Wild Grapes

by Elizabeth Aston

  Everyone else had wondered at her vehemence. “Come on, Gina, everybody gets divorced. It’s better for the children than having your parents rowing all over the place.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Gina had insisted. “What’s better for the kids is having both their parents right there at home with them. That’s what they need.”

  Fergus’s friend had shrugged. “Adults have their needs, too.”

  “Then they shouldn’t have kids,” was Gina’s reply. “I grew up with divorced parents, and take it from me, it’s a stinky way to start your life.” Then she had clammed up, angry with herself for her revealing outburst.

  “Yes,” said Gina.

  “What does your dad do?”

  “He’s an artist. A painter.”

  “A good one?”

  “He’s supposed to be,” said Gina without much interest. “Pictures in the Met, big exhibitions and so on.”

  “He’ll be pleased to see you.”

  “Maybe,” said Gina. “Now that I’m grown up and not likely to be a drag on his career.”

  “Is that what he thought you were?” Zoe was shocked. “I don’t believe it.”

  “That’s what he said. Once I came along, Mom didn’t want to camp out in a studio, eat at any old time, carry on the way they’d done before. She wanted me to go to a decent school, have a normal home, friends. And she wanted that for herself, too, a normal life. He said they weren’t compatible. What he meant was, he wasn’t going to live any differently, and if she didn’t like it, too bad.”

  Gina looked out of the window with distant eyes. “He used to throw me up in the air, and Mom would shout at him that he had paint on his hands, he’d get paint on my clothes, and he’d say, "I’ll never leave you, kid, I love you to bits."’

  “He must have loved you,” said Zoe. “Fathers do.”

  “Love you and leave you, just like all men.”

  “Did he keep in touch with you?”

  “Through my mom. I didn’t want to see him again, not once I was older, and I saw what he’d done to Mom’s life. She had a hard time for quite a while.”

  “Where is your mother? Can’t you go to her?”

  “In Italy. Living with a member of the Mafia.”

  “The Mafia? Not seriously?”

  Gina sighed. “Well, he’s a dapper little businessman with an awful lot of money from uncertain sources. Besides, how can I go to Italy? I need a visa for that.”

  “If your mother’s there, they have to let you in.” Zoe tried to keep the doubt out of her voice.

  “I’m not a minor,” pointed out Gina. “I’m twenty-four. I expect they’d let me in if I had my papers in order, but I’d have to go back to the States first in any case.”

  The front door banged, and Fergus came into the kitchen, a friendly greeting on his lips which died unspoken as he saw Gina’s face.

  “What’s up?”

  “You tell him,” said Gina to Zoe. “I’m going to make some phone calls.”

  Fergus made to follow her, but Zoe put out a restraining hand.

  “Leave her, she’s upset.”

  Fergus listened to Zoe’s account of the Popplewell incident in silence, his face darkening. “What a nerve,” he said finally. “Is Aumbry helping?”

  “A little,” said Zoe fairly.

  “Not enough,” said Fergus crossly. “He uses Gina, I don’t know why she can’t see it. She’s besotted with him; what a waste of time.”

  Gina came back into the kitchen, her big dark eyes shadowed with worry.

  “Have you got the money for the fare?” That was Fergus, always practical.

  “No,” said Gina. “I won’t have a cent once I’ve settled my rent and paid my bills. But Alwyn says he’ll advance the fare if it turns out I really do have to leave.”

  “Does he think you might not?”

  “He says a lot can happen in a fortnight. He’s going to get on to contacts in the Home Office, talk to some MPs he knows ... I don’t think it’ll do any good. This Mr Popplewell looks very determined in his limp way.”

  “He probably gets a bonus for everyone he throws out.”

  Fergus handed Gina a cup of coffee. “Drink this. I put a slug of brandy in it, good for shock.”

  “Going to Sam’s party tonight?” asked Zoe.

  They’re changing the subject, thought Gina. Trying to make me feel better.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s going to be difficult for you to find anyone to take my room, so close to the end of term.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re not going to think about it until it happens. As Alwyn says, a lot can happen in two weeks. Now, you finish your coffee and go and get changed. I’ll take you out for a meal before we go on to Sam’s.”

  “Fergus, I can’t afford a meal out.”

  “I said I’ll take you out. You never listen, Gina, that’s your trouble.”

  “And how come you’ve got the money to go out?”

  “Cheque from my parents,” said Fergus triumphantly, “I had a birthday last week, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “You were going to use that money to settle your account at Blackwells.”

  “Blackwells can wait,” said Fergus grandly.

  CHAPTER 2

  Gina emerged damply from her shower to find herself face to face with Alwyn, who was sitting at the kitchen table. Fergus was pouring him a drink.

  “Oh,” said Gina, startled. Alwyn had never been to the house; although invited to their not infrequent parties of one sort or another, he kept a careful professional length from his students, and in the case of Gina, from his research assistant. “Just as well,” one of his friends remarked caustically as he came into the SCR. “They all buzz round him as it is. Must drive Angela mad, and I can’t see why they do it.”

  “Charm,” said Miss Crowe, sitting like an evil bat in a huge and battered leather chair. “Just wait till the telly people get hold of him. It won’t be a few moony undergraduates then, it’ll be millions of housewives.”

  The friend made a moue of distaste and sat down, with a world-weary sigh, to the task of marking the near-illiterate paper handed in by one of his more sporty students.

  Charm Alwyn certainly had. Gina had succumbed to it two years ago, when she first started working with him. She would have worked for Satan if he had been researching the particular area of Tudor politics which she found so fascinating. Instead of Lucifer, however, she got Alwyn.

  Blast him, she thought, trying to smooth back her tangled wet hair into some semblance of order. As compelling as Old Nick and, if she was honest with herself, almost the main reason why she was so desperate to stay in England.

  Alwyn approached the whole matter in his scholar’s way, nailing down the facts.

  “Your visa has in fact expired?” he enquired. “You have checked it?”

  Gina nodded.

  “When, exactly, did it expire?”

  “Urn, about five months ago.”

  “Five months! I see why the Home Office is getting restive.”

  “I had a friend whose visa expired and they didn’t notice until he left the country two years later.”

  “Why didn’t you apply to have it renewed?”

  “I knew they wouldn’t. I’ve been here too long, you see. They’re afraid I’m establishing rights of residence or whatever they call it.”

  “You were at university in London, if I remember correctly. Then last year here in Oxford, doing your M. Litt. Before that?”

  “I was at school here, sixth form. I used to go back to the States in the vacations, so I guess that didn’t really count. And now I’m not a student any more. I need a work permit.”

  “I see. Yes, I can understand why the Home Office might be getting tetchy. Why the disinclination to go back home?”

  How could he ask such a thing? “I’m kind of stuck into the work here.”

  “I could recommend you to Professor Thriblinck at Columbia. He is doing some fine work on this
period. He’s a scholar for whom I have the greatest respect.”

  Thriblinck indeed. What was a Thriblinck to her, when she was here working with an Alwyn Aumbry?

  “It’s difficult in the States. Working on the Tudors, I mean. Since they didn’t have any,” she added unnecessarily.

  A smile flitted across Fergus’s face, and Alwyn frowned at Gina. “You have a point,” he said. “Although with computer access, these days...”

  “It isn’t the same,” said Gina firmly.

  “Perhaps not. Well, I shall see what I can do, but I don’t hold out any great hopes. They’re tightening up on these visas, I gather.”

  He finished his drink, thanked Fergus in his courteous way, told Gina he would expect her at the usual time the next morning, and made his way out.

  “Wow,” said Zoe, who had bumped into Alwyn on the doorstep. “The great man himself coming to call. Gesture of solidarity?”

  Fergus frowned. “Doesn’t like the thought of losing such a good and cheap research assistant if you ask me.”

  Gina made a sound of protest from under the towel with which she was vigorously drying her hair.

  “It’s true, love,” said Fergus. “You put in an enormous number of hours for him, you know. Way beyond the call of paid duty, in my opinion.”

  “It’s a fascinating subject,” said Gina defensively.

  “And a fascinating historian,” said Fergus under his breath.

  Zoe turned her mind to practical matters. “Gina, are you planning to wear those clothes on the bed?”

  “Yes,” said Gina. “Why?”

  Zoe shook her head. “Won’t do. Sam’s feeling grand. It’s a Jessica tonight.”

  Fergus groaned. “Shit, you’re right. Has anybody seen a clean shirt?”

  A Jessica was a dressy occasion. Although Jessica officially lived in the house, she spent very little time there. She was rich, and the cupboard in the room she shared with Zoe was stuffed with her very good clothes. Luckily, these were in a variety of sizes; Jessica’s weight and shape yo-yoed and changed as binge followed weeks of self-denying work-outs in the gym. Zoe and Gina could always find something to fit them, and they invariably borrowed her dresses for smart dos. Jessica was presently going through a stage of shabby black, and was quite happy to lend her clothes out.

  “Not that we ever ask her, these days,” said Zoe, holding out a dashing red number for Gina to inspect. “This will fit you; it must be about size zero from when Jessica was into ballet.”

  “Brand new,” said Gina. “Look, the label’s still on it. I can’t wear this.”

  “Of course you can,” said Zoe, swirling in front of the mirror with a thirties beaded slinky held against her. “What about this for me?”

  “No,” said Gina. “Too sophisticated. It’ll worry Tim.”

  “Mustn’t worry Tim,” said Zoe with a sigh, putting the beaded dress back and pulling out something much milder from Jessica’s Laura Ashley period. “You’d better hurry, if you’re going out to dinner with Fergus first. Lucky you, you’re off to the Jupiter Inn.”

  Fergus had been in a prophetic mood that evening, thought Gina, as she leant back against the hot metalwork of the station bench. A highly coloured butterfly flitted down on to the flowering bush in the neat bed beside the bench. In the distance a sheep baaed, others baaed in answer. Moaning about how hot they are, Gina thought idly.

  It hadn’t been hot that evening at the Jupiter; it had been distinctly chilly outside while she and Fergus waited for their food, and Fergus had remarked, so casually, that you never knew what was going to turnup.

  “You could meet someone this evening at Sam’s, your whole life could change.”

  “You mean a coup de foudre?” said Gina, interested despite herself.

  “I was thinking rather of meeting someone who has a brother or a friend high up in immigration, something like that, actually.”

  “Always so practical,” said Gina, rubbing his arm affectionately.

  “Of course,” said Fergus, looking into the middle distance, “you could get married. That would solve your problems - providing you married a British citizen, of course.”

  “No British citizen wants to marry me,” said Gina lightly.

  “There’s always me.”

  Gina was touched. “Fergus, you are so kind. Whatever would Charlotte say?”

  “I suppose she wouldn’t care for it,” said Fergus.

  “My life wouldn’t be safe,” said Gina. “You know how ruthless she can be.”

  “Yes,” said Fergus. “Well, it’s an offer.”

  “I couldn’t, you know,” said Gina.

  “Couldn’t what? Marry me?”

  “Marry anyone who didn’t really want to marry me. I don’t actually believe in marriage, you know. If my parents hadn’t got married, then they wouldn’t have had that messy divorce. I could never trust anyone enough to marry them, I don’t think.”

  She lapsed into a pensive silence.

  “Penny for them,” said Fergus presently.

  Gina came back to earth with a start. She had been thinking how settled she felt in England, how little she wanted to go back to the States and the fretful, fast-paced life her father led, how blissful it would be to be able to live, as of right, in this wonderful, ancient country, for ever and ever.

  “Nothing in particular,” she said.

  “Thirty-two,” called the man standing at the door of the inn.

  “What number are we?” Gina asked.

  “That’s us,” said Fergus, glancing at his slip of paper and getting to his feet.

  Gina hadn’t thought she would have any appetite, but Fergus had chosen the right place to bring her to. The Jupiter seated its guests at long refectory tables, and served oval platefuls piled with food at a modest price. Game was a speciality in season, great roasts of meat in the winter, and on this chilly evening the golden, honey-covered wild duck which was slapped down in front of Gina seemed extraordinarily inviting.

  “I expect you haven’t eaten all day,” observed Fergus, passing Gina the heavy china salt and pepper pots.

  “No, I haven’t,” said Gina, her mouth full of delicious duck.

  They were both right. She did meet someone at the party who changed her life - at least for the time being, thought Gina with some bitterness. And no, it wasn’t a coup de foudre. It was a tallish girl with dark curls, an olive complexion and a frank stare.

  “Hello,” she said. “Have we met?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Gina.

  “I’m Georgie Hartwell.”

  Gina was surprised. “I’m a Heartwell, too. How are you spelling it?”

  “Not-quite the same as yours, Hart without the E.”

  “How do you know how I spell mine?”

  “Because I asked,” said Georgie. “Come and sit down over here, I want to talk.”

  She elbowed aside the crowd who stood between her and a wide sofa to one side of the big room. Three people were already sitting on it, but Georgie was having none of that. “Would you excuse us, please?” she said, with an enchanting smile. “We have something important to discuss.”

  Now, if I tried that, thought Gina, they would have glared at me and told me to bugger off. Instead, obediently, apologizing for being there, they took themselves off.

  “Sit,” said Georgie, patting the sofa. “I hear you’ve got visa trouble.”

  “Who told you that?” Gina wasn’t sure she liked too many people knowing what was happening.

  “One hears, you know,” Georgie said airily. “Now, listen, I may just be able to help.”

  Gina was sceptical; scepticism grew to open astonishment, as Georgie blithely set out her wild and impossible plan.

  Absurd, Gina thought, now as then. It had seemed so preposterous in that Oxford room, and it seemed just as preposterous now, but here she was, waiting for the train that would take her to Heartsease. Heartsease!

  “Look,” Georgie had said. “This
guy, Harry Cordovan, he’s some kind of cousin, don’t let that worry you, he wants to get married, okay. It’s to do with wills and so on, the older generation not convinced that he’s the right sort, rather irregular in his lifestyle. You know the kind of thing. From what I know about his family, it’s a bit rich, considering the way they carry on themselves, but there you are. So!”

  Gina waited. “So?”

  “So, you marry him, of course,” said Georgie impatiently. “Problem solved. My family stop hounding me to marry him because it’s a good match, you get your English passport, Harry moves up the codicil list.”

  Gina stared at Georgie. Was she mad? A practical joker?

  “Neither,” said Georgie. “If it worries you, marrying a stranger, don’t let it bother you. He’s terrific. Oh, and gay, of course, so no need to worry on that score. That’s what bothers the family, you see. A bit of the queer stuff on the side, no problem. Out and out gay, bad news.”

  “There is no way,” said Gina, “absolutely no way that I would even think for one moment of marrying a total stranger.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” said Georgie. “You’re out of touch. People do it all the time. Usually, it’d cost you, but I’m giving you the chance of it all for free. There’s nothing to it. Off to the registrar’s office, kiss kiss, buckets of fizz, lovely hoi abroad, then home to separate rooms, a good allowance. Live here, live in London, wherever. In due course, a divorce. Not compatible, shame, such a nice couple. Then you’re home and dry.”

  “Why do you pick on me for this utterly bizarre plan? Why not a friend of yours?”

  “Ah, that’s the point. The family might be fussy about who young Harry marries. If they think you’re me, it’ll all be fine.”

  “What?”

  “Well, being a cousin and so on.”

  “They’ll know I’m not a cousin.”

  “There’s the beauty of the scheme. They won’t. Harry knows me, because we’ve met recently. None of the others have seen me since I was little. And we look alike, you must admit.”