The Quilt

by Carlton, Rochelle

  She hesitated to allow him time to comprehend her call was not made with any intention of a reconciliation.

  “You were given her unlisted number months ago to use in the case of an emergency. It is important to her for business reasons that this line is retained.”

  Joanne waited for a response but the line was silent.

  “If you continue to ring you are leaving her no option but to go through the inconvenience of changing her number.”

  “If you had returned my call’s the inconvenience to your mother would have been avoided, Joanne. I needed to speak to you and, obviously, she has passed on this message or you wouldn’t have rung now. We need to work this out. I made a mistake. One mistake, Joanne.”

  “Whether it was one mistake or more, is not relevant. Stephen, you broke it and it can’t be put back together again. I won’t settle for what you offered. I want you to move on and I need you to accept you will move on without me.”

  “So, you are happy to throw everything away that we have?”

  “Stephen, when you think about it everything that we have, isn’t that much is it? I have no intention of coming back, ever. In fact, I wonder why I stayed for as long as I did.”

  Again the line was silent. Typical, he really had no answers. She put the phone down.

  Joanne left a message on her father’s answerphone. He returned her call a few minutes later, sounding unusually flustered.

  “Joanne, I am surprised it has taken you this long to call me.”

  “Is everything alright? You sound agitated.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! I assume your mother has told you about the position I am offering. It is a wonderful opportunity.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad, but I’m calling to say I can’t consider employment at least for the next few weeks.”

  “I really don’t understand what the hell you are saying, Joanne. Do you realize the fiasco in Nelson will leave you in a weak position as far as future applications go? This is, possibly, the only opportunity you will have to secure another position with the stigma of a sudden and unexplained resignation. It will cast doubt, not only on your reliability, but also on your professional integrity.”

  “You don’t know anything about the circumstances surrounding my resignation.”

  “No circumstances justify leaving a position of responsibility without notice unless the circumstances warrant legal proceedings. Did they warrant proceedings, Joanne? And if they did, I assume you did not encourage anything inappropriate.”

  Joanne willed herself to take a deep breath.

  “No, I did not encourage anything inappropriate and I resent you implying that I did. The circumstances did make it necessary to leave without notice but whether my grievance could be proved, or was worth pursuing, is questionable. Now can we please just discuss what is relevant? If there was any way I could commit to joining your firm I would. But right now, there is something more important that I need to deal with before thinking about my own future.”

  “Joanne, at the moment you have no future. You are unemployed, you have no prospects. Do you understand that you are turning down a position that could quite conceivably open doors that you have only been able to dream about? Nothing could be more important than that.”

  “To me, something is more important than that.”

  “Then I assume you are not fond of eating and living under a bridge is sufficient shelter for you?”

  His voice lowered and his tone became threatening.

  “Joanne, if you turn this down don’t ever ask me for my help again.”

  “I don’t recall asking for it this time.”

  Joanne’s father had already hung up.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Marinella, Sid and Mari”

  “Hello. Sid speaking, how can I help you?”

  The voice at the end of the telephone sounded gruff and was thick with an Italian accent.

  Paul could hear a woman’s voice in the background.

  “Who’s calling, Sid?”

  “Oh woman, please shut up,” replied the male voice with the accent. It then continued.

  “And, what did you say your name was?”

  “Paul Clarke. I am calling to ask some questions about the vineyard you have for sale.”

  “And what would you like to know?”

  “I’m looking for a change of direction and would like to know if this is an area that would interest me.”

  “So, I gather you don’t know anything about viticulture?”

  “Honestly, all I know is that wine is either red or white.”

  Sid burst into pearls of laughter.

  “And a colour somewhere in between!”

  “It might be easier if you came over and we had a talk. This would be a very long telephone conversation if we have to start with what colour the wines are. I presume you are on a toll call?”

  Paul knew he was going to like this good-humoured man with the thick Italian accent.

  Paul’s flight arrived at the Auckland Domestic Terminal first thing on a Thursday morning. As Sid had predicted, the traffic was already starting to build up and the motorways were heavily congested.

  He had advised Paul to take his rental car to a small marina where he could catch the ferry to the Island and avoid joining the commuters making their stop start journey towards the centre of the city.

  Paul had not confirmed his return flight home. If the property was interesting, he wanted to allow himself enough time to look at it thoroughly. He suspected even if he discounted the vineyard, the mid-afternoon check in for today’s return flight would be hard to meet.

  Either way he would ring Sean later in the afternoon to make sure Jess and the working dogs had been fed and exercised.

  It was only a short boat ride over to the Island. It travelled along some of Auckland’s pretty eastern suburbs before crossing the channel and into Matiatia Wharf, were the passengers and vehicular traffic disembarked.

  Sid was waiting, coffee in hand. He extended a calloused hand to greet Paul.

  “Hello, young man.”

  Sid’s smile was warm and, as his telephone manner had suggested, he was friendly with a dry sense of humour. His skin was wrinkled from hours of work in the sun, although physically he looked very lean and fit for a man of his age.

  “So, you want to find some direction and you think this might be the answer?”

  They climbed into an old Toyota four-wheel drive and headed up a narrow road with neatly fenced pasture on either side.

  “I am from a farming background but wanting a change. I can’t see myself living in a city or working in an office, but I also can’t see myself continuing the family tradition of sheep and dry stock.”

  Sid laughed as though he understood.

  “We will stop off at our house and maybe start from there.”

  Sid pulled over at a small tidy wooden home perched on a steep cliff and overlooking the bay. The ferry could be seen starting its return journey to the marina and a flock of white sea birds were diving for baitfish close to the shore.

  A woman that looked to be around the same age as Paul’s mother rushed to meet them. She was wiping her hands on an apron excitedly as she ushered Paul into the small kitchen area. She gestured to a comfortable chair and Sid sat on the other side of the large old-fashioned timber table.

  “I thought perhaps we should show you some of our wines before going up to the vineyard,” Sid explained. “We no longer live there permanently. The house is too large for just the two of us, and we want to cut back on our work hours. If we are at the vineyard we always end up doing things. This beach place suits us at our stage of life and I can launch the boat when I want to go fishing. The vineyard’s only a few minutes up the road, well everything is a few minutes up the road, Waiheke isn’t that big.”

  He chuckled.

  “Now what do you think of this wine, young man, apart from it being red?”

  Sid handed Paul a tiny measure of wine.
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br />   Paul took a sip and had no idea what to say.

  “It’s a syrah. It is a young wine. You would describe its taste as subtle, floral and slightly spicy? It grows well locally. Eat a small piece of bread and have a little water. You need to cleanse your palate between samples.”

  He poured another small measure from a different bottle into a clean glass.

  Paul sipped it again trying to distinguish the unfamiliar taste.

  “That is a cabernet sauvignon. It is aged in oak barrels so it has tannin flavours. It can also be blended.”

  Another small quantity of wine followed.

  “That is our merlot. It has less acidity than the previous wine. Did you pick up the fruitiness young man?”

  Mari had disappeared into the kitchen. She returned, smiling, with a large, hot loaf of bread and several different cheeses, olive oils and olives.

  “Mari and Sid, they are not Italian names?”

  “We immigrated to New Zealand forty odd years ago,” explained Sid.

  “Our names are Salvatore and Marinella. But it was easier to shorten them to avoid problems with pronunciation here.”

  “Now for some white’s, young man.”

  “Chardonnay, originally from Burgundy. Ours is aged in oak barrels. So you can taste the tannin? Yes?”

  “Pinot gris, one of my favourites. What do you think?”

  “Sauvignon blanc, quite different, can you pick it?”

  Paul had never taken the time to appreciate the differences in flavours and body. He had enjoyed some wine, mainly during special occasions so the actual complexities were a new concept.

  Finally Paul was handed a small glass of clear liquid. He sipped the contents and put it down quickly. He hoped he would not be asked to comment.

  “That my friend is grappa. Made from the leftovers in the production of wine. The skins, seeds, pulp and stems are distilled. It has a very high alcohol content and is mainly served after a meal to aid digestion.”

  “Have you tried the olive oil?”

  “We only sell extra virgin oil. It is from the first press. See how warm the colour is. Now try this one, it is not as creamy and rich.”

  Paul listened as the old couple recounted their lives and how they ended up living on the other side of the world on a small island producing wines and olive oil.

  Sid was the youngest son in a family of five boys. For generations his family had owned a vineyard in the Chianti region of Tuscany, close to the village of Castellina.

  The vineyard was tiny and produced mainly “Chianti Classico”, famous in this ancient wine growing region and originally distinguishable by its squat bottle and straw basket on the base.

  The oldest brother ultimately inherited the vineyard and continued the family legacy. This was tradition and accepted by the other brothers, including Sid.

  Mari was the only daughter of a restaurant owner in the pretty fishing village of Porto Ercole. She had spent her childhood helping her parents prepare food and working as a waitress.

  “My parents have just returned from touring Italy. I think they spent time in this area and, from memory I have a postcard from Porto Ercole.”

  “It is quite close to the city of Rome and, therefore, is becoming popular as a holiday destination. When Mari and her family lived there it was undiscovered and generated most of its income from fishing.”

  The couple had met when Sid had taken wine to the fishing village. His contribution to the families vineyard was selling to restaurants in and around the area of Monte Argentario, Tuscany and then on to Rome.

  Their courtship was short and they married within a few months of meeting.

  “Now that was the start of my problems!” Mari put her weathered hand over her husband’s and smiled fondly.

  “Sid, this poor young man must be getting bored listening to the story of our lives.”

  “No, please, continue. I enjoy hearing about people and their stories.”

  Paul was quite content listening to this interesting couple and enjoying the soothing warmth of the wine. As if understanding his thoughts, Sid filled their glasses again before continuing.

  “There was little future for us left in Italy. I would have only amounted to my older brother’s salesperson and, Mari, to a cook in one of the restaurants around the vineyard. With the help of our families we scraped together enough money to make a new life in New Zealand.”

  “Why New Zealand? It seems so removed from Europe.”

  “Why not New Zealand? We wanted a new start. A fresh beginning and to find somewhere that had not experienced, to the point of saturation, what we knew.”

  The couple immigrated just over forty years ago and purchased a small pizza restaurant. Money was short and so they had to borrow most of the finance.

  “In those days none of the large chain fast food was available. Options were limited to local fish and chip shops.”

  Both Sid and Mari laughed as they recalled the dirty counter tops and smell of rancid fat.

  “Most of the time it was a greasy mess, wrapped in old newspaper. I remember the print used to come off on the food if there was no paper between.”

  “That first restaurant was the hard one. We were carrying too much debt and had little, actually, no equity ourselves. It could have been a disaster when I think back.”

  They exchanged a look of understanding so intimate that Paul felt like he was an intruder.

  “The second and third were easier. We knew the market by then and set each one up in a different suburb so that they were not in competition with the new owners. We could have developed some of the first franchises if we had been from a business background.”

  “It was hard work and took longer than we had thought. What Mari? More than ten years?”

  “No, it must have been around ten years. We purchased the Waiheke land early in 1981 from memory.”

  Sid nodded.

  “We looked everywhere throughout New Zealand for the right spot to set up the vineyard. Well, everywhere except our own back yard. It’s normally the way isn’t it?”

  “Eventually, the local dairy owner mentioned the Island. From what I recall he had just purchase something in Man O War Bay. I think it was a holiday home, which is basically all that was on the Island back in those days. Is that right Mari?”

  She nodded, deep in memories.

  “The next part of our story is history. We came over, not really expecting to find our answer. In those days the Island had a much smaller population and many of the residents were colourful artist or alternative types wanting to escape the city,” again they laughed.

  “Land was quite reasonable back then. There were the residents painting and doing sculpture, a few businesses, some farms just scraping by and baches that stood vacant most of the year unless their owners wanted a holiday. This was originally a bach, many of the wooden structures over the Island were and some are still only used during the holidays. It is popular now, but back then it was considered too remote and too difficult to access.”

  “Without getting too technical, a lot of the Island has soil and clay over rotten rock. It has a high mineral content, is porous and has a low pH.”

  Sid noted Paul was listening to him attentively and so he continued.

  “Clay soils are ideal for wines such as merlot, syrah and chardonnay. Low fertility, mineralised soils generally help the flavour of wine. Of course, you will realise from your farming background, it needs to be managed carefully.”

  “It’s already afternoon, Sid; we had better make our way up to the vineyard before you bore this young man to death.”

  Mari winked and rolled her eyes at her husband.

  “Let me finish will you, woman? Or I will forget to explain exactly why we eventually arrived in this particular place.”

  Sid shook his head and finished his explanation.

  “The island is surrounded by sea breezes. It is protected from the prevailing cold, wet winds. So it is drier and warmer than, say
, Auckland city. The ocean is like a fan, it keeps the temperature perfect for the vines.”

  Sid checked again that Paul remained attentive.

  “The small land mass and long coastline help stop the extremes in temperature. The mild growing season means that we can ripen a variety of grapes for a long season.”

  “Let me know if you have any questions. Mari is right, we had better head over to the vineyard or the day will be gone.”

  They travelled up a narrow road with wide, manicured verges on either side. Sid stopped the car just before a sweeping gravel drive that appeared to be formed out of a fine, off-white stone. Rows of vines fell away on either side of the driveway creating an elegant and inviting entrance.

  “You know you won’t get rich if you only concentrate on the wine, don’t you? It is labour intensive, actually, damned hard work; even the fruit is harvested by hand.”

  Without waiting for Paul to respond, he continued.

  “By the looks you are not shy of hard work. But this venture not only needs physical input but also imagination and development to realize its potential.”

  The impressive drive ended in a large circular parking area directly in front of the restaurant. Its huge wooden doors were hinged with what looked to be cast iron and were flanked by barrels overflowing with red geranium. To the right was a huge concrete structure surrounded by an expanse of soft lawn that appeared to have been formed into an amphitheatre.

  “That is an outdoor pizza oven. We had it specially imported along with various pieces of furniture for the house. The area in front of it is man-made. It was formed for the acoustic quality. We had intended to host concerts and create an area of informal outdoor dining. It has never been utilized, but that is another option for the new owner to explore.”

  A heavy, wooden framed pergola covered in purple bougainvillea formed a walkway between the exterior of the restaurant and another long rectangular building. The floor of the walkway was made of cobbles and several wooden doors were visible on either side.

  To the left, there was a separate entrance screened by a long stone wall. Very little of the main house was visible and thoughtful planning had clearly defined the area for privacy.