‘I’ll just be a few minutes, I’m going to freshen up,’ I said, pointing to The Stables.

  ‘Not on my account, I hope?’ Jensen said, glancing casually at my shorts and vest top. ‘You look nice as you are.’

  ‘You don’t believe women dress to impress men, do you?’ I said, pretending to be shocked and veering off towards home.

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ he spluttered after me.

  Inside, I peeled off my clothes and ran to the bathroom. Right, five minutes to make myself presentable. For Betsy and Marjorie. Naturally …

  Chapter 14

  A few minutes later I approached the terrace at the rear of the house in a black T-shirt dress. The three dresses I’d rejected had made me look busty, butch and bloated respectively, but this one – with a scoop neck and short sleeves – covered up the bits that were feeling a bit bigger and emphasized my tan. Perhaps I should have had those protein shakes for breakfast instead of the morning pastry, I thought ruefully. The diet starts tomorrow. Again.

  I’d only got as far as the side gate when I heard raised voices. I lifted the latch and hesitated, not sure if I should intrude.

  ‘Over my dead body!’ That was Betsy sounding most affronted.

  ‘I’m just saying, Gran, we need to face facts,’ Jensen replied calmly.

  ‘Here’s a fact for you: Granddad left the house and his ninety per cent share of the business to me,’ Betsy continued crossly. ‘Your great-aunt Marjorie, of course, owns the other ten per cent. As a zero per cent shareholder, you don’t get a say.’

  ‘What your gran means to say is that she loves you dearly,’ said Marjorie carefully, ‘but she’ll ask for help when she needs it.’

  I smiled at that; Marjorie had probably been playing the role of peacekeeper for the hot-headed Betsy for years.

  There was a patter of paws followed by the appearance of a wet black nose under the gate as Starsky sensed my presence.

  ‘Come on through, Lottie!’ Betsy shouted. ‘You can be on my side.’

  I opened the gate, stopped to give Starsky some fuss and headed to the large wooden patio table shaded by a huge canvas parasol. The back doors to the house were open and a delicious smell of cooking wafted in the air. Marjorie patted an empty chair beside her and I sat down. She’d transferred from her wheelchair to a wooden armchair and looked comfortably ensconced, with cushions under her bottom and behind her back. She was wearing a voluminous grey T-shirt with the Harley-Davidson logo across her chest and shorts which looked like they’d once been a pair of jogging bottoms. Betsy, by contrast, looked dressed for a garden party at Buckingham Palace in a neatly buttoned tea dress, pearls and her trademark swept-up hair-do.

  ‘We’re all on your side, Gran,’ said Jensen wearily, sending me a pleading look.

  On the table were two ice buckets and a tray of champagne flutes, a bowl of little salted crackers and a stack of papers.

  Jensen pulled a bottle from the ice and began peeling off the foil cap.

  ‘There is absolutely no need for me to up sticks and move,’ said Betsy crisply. ‘I’m managing perfectly well, especially with your help, wouldn’t you agree, Lottie?’

  ‘Well,’ I began, conscious that whatever I said I’d annoy somebody, ‘we did have a good sort-out in the kitchen on Friday afternoon, and I’ve written labels in large print and stuck them on tubs of things to make it easier to identify their contents.’

  I’d also thrown away all the food that had passed its sell-by date – an entire bin’s worth – but I thought it best not to mention that. Unfortunately, Marjorie felt no such loyalty.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve finally chucked that commemorative tin of Marks and Spencer’s biscuits from the royal wedding,’ she said.

  ‘It was a wrench,’ Betsy admitted, not meeting my eye.

  We’d had words about that. The biscuits, like that tin of shortbread from the other day, hadn’t been opened, but even so, they wouldn’t have been out of place on the Antiques Roadshow.

  ‘Wonders will never cease.’ Marjorie helped herself to crackers and pushed them in my direction. I took a few and ate them. The saltiness was exactly what I needed and I had a couple more before sliding the bowl away.

  Jensen sighed as he eased the cork from the bottle with a twist. The contents gave a pleasing pop and we all whooped politely.

  ‘If you’ve still got biscuits from 2011, Gran, I think the first toast should be to the fact you haven’t given yourself food poisoning.’

  ‘Just a small one for me,’ said Betsy, holding up a glass to him. ‘Don’t be silly, Charles and Diana got married much earlier than that.’

  The look of horror on Jensen’s face was a picture. Marjorie slapped her thigh and burst out laughing and I popped some more crackers in my mouth to hide my mirth. Betsy remained po-faced, but she couldn’t quite conceal the twinkle in her eye.

  ‘To go back to your suggestion, Jensen,’ she said, ‘I love you dearly, but I’m afraid the answer is no. N O spells no. I won’t move out, so I’m toasting independent women. Cheers!’

  ‘Lottie, have this.’ Marjorie wisely changed the subject to the Butterworth 2015 Classic Cuvée in our glasses, handing me a sheet of paper containing the tasting notes.

  ‘You’ll notice the wine is probably not as chilled as you’d normally get it. But cold masks the flavour. To appreciate it properly, professionals always taste at room temperature,’ she explained.

  I glanced through the page to see what it was I was looking for. According to the tasting notes, the drink I’d got in my hand was an elegant dry sparkling wine, a pale straw colour characterized by a steady stream of minute bubbles. It claimed to have an aroma of biscuit and nougat. I smelled it and was delighted to get a whiff of toasted oats. I read on: a creamy mousse on the palate with hints of baked apple and frangipane. The finish was crisp, fresh and moreish.

  ‘What do you think of it, Lottie?’ Jensen was studying me closely.

  ‘I get the creamy mousse part and I can taste fruit, but nothing more accurate than that,’ I admitted. ‘Sorry. I’m not a big drinker. I’m willing to learn, though.’

  ‘And a quick learner too, according to Roger.’ Betsy nodded regally. ‘He said the timetable you’ve done for next week is as good as anything Ted produced.’

  ‘High praise indeed from Mr Bossy,’ Marjorie chuckled, brushing spilled wine from her bosom.

  I raised my glass to my mouth to cover my proud smile.

  ‘Thank you. How much does it retail for?’ I took another gulp and I swirled it round my mouth as delicately as I could.

  ‘Thirty quid a pop,’ said Marjorie.

  I coughed and choked. ‘Gosh! I’ve never drunk anything so expensive in my life.’

  ‘Ted’s wines are award-winning,’ Betsy said. She slurped at it. ‘This is very good. Do we have much stock of it?’

  ‘An awful lot,’ I told her. ‘And Matt says it’s ready to leave the winery.’

  Betsy sniffed. ‘Ah, yes, I suppose it would be. Ted always dealt with the orders. I … I’m afraid I’ve rather let things slide.’

  Jensen caught my eye.

  ‘Gran, I’m sorry to have to mention this …’ He reached for her hand. ‘Granddad sent me some cash flow reports for my advice a few months ago, but I got side-tracked with work and by the time I got round to reading them and realized how precarious the business’s finances were, he was ill and I decided it wasn’t the right time to bring it up.’

  ‘How precarious?’ said Marjorie, sitting forward.

  ‘Those new tanks he bought last year?’ said Jensen.

  Betsy’s face looked pinched. ‘He had big plans for expansion; he reckoned this year’s harvest was g
oing to be huge and he’d need more capacity. I wanted him to slow down, do less, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘He used all the company’s cash reserves to do it rather than take out a loan,’ said Jensen softly. ‘And according to the last quarter’s accounts, there wasn’t enough to cover the outgoings. The cost of the pruning team alone in January took up all of the bank account’s overdraft facility. I would have advised him differently and I feel very guilty that I didn’t give him help when he first asked for it.’

  I wondered if this was the reason for the dark smudges under his eyes: not from working too hard, but from guilt that he hadn’t intervened while his granddad had been alive.

  ‘So we’re badly overdrawn.’ Betsy pursed her lips. ‘So what? We’ll survive.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say? You must have received letters from the bank?’ Even Marjorie looked shocked.

  Betsy withdrew her hand from her grandson’s and folded her arms. ‘Have you seen how minute the print is on those things?’ she huffed. ‘You need a microscope to make any of the letters out, let alone a pair of reading glasses.’

  Jensen groaned. ‘I’d have helped.’

  ‘You’ve got enough to do.’ She waved a hand. ‘I didn’t need to read them anyway, I’m not colour blind, everyone knows a red letter means trouble.’

  ‘No, a red letter means it needs urgent attention,’ Jensen replied firmly.

  ‘Top-up?’ said Betsy, ignoring him. She picked up the bottle and waved it at Marjorie who directed it into her glass.

  ‘I’m not quite sure what we should toast this time,’ said Marjorie, ‘the patron saint of overdrafts, maybe?’

  Betsy gathered herself up as if she’d had a brilliant idea. ‘Let’s toast Lottie,’ she declared. ‘Ted would be thrilled that you’ve joined our merry crew.’

  ‘Motley crew, more like,’ said Marjorie.

  Betsy ignored her. ‘When Ted became very ill, I was too preoccupied to think about Butterworth Wines and then after he died I was so overwhelmed with everything that needed doing and didn’t know where to start.’

  ‘You hid it very well.’ Marjorie blinked at her sister-in-law. ‘I’ve been in awe of your composure.’

  ‘I know I was foolish not to confide in anyone,’ Betsy admitted, ‘but I was scared I was losing my grip. Now with Lottie here I’m already feeling more confident about staying put and seeing the next harvest through without Ted.’

  Jensen rubbed his forehead. ‘But Gran, you were always trying to get Granddad to leave this place, now when you have the choice, you won’t. I don’t understand?’

  ‘Not leave permanently, just once in a while,’ she huffed. ‘When we came here I thought making wine would be a hobby, but it took over his life. Ted made excellent sparkling wines and I’m proud of him for what he managed to achieve so far north when most vineyards are on the south coast. But I resented the fact that there was a whole world out there to see and the only view I had of it was from our boundary wall down to the bottom of the valley. Now he’s gone and you’re right, there’s no reason for me to stay except that for me the world has now become a hazy place, where I don’t feel safe, where I can’t find my way—’

  She broke off and took a napkin from the table, twisting it between her bony fingers. The rest of us remained silent and I felt a knot of sadness in my chest for her.

  ‘And there’s another reason too. Ted was convinced that the harvest we’re going to have this autumn will be our best ever. He asked me to stay and gather in the crop for him one last time, one last Butterworth vintage.’ She looked up with watery eyes. ‘How could I refuse?’

  ‘You did the right thing, Gran, but the problem is that without Granddad here, there’s no one with the know-how to run the winery. So …’ He blew out a breath as if psyching himself up. ‘I strongly recommend we try to find a buyer for the business as a going concern. Someone who can hit the ground running and get straight to work. There’s a lot that needs to happen before the next crop is ready.’

  ‘Lottie, what do you think?’ Betsy looked at me, willing me to side with her. ‘Can we manage by ourselves?’

  My heart thumped. ‘Well, I—’

  Jensen held up a hand. ‘With respect, Gran, by her own admission, Lottie knows nothing about wine.’

  ‘Shush, don’t be rude. Go on, Lottie.’

  I shot Jensen a look of apology. ‘Your volunteers are all lovely and willing to do as much as they can. But Jensen’s right, Betsy, no one has Ted’s expertise and without that, last year’s wine can’t be blended and the previous year is waiting for two things beginning with “D”.’

  ‘Dosage,’ Marjorie supplied. ‘And dégorgement.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I continued. ‘No one has been able to get your input, Betsy.’

  She winced. ‘Yes, that’s probably my fault. I’ve been a bit crotchety since Ted’s funeral and Clare caught me at a bad time and asked me a question about Ted’s notebooks. I bit her head off and told her I didn’t want anyone ferreting through his things. They’ll be in his office somewhere. I should look for them, I suppose.’

  I could feel my stomach working up to an almighty rumble and just about managed to cover it up by grabbing a handful of crisps and crunching into them.

  There was a beeping noise through the open window.

  ‘That’s the oven timer; I’d better go and check on lunch.’ Betsy swallowed the last drop of sparkling wine and pushed her chair back from the table.

  ‘Would you mind if I had a look in Ted’s office?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps I can locate the notebooks? And if it’s all right with you, I’d like to check the computer for orders too?’

  She hesitated. ‘Ted was very particular about his office.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said meekly.

  ‘Betsy, don’t you think it’s time you let others help you?’ said Marjorie gently. ‘If you want to get this next harvest in for Ted, Lottie’s going to need access to his notebooks and if there are orders stacking up …?’

  Betsy exhaled and her shoulders sagged. ‘Of course, I’m being ridiculous. Please help yourself to what you need, Lottie.’

  She unhooked her walking stick from the back of the chair and set off inside.

  ‘I’ll show you where everything is,’ said Jensen, getting to his feet. ‘Excuse me, Aunt Marjorie.’

  ‘Take your time, love,’ said Marjorie, refilling her glass. ‘I’m going to have another search for those baked apples.’

  Jensen ushered me into a small room stuffed with filing cabinets, shelves bowing under the weight of thick reference books and, in the centre, a long wooden desk hidden under heaps of papers. He shut the door behind us and raked a hand through his hair.

  ‘What the hell am I going to do?’ he said in a low voice. ‘The sensible thing would be to move her into an assisted-living apartment and sell the business on but I can’t see her agreeing to that.’

  ‘What would Paddington do?’ I murmured, reaching below the desk to turn on an elderly computer.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Er … I said I don’t envy you,’ I replied, hiding my warm face behind my hair. ‘Look, give me an hour while you have lunch and I’ll see what I come up with. You never know, there might be an answer staring us in the face.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He turned to go and I caught his arm.

  ‘And, Jensen? I know your heart’s in the right place and I don’t envy the position you’re in, but leaving here would be the end of so many things for your gran. Not just the house and the land and wines but her memories of happy times too. And it would be the end of her independence.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting: that we leave things as they are?’

  I shook my head. ‘Things definitely have to change. For a start off there are thousands of bottles of wine to get moving and bills to pay. What I’m saying is that we have to do the kind thing, which is not necessarily the most sensible.’

  His lips twitched. ‘How about kind and sensible?’<
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  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I said, miming pushing up my sleeves. ‘Now, no more arguments over lunch; it’ll give you indigestion.’

  ‘You’re bossier than Gran.’

  ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet.’ I gave him a mock stern look and I heard him laughing all the way along the hall.

  Honestly, I thought an hour later as I scribbled a few notes, I was wasted as a gardener slash vineyard manager, I should have been a private detective. I’d uncovered all sorts of nuggets of information that could change everything. I’d even found an old photograph of Betsy and Marjorie with two men I presumed were their husbands and another man who, according to a note on the back, was called Sidney. They were standing in a row of vines holding glasses of red wine aloft in a country that definitely wasn’t England. A bit more digging through old emails had not only unearthed Sidney’s full name but also revealed that he had given Ted advice in the early days of Butterworth Wines. If Sidney was still alive he could be a big help to Betsy this summer. But the best find was Ted’s meticulously kept notebooks. He had two sets: one for the vineyard, in which he noted everything from hours of sunshine to the exact location of frost patches on winter mornings, and the other for every blend of wine he’d ever made. His writing was scratchy and hard to decipher and what bits I could read didn’t mean much to me, but I was certain that the books would be a great help to us all over the coming season.

  Ted’s desk hadn’t been touched for several months, judging by the pile of unopened post, the unanswered emails and an answerphone which had stopped taking messages because it was full.

  There were condolence cards too, stacked on one end of the desk, opened but still in their envelopes; the thought of Betsy sitting at Ted’s desk trying to read them with her magnifying glass made my heart ache. I picked out the correspondence that needed the most urgent attention to pass to Betsy and Jensen and made my way back outside to the patio.

  My insides were fizzing with more bubbles than a glass of Butterworth Classic Cuvée; I had the beginnings of an idea and if I could get Jensen on side, it just might save the vineyard.