A Vintage Summer

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘Indeed,’ said Betsy. ‘Ted had so wanted Butterworth Wines to stay in the family but we’re running out of time. If we can’t persuade Jensen to come back to manage it, then …’ Her voice petered out and her shoulders sagged.

  Marjorie reached across and patted her arm. ‘Chin up, old thing, it ain’t over until the fat lady sings.’

  ‘Less of the old,’ grumbled Betsy.

  ‘What about your daughter?’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you speak to her?’

  Betsy’s cup rattled in the saucer as she set it down on the coffee table.

  ‘I have spoken to Samantha about it, but she and Victor are living a life of luxury in Shanghai. She doesn’t see them returning to the UK for the foreseeable future, if at all. She did, however, order six cases of Classic Cuvée to be shipped over for a golf club gala dinner Victor is hosting, so it wasn’t all bad news.’ She managed a wan smile. ‘Apparently the Chinese love English sparkling wine.’

  ‘Do they?’ I made a mental note to include that in my ‘interesting facts about English wine’ section of the presentation Godfrey and I were doing at Pippa’s library next week.

  ‘Brit Fizz they’re calling it.’ Betsy shuddered. ‘And so do the Americans. Ted would turn in his grave; although he’d be thrilled to know his wine was being drunk on the other side of the world. So swings and roundabouts.’

  ‘Exports are one of the areas I’ve been looking into,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘I’m hoping to pick Olivia Channing’s brains about it while I’m in London.’ Perhaps I should invite her along to lunch with Jensen and me, I thought; at least that would keep things on a professional level and stop me making an idiot of myself.

  ‘Oh?’ Betsy raised a hopeful eyebrow. ‘What other areas?’

  I felt the weight of both of their stares.

  ‘Well, I’m only here for six months, but if I had time I was thinking we could convert one of Ted’s sheds into a little shop, so customers can drop in and buy direct from us.’

  ‘I like that idea.’ Marjorie’s eyes glittered thoughtfully. ‘A year-round income, cutting out the middle man. Very good.’

  I continued, encouraged. ‘And I thought about putting a wine holiday package together: accommodation nearby, a wine tour and tasting and, for those who wanted hands-on experience, a few days volunteering in the vineyard and winery. It was Olivia who gave me the idea.’

  ‘You think people would pay to come and work for us?’ Betsy eyed me sceptically.

  ‘I do.’ In fact, I was sure of it. Wine tourism was well established in other parts of Europe but still new in England and owning your own vineyard was the new ‘escape to the country’ dream for people looking for a change of pace. The risk-free option was to try before you buy, and where better than an established vineyard where would-be winemakers could get real hands-on experience and learn from the experts. Well, expert-ish.

  Marjorie slurped the last of her tea. ‘Told you, Bets.’

  ‘Told her what?’ I asked.

  ‘That you might not be a Butterworth but this place has got under your skin,’ she said smugly.

  ‘It definitely has.’ I laughed. ‘It’s the best job I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Good grief,’ said Betsy drily. ‘I don’t know whether to feel flattered or sorry for you.’

  I laughed. ‘Be happy for me. Until now, I’ve simply drifted career-wise. And now I know that the wine business is my future. Whatever happens next, that’s my goal and I’ve got Butterworth Wines to thank for that.’

  Betsy and Marjorie exchanged excited looks.

  ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard since you told us you were expecting,’ said Betsy, reaching for my hand to pat it.

  ‘If I could afford to buy the business from you, I’d do it in a heartbeat,’ I said. ‘Although I’m not family, of course.’

  ‘Tell Jensen your ideas when you see him in London,’ said Marjorie, pursing her lips. ‘He knows a profitable scheme when he sees one, he might take the bait.’

  ‘Yes!’ Betsy clapped her hands. ‘If anyone can convince him to come back to Fernfield, it’s you, my dear.’

  My heart squeezed at the hopeful looks on their faces.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I promised. And I meant it; after all, I realized, I wanted Jensen to come back just as much as they did.

  ‘The grapes will be pressed on the day we pick them,’ I said, smiling at my audience, ‘which is usually mid-October, and the juice pumped into tanks where it will stay until February—’

  ‘Sorry for interrupting, Lottie, the sugar levels are very high for September,’ Godfrey put in, pulling his notebook from his pocket and flicking through it. ‘Ah, here we are. I took readings from the Pinot Meunier this morning and the refractometer was giving me sixty-four in places. So I don’t think it’ll be mid-October this year.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Pippa, raising a hand. ‘We’ve had a lot of sun this season and apart from the rain in August, we’ve had very few setbacks.’

  ‘Gosh.’ I pulled a face. The number was an indicator of sweetness. According to Ted’s notes, we hadn’t reached a reading of above sixty until the end of September last year. ‘So harvest really could be very early?’

  It was later that same afternoon and I’d gathered the team on the terrace under the shade of the parasol. Betsy had gone for a snooze and Marjorie had gone home and I was running through my presentation for the library wine-tasting event next week. At least, I was trying to. My audience consisted of Matt, Clare, Godfrey and Roger, most of whom couldn’t resist adding in their own two penn’orth at every opportunity. Pippa was there too, acting as my assistant. She was in charge of pouring the wine samples and handing round the sheets of detailed tasting notes that Roger had prepared.

  ‘This dry weather is certainly bringing the grapes on well,’ she said now, grimacing as she eased the cork out of sparkling elderflower juice which we were using instead of the real McCoy for our practice. ‘It’s more like the Dordogne than Derbyshire, particularly through the Chardonnay vines: the paths are dusty and dry and the leaves are beginning to turn brown at the edges.’

  ‘The Pinot Noir is looking good too,’ said Clare, looking up from her crocheting. Apparently, she was still being harangued by the blanket committee. ‘I sent Sidney some photos of the crop the other day and he reckoned they were as ripe as his.’

  ‘Phew.’ Matt pretended to wipe his brow. ‘Looks like we emptied out the tanks just in time, then, Lottie.’

  He and I had spent most of last Sunday evening finishing off tirage for the 2017 Blanc de Noir. Which meant all last year’s vintage had been blended, bottled and was now on its second fermentation and could be left alone until next spring. The big stainless-steel tanks had been scrubbed and cleaned, ready to use again. I’d smelled like a barmaid’s apron by the end of the night and Issy the midwife had sniffed me suspiciously when I’d gone for my check-up the following day.

  ‘Order!’ Roger banged the table with a teaspoon. ‘Lottie will never get to the end of this if she keeps getting interrupted. Will you all please concentrate?’

  ‘Thank you, Roger,’ I said, soothing our resident grump. ‘But everyone’s points are valid and we do need to make plans for harvesting.’

  ‘Planning will have to wait until after the radio interview in two weeks,’ Godfrey said nervously. ‘This is the biggest opportunity Butterworth Wines has ever had: taking part in a live panel with a chef from a Michelin-starred restaurant and the spokesperson for English Wines. This is our moment to shine!’

  My stomach churned at the thought. ‘Thanks for that, Godfrey.’ I pressed a hand to my stomach. ‘Now where was I?’

  I looked to Pippa for help. She poured an inch of sparkling elderflower into a plastic cup for me.

  ‘You said the juice will stay in the tanks until February,’ she whispered discreetly.

  ‘Oh yes.’ I took a sip of my drink. It fizzed on my tongue and the next thing I knew I was thinking about how amazing bubbles were and al
l other thoughts had evaporated from my head. ‘And by then, the, er …’ I faltered. The only thing I could remember about February was that as of the tenth, one would become two and the thought terrified me. ‘Sorry, everyone, I can’t concentrate this afternoon.’

  ‘By February, the first fermentation will have finished,’ Pippa filled in for me. ‘And don’t apologize, I’m in awe of you for offering to do this library event. I could never stand in front of a group of people and talk. It took me a year to speak up in front of this lot.’

  ‘You could do it standing on your head blindfolded,’ I retorted. ‘You’ve got all the facts at your fingertips; all I’ve got is a head of cotton wool.’

  ‘Baby brain. It won’t last for ever,’ said Clare with a chuckle, peeling the paper wrapper off a new ball of wool. ‘Like baby weight. Although I’m still waiting to shift mine and Ben is twenty-five.’

  ‘Have you thought about names yet?’ said Matt, rocking back on his chair, which Betsy always told him off for. ‘Matthew is good for a boy, just saying.’

  ‘Clare means “bright and clear”,’ said Clare proudly. ‘Beat that.’

  ‘Apparently, Roger means “famous warrior”,’ said Roger with a smirk, looking up from his phone. ‘So I think that trumps Clare.’

  ‘Have you been researching the meaning of your own name, Roger?’ Godfrey folded his arms smugly. ‘I thought we were supposed to be concentrating.’

  ‘Not exactly, I …’ He went bright red and his mouth flapped open and closed like a marooned goldfish. ‘Well, all right, I did.’

  We all laughed but the effect of Godfrey’s admonishment was diminished somewhat by his own mobile pinging with an incoming email. His eyes lit up when he saw who the sender was.

  ‘Ah. Email from the lovely Olivia; shall I read it out?’

  We agreed that he should and I took a seat, halting my presentation for the time being. Godfrey skimmed quickly through the first half of the email. Olivia thanked us again for agreeing to take part, confirmed the name of the other participants, Thomas Devine – a chef who was semi-famous, very pompous and liked the sound of his own voice – and the TV and radio presenter Fiona Love, a bubbly lady in her fifties whom everybody in the country adored.

  ‘Phwoar. Can you get me Thomas’s autograph?’ said Clare, pretending to fan her face. ‘He’s got that sexy bad boy thing going on. Gorgeous.’

  ‘Fiona’s not bad either,’ said Matt with a wolfish grin. ‘She’s got that sexy cougar thing going on.’

  ‘Ahem,’ Roger put in. ‘Concentrate please, the pair of you.’

  They giggled like teenagers and Godfrey cleared his throat.

  ‘Olivia goes on as follows: the only fly in the ointment,’ he read aloud, ‘is that Thomas Devine can’t make the original date and so we’ve had to bring our interview forward to next Friday. I hope this doesn’t cause you too much inconvenience, but I’ve already accepted the alteration on your behalf.’ He looked up. ‘That’ll be all right, won’t it?’

  My first thought was that it would give me an excuse to see Jensen earlier than planned; thank goodness he’d be back from his travels by then. My second was that now I had even less time to swot up.

  ‘One week from today?’ Pippa squeaked. ‘Oh no!’

  My mouth had gone dry and I knocked back the sparkling elderflower. ‘I’ll never be ready! It’s a tall enough order as it is, sending me – the newbie – into a live radio interview.’

  Matt topped up my glass. ‘Don’t be daft, Lottie, you’re a natural. And don’t forget what Sidney said: that he’d found a new apprentice. You’ll smash it.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Roger, ‘as long as you do your homework, you’ll be fine.’

  ‘And Olivia will be at your side,’ Godfrey added. It was fair to say that he had a colossal crush on her. ‘And she is extremely knowledgeable about wine.’

  Clare swatted at the men. ‘Stop bullying the poor girl. If she doesn’t want to do it, she doesn’t have to.’

  They mumbled their apologies and stared at me, waiting for me to respond.

  ‘Thank you.’ I smiled weakly and took a deep breath but before I had a chance to reply Pippa grabbed my arm.

  ‘Are you all forgetting something? The event for the library is next Friday!’ Her eyes were as big as tennis balls. ‘Lottie is supposed to be the host. We can’t let them down; it’s a sell-out.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ Clare clamped a hand over her mouth.

  ‘Of course we won’t let them down,’ said Roger calmly. ‘We can just use Lottie’s notes. There are enough of us to manage it between us. Not me, though, unfortunately; I’m taking the Year Sevens on a school trip for three days next week.’

  ‘And I’m dyslexic,’ said Matt, holding his hands up. ‘I can’t make head nor tail of the tasting notes even though I helped make the wine; I’d get all those statistics wrapped round my neck.’

  ‘I’m not around either,’ said Clare, doing a little shimmy. ‘Ben’s flying home for R&R on Thursday and Ian and I are picking him up from the base. I can’t wait.’

  ‘That’s great news,’ said Godfrey and I together.

  ‘No. It. Is. Not!’ said Pippa querulously, her pale face going pink. ‘It is not great at all. I’ve never organized an event before, I’ve put in a lot of effort, everyone’s looking forward to it and now it’s doomed to fail.’

  We all stared at her. I’d never heard her raise her voice before and neither had the others judging by their shocked expressions.

  Godfrey raised a hand timidly. ‘I’ll be here to help, although I’d rather stick to pouring the wine and handling sales than doing any talking.’

  ‘Great,’ Pippa muttered ungraciously. She took a deep breath and pressed her hands to her face. ‘Sorry I lost my temper. It’s just that everyone at the library knows how much the vineyard means to me; I want them to see it in the best possible light.’

  ‘You could do the presentation yourself, you know,’ I said softly. ‘No one knows this place better than you.’

  ‘It’s true, honey,’ said Clare, fiddling with her armful of bangles. ‘I bet if we took you into the middle of the vineyard blindfolded, you’d know exactly where you were.’

  Pippa folded her arms and frowned. ‘Well, I probably would, but speaking about it is a completely different ball game.’

  ‘You know the wines pretty well and I can coach you on the new ones,’ Matt offered. ‘I was going to have a final run-through with Lottie before the radio interview; we can bring it forward a week and you can join us.’

  Pippa looked out across the vines and nibbled on her lip, her chest rising and falling with nerves. We all waited with bated breath, hoping she’d push herself out of her comfort zone.

  Finally, she sat up tall. ‘Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll make a total hash of it, but I can’t see that we’ve any choice.’

  ‘Hooray!’ I said, giving her a hug. ‘I’m so proud of you. And I’m sure Ted would be too.’

  ‘And you, Lottie,’ said Roger gruffly. ‘Ted always shied away from the spotlight, it wasn’t his way to blow his own trumpet, but he’d be very impressed with your gumption, not to mention the amount of knowledge you’ve acquired in such a short time.’

  A well of emotion rushed up inside me; that was the nicest thing he’d ever said to me – that and the offer of babysitting. He wasn’t such an old grump after all.

  ‘I’ve had some very good teachers,’ I said, beaming at my colleagues. They had already become such good friends. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  ‘This deserves a proper drink,’ said Matt, throwing the rest of his elderflower into the rose bush.

  I gathered up my notes and left them giving tips to Pippa on how to overcome her nerves and celebrating her newfound bravery with a bottle of Blanc de Blanc that had been opened this morning for a wine blogger. As I wandered back to The Stables, it dawned on me that the change of date meant that this time next week I’d be on national radio, extolling
the virtues of Butterworth Wines and that everyone seemed to have complete faith that it was me, the newbie, giving the interview and representing the company.

  That was fine, I decided, aware of the bounce in my step. Before I left Harvey all those weeks ago, I’d been looking for the bright and bubbly Lottie Allbright that I’d once been, and now, I thought with a fizz of anticipation, she was back, stronger and bolder than ever.

  Chapter 25

  The following day, Clare and I were in the winery together. I was at the desk, transferring Ted’s handwritten notes on the vineyard and the crop development into a spreadsheet and Clare was having a break after packing and dispatching the day’s orders, including the consignment of sparkling wine for Betsy’s daughter to China.

  ‘I’ve never got to grips with spreadsheets,’ said Clare, peering over my shoulder and shaking her head at the rows of numbers.

  ‘It’s a monotonous job,’ I replied. ‘But once the data is in, it means anyone can look up the details of any wine we’ve ever produced.’

  I saved the document I was working on. I was up to Ted’s last journal now. He had been a meticulous note taker; I’d learned so much from reading his detailed weather reports, his methods for dealing with mildew, pests and wildlife and the copious readings he’d taken with a refractometer (the device to test sugar content) from every single row of vines. It would make it so much easier to make decisions for whoever took over the vineyard once Betsy had moved on. I didn’t want to think about that now, it was too depressing. I couldn’t bear the idea of seeing a name on the bottle label other than Butterworth. I loved the fact that Marjorie and Betsy were plotting to persuade Jensen to leave his globetrotting job and settle here, but much as I’d like it to happen, I couldn’t see it. He seemed to thrive on the cut and thrust of international business and global projects. A provincial vineyard where the biggest decisions were where to store all the new bottles bought in ready for the next harvest and whether we should strip more foliage off the lowest parcel of vines to get extra light to the fruit … Well, sadly, I didn’t think Butterworth Wines had enough to interest him.