Wild Grapes

by Elizabeth Aston

  “Oh!”

  “Her sister brought up the baby, my grandmother, with her own children. They did okay, which means they survived the thirties and the war and so on. Despite the difficulties, Babushka, which is what we all called her, managed to keep in touch with the family. She used to write to my mother, and then, from when I was about ten, she wrote to me. In English and French, because she said it was good for me to practise foreign languages.”

  “French?”

  “Didn’t I say? She went to live in France, after the war. She loved Paris, and of course there were a lot of Russians there. My parents are both engineers, but I studied foreign languages. I always thought, one day, I will go to Paris and meet my great-grandmother. If you are good at languages, you can get sent abroad, with trade delegations and so on, as interpreter.”

  “Did you?”

  “They never sent young ones, they didn’t trust them. They always sent Oleg or Olga, in their fifties, big boots, warts on their chins. No romance or escaping for them.”

  “But you met Byron.”

  “Yes, and this is what is so terrible. There he was, very good-looking, charming, English, rather shy... I wasn’t interpreter to his party, but I arranged it so I swapped with the girl who was. She was married to a doctor, and had a small son, she didn’t need to meet any young westerners. For this, I gave her three oranges.”

  “And you fell in love with Byron?”

  “I wanted to go to Paris, to see my great-grandmother. She was so old, I knew it must be soon. It was terribly important for me, to see her. You wouldn’t understand, it was an obsession. I had all her letters, from when I was a girl, I felt closer to her than I did to my own mother. And I told her things that I never told my own mother. And I promised, ‘Babushka, I will come and see you in Paris.’”

  Gina didn’t find any of this surprising. She had heard endless stories about separated families; Russians who were more interested in the lives of their distant relations than they were in what was happening around them every day. And for a lonely child, growing up in hard times, her contact with her great-grandmother in France would be like a window on to another world.

  “So I decided to marry him. I had a boyfriend of my own, a Russian, and we were in love, genuinely in love. But I went after Byron, and fascinated him, and made him fall in love with me. Cold-blooded, huh?”

  “I expect I would have done the same,” said Gina in neutral tones. She could see that Nadia was quite ready to launch into a temper at any hint of criticism.

  “It’s so easy, with an Englishman. These boys who have been to good schools, they know nothing, nothing at all, where women are concerned. It’s like stealing from a baby. So, a lot of fuss and problems, but finally, we were married, and I could leave Russia, and we went to Paris for the honeymoon.”

  “So you got to meet your great-grandmother at last.”

  Gina could see tears gleaming in Nadia’s angry eyes.

  “No. She died, the week before we came. I was too late even for the funeral.”

  “Uh, uh,” said Gina. Poor Nadia, she thought. And then, poor Byron.

  “Poor Byron, indeed,” said Nadia, with a dramatic sigh.

  “Did he ever find out why you’d married him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I told him. There, by my Babushka’s grave.”

  “Ah.”

  “He has ridiculous ideas of honour, he wouldn’t leave me. He said I was his wife, and he wasn’t going to leave me to cope in a strange country on my own. England, he meant.”

  “You seem to have coped very well. Couldn’t you leave him?”

  “That’s probably what he would like. That’s what he hopes for.”

  “Then why on earth are you still together?”

  “Because, after we were married and we had come back to England, I realized I was in love with him. Gregor, my fiancé in Russia, pooh, I knew I felt nothing for him any more. It was only Byron.”

  “So what’s the problem? I suppose he isn’t in love with you any more?”

  “He is, he is! Or he says he is,” she added darkly. “Only, now, he doesn’t believe that I love him. Whatever I say, he thinks I just stay with him out of convenience, or because I feel sorry for him.”

  “What a muddle,” said Gina, trying not to laugh.

  “It is not at all funny,” said Nadia. “It is very bad for our sex life, which is now practically non-existent, because he thinks if I want to make love I’m being kind, and then, flop, nothing!”

  “It’s a difficult situation,” said Gina.

  “Impossible,” said Nadia. “Impossible. Now, which wine, sparkling did you say? You will take two bottles, and I give you a special price.”

  “I only want one, for a present.”

  “Then you take two, one to drink yourself, or with a lover. Harry perhaps? That’s eighteen pounds, I’ve given you a good discount.”

  Gina knew when she was beaten, and handed over the money. “It’s going to be heavy to carry back,” she said.

  “Why? Where’s your car?”

  “I came along the footpath.”

  “It’s not so far,” said Nadia. “I walk everywhere, carrying much heavier things than that. We can’t afford to use the car. Walking is good for you, and carrying, too. Makes you strong, eh?”

  They were only a mile from the cottage when Zoe, wedged in the back between a palm and something with dark leaves and aggressive prickles, suddenly remembered that she should have given Gina a warning call. Peering round the palm, she tried to attract Sybil’s attention.

  Sybil, deep in conversation with Fergus, who was sitting in the front on account of his long legs, took no notice.

  Zoe abandoned discretion. “Sybil,” she said. “Please could we go via Heartwell and the village shop. I need something.”

  Sybil and Fergus, both politely thinking of items of feminine hygiene, made no objection.

  “Gina?” said Zoe. “At last! Where were you, I thought you were never going to answer.”

  “Harry’s here. He says that my father’s left, so I can go back to the Hall. How long are you going to be?”

  “About five minutes.”

  “Oh, Zoe, you aren’t serious! You said you’d ring when you started back. Where are you?”

  “The phone box at Heartwell.”

  “Where are Sybil and Fergus?”

  “In the car. They think I’ve gone into the shop; they’re so busy yakking they haven’t noticed I’m here instead.”

  “Take as long as you can,” said Gina. “Give me time to collect my belongings.”

  “You can always come back for them later,” said Zoe. “Draw the curtains up in your room, and we’ll pretend you’re still there, asleep.”

  “When’s Fergus going back to Oxford?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  Harry found the whole business very funny, as Gina flew about the cottage collecting various bits and pieces.

  “It’d be very lively being married to you,” he observed, as Gina thrust an armful of clothes into his arms. “You’d never know what you were going to do next. Can’t these go in your bag?”

  “No room, I’ve just stuffed everything else in there. Now, let’s go, quickly.”

  They passed Sybil’s car at the corner, Gina hastily ducking her head down as though she was rummaging in the glove compartment.

  “Perfect timing,” said Harry. “And we’ll be back in time for tea. I could just do with a cucumber sandwich.”

  Back at the cottage, Zoe was suffering from shock.

  “Wasn’t that Harry in that car we passed?” Fergus said to Sybil as he retrieved the palm and pulled Zoe out of the back. “Harry Cordovan?”

  “Yes,” said Sybil, surprised. “Do you know him?”

  “Known him all my life,” said Fergus breezily. “I meant to drop in at the Hall while I was here, but I haven’t got round to it. I’ll call in tomorrow bef
ore I go. Are you all right, Zoe? Hiccups?”

  Zoe rushed inside, followed at a more sedate pace by Sybil, who was looking very amused, and by Fergus, whose mind had returned to the serious engineering works out in the garden, namely the pool.

  “We should have it ready by this evening,” he told Sybil. “It can fill overnight, and I’ll get the pump fixed up for you first thing in the morning.”

  “I can do the pump,” said Sybil.

  “No, no, I know you want to get on with your book. I’ll see to that, and get the chemicals in for you. Then it’s all set up and ready for when your grandchildren come.”

  “Thank you,” said Sybil, with a warm smile.

  “Creep,” thought Zoe, listening from the kitchen. A bottle of fizz on the kitchen table caught her eye.

  She read the label round its neck: “Sybil, Thank you very much, love, Gina.” That’s right, leave it out for everyone to see, she thought, whisking it into the cupboard under the sink as Fergus came in.

  Plan, she said to herself. I need a plan. How am I going to find Gina and warn her about Fergus before he tips up to say hello, and runs smack into her?

  Gina was surprised to find how much it felt like coming home to be back at the Hall. Tea was being served on the terrace under the shade of three enormous canvas umbrellas. Aimee was reclining on a ship’s chair under the shade of a huge oak, with an elegant swain in attendance. A game of croquet was in progress, with Victor, immaculate in a linen suit and panama, stroking his hand thoughtfully over his trim beard as he planned a shot to crack his opponent out of the game.

  “Never take on Pa at croquet,” warned Harry, as he dropped into a deckchair. “He’s a killer, and if you should chance to beat him, he’ll take weeks to forgive you.”

  “He looks as though he’s enjoying himself,” said Gina, shading her eyes with her hand.

  “At his most jovial,” said Harry. “Wait until someone knocks his ball away; thunderous isn’t the word.”

  “I always thought croquet was kind of a genteel game.”

  “No way,” said Harry.

  “China or Indian?” said Guy, materializing over her shoulder. “I hope you had a good weekend with Sybil, Gina.”

  “Thank you, yes,” said Gina, thinking how wonderfully restful it was here, and what an exhausting weekend it had been.

  “Seven o’clock, Guy?” said Harry, without opening his eyes.

  “I’ll be ready,” said Guy, gathering up plates and cups.

  “Where are you going with Guy?” asked Gina.

  “Gay club,” said Harry, now apparently almost asleep.

  “Where?”

  “In Heartsbury.”

  “I mean, did you really say a gay club?”

  “I did. Do I detect a note of disapproval in your voice?”

  “Why should I disapprove?”

  Because I do, Gina thought. One minute in bed with me, the next down at the gay club. That’s sordid. Yes, I know I felt I could put up with a bisexual husband, but he should keep his other amours private. No place is less private than a gay club, of all places.

  “You can do what you like,” she said coldly.

  “I shall,” said Harry imperturbably.

  “I can’t imagine what a gay club in a cathedral city must be like.”

  “Great place,” said Harry. “And don’t angle to come too, because I’d lose all my cred if I turned up with you. Besides, I don’t want to take you.”

  “Fine by me,” said Gina. “I don’t want to go.”

  “Touch of homophobia?”

  “Not at all. I’d just rather go to a club where there are straight guys.”

  “You do get some there, trying to pick up the women who’ve gone so that they can have a good night out without being pestered by the blokes.”

  “It all sounds very complicated,” said Gina stiffly, putting her cup down and struggling out of her deckchair.

  “In a huff?” said Harry.

  “I couldn’t be bothered to be that,” said Gina. “I have some letters to write.”

  “If you’re writing to Georgie, give her my love,” said Harry, settling back into his snooze.

  Men, Gina said to herself as she went through the arch into the orchard. I hate men.

  A nearby pig gave a friendly grunt.

  “Exactly,” said Gina.

  “I’m not sitting on that terrible little train for hours, and then more hours waiting at wherever it is for a connection to London,” said Tara.

  Lori was talking on the phone to her elder daughter. “Just a minute, darling, Tara’s saying something.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “You can’t expect Gareth to drive you all the way to Heartsbury, Tara. There’s nothing wrong with the train. Sorry, yes, new gym shorts? Yes, you can ask matron to get them at the shop, but be sure to get ones that fit properly. You know how matron allows for growing room. No, darling, the last ones had to go back, they were down to your knees.”’

  Tara fell into a sulk, and, as Gareth came into the room, began to complain about the appalling journey she was faced with because Lori felt he, Gareth, couldn’t drive her to Heartsbury. “It’s hardly far, only twenty-five miles. Nothing; when you live in the country you expect to drive that all the time.”

  Gareth ignored the flapping signals from Lori, and thought for a moment or two. “Lori’s right,” he said finally. “Nothing wrong with the train from Heartsease. However...”

  “And how often do you take it?” said Tara, much put out.

  That’s different. Anyhow, I’ll take you to Heartsbury this time, because there’s a chap I want to see there about a programme.”

  Lori finished her phone conversation with a promise to send more pocket money, and frowned at Gareth. “Does that mean you won’t be here at all this evening?”

  Gareth shifted under his wife’s gaze. “No, well, I suppose not.”

  “And then off to London tomorrow for the week, and I won’t see you until late on Friday, if I’m lucky. Wonderful.”

  “Shut up,” said Gareth without rancour. “I thought I’d stay down here tomorrow, and buzz up on Tuesday morning. I may even come back down on Tuesday evening, or on Wednesday; I’ve got work I can do here.”

  Lori’s face lightened. “Good. Don’t forget it’s sports day on Saturday.”

  Gareth adored his children, and loved going to school dos. He showed off terribly, and embarrassed the girls to the nth degree, but Sports Day was one of the highlights of his year. “Terrific,” he said. “And I hope that bloody PE teacher has put Melissa in a decent heat for the hundred metres, no idiots with two left feet careering about the track like there were last year.”

  Lori made soothing noises, and Tara went off to the kitchen to pack up a substantial food parcel for herself, some to eat on the train, some to have when she got home and some for the freezer. Every little bit helps, she told herself.

  Zoe felt very strongly that there were better ways to spend a hot June afternoon than trapped inside a circular swimming pool, ironing out wrinkles.

  “This water in here is cold,” she informed Fergus. “And why am I on my hands and knees in here while you’re out on dry land?”

  “It’s important work, checking the railing at the top,” said Fergus. “And it’s essential that we get all the wrinkles out.”

  “We,” said Zoe indignantly. The choice of pronoun is interesting.”

  “I’m reading the instructions and finding out what has to be done.”

  “And I’m doing it.”

  “You need the exercise.”

  “This isn’t exercise, it’s torture.”

  “It’s to help Sybil. Besides, if you weren’t doing this, what would you be doing? Lying on that swinging sofa affair and reading a book.”

  “Blissful thought,” said Zoe angrily, as she bludgeoned a particularly unruly wrinkle into flatness.

  Fergus turned to bribery. “If we get this finished, I’ll stand you a drink at the Bunch of Grapes.�
��

  “You’ll stand me more than one, Fergus McEttrick,” said Zoe darkly.

  Wilf welcomed the two of them like old friends. “Caught the sun, I see,” he said to Zoe. “Been sunbathing?”

  “Not exactly, no,” said Zoe.

  Fergus took Zoe away into the garden before she could complain about her afternoon, and calmed her down with a cool drink.

  “Pity Gina can’t join us,” said Zoe unthinkingly.

  “Difficult, when she’s in America.”

  “What?” said Zoe. “Oh, yes, of course. I meant, it would be nice if Gina hadn’t had to go back to America and could be here with us. In Heartset, I mean. In England. Instead of America. Where she is.”

  “Have some nuts,” said Fergus. “You’ve obviously got a rush of alcohol to the brain on an empty stomach; it isn’t good for you.” He chewed a cashew reflectively. “I’m worried about Gina.”

  Zoe gave a start and slopped some of her drink on to her leg. “Clumsy of me,” she said, dabbing at it. “Why are you worried?”

  “I’d like to know where she is; she should have got in touch by now. It isn’t like her, I would have expected her to let us know her address. And how can we help with permits and visas if we don’t know where she is? She could be anywhere, for God’s sake. New York, California, Mexico... Don’t you care? I mean, I thought she was your friend. She could even be back in England, for all we know.”

  Zoe took a deep breath; calm, she told herself, keep calm. “Back in England? Now, that’s one place she can’t be. How would she get back into England without a visa?”

  “No, okay, I know, she’s in America. I know she can’t be in this country. It’s just that I could have sworn I saw her in that car being driven by Harry Cordovan.”

  Zoe thought fast and furiously. “That’s because you’ve seen Harry with Matilda.”

  “Matilda?”

  “Matilda Fotheringay,” said Zoe, with increasing confidence. “Sybil was telling me about her. Dark, olive skin, Spanish ancestors. Very like Gina, I should think. Curly hair. You know.”