The West Country Winery

by Lizzie Lovell

  Praise for The Juniper Gin Joint

  ‘The perfect pick-me-up for summer’ – Phillipa Ashley

  ‘Like a complex gin brimming with botanicals, this delicious book offers a giant swig of a story full of characters, wit and warmth.’ – Jules Wake, author of Escape to the Riviera

  Also by Lizzie Lovell:

  The Juniper Gin Joint

  First published in Great Britain and Australia in 2019 by Allen & Unwin

  Copyright © Lizzie Lovell 2019

  The moral right of Lizzie Lovell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events have evolved from the author’s imagination.

  Allen & Unwin

  c/o Atlantic Books

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London WC1N 3JZ

  Phone: 020 7269 1610

  Fax: 020 7430 0916

  Email: UK@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com/uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Paperback ISBN 978 1 78649 837 3

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 78649 836 6

  Printed in Great Britain

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my Auntie Lizzie. Iechyd da!

  Where there is no wine there is no love.

  Euripides

  Autumn

  IT WAS SUPPOSED to be a normal Monday family supper. Sausage casserole and green beans. Quick. Easy. Fairly nutritious. But mainly quick.

  We have a routine. A plan.

  Every Monday, Rob does the school run both ways – seeing as it’s band practice and impossible for Ruby to lug a harp around on the bus. Scarlet either goes along for the ride or makes her own way depending on which mood she’s in: hormonal or murderous. My job, first thing, is to take the casserole out of the freezer and pop it in the pre-set oven so that when the four of us are reconvened back here, the one night we can all manage to be under the same roof at the same time, it will be bubbling away nicely.

  It’s not a lot to ask. You would think.

  Unfortunately, stuff happens and I don’t particularly like it if I’m not prepared, though I’m usually adaptable. At least, I reckon so – my colleagues and family might say otherwise.

  Tonight has not gone according to plan.

  I am cornered by Declan on my way out of the office – something about a client changing their mind last minute over the type of water required at the upcoming conference – adding ten minutes to my schedule so I don’t get in until 6.30, by which time an argument’s in full flow.

  ‘You are not going to be a bloody vegan!’ Rob’s face is puce and marbled like an old boozer, his wiry frame jutting at awkward angles. A slightly charred sausage casserole sits between them on the dining table, its aroma filling the room.

  ‘I haven’t had an animal product or by-product for five days and you haven’t even noticed, so what’s the problem?’ Scarlet’s standing in her usual pose, hands on hips, defiant, deadly.

  ‘It’s bloody inconvenient, that’s the problem.’

  ‘It’s more inconvenient for the animals.’

  ‘Don’t be a smart-arse. Nobody likes a smart-arse.’

  ‘I don’t care about being liked. I just don’t want to eat dead things. We could swap the rotting flesh for Linda McCartney sausages.’

  ‘I don’t want Linda McCartney sausages,’ Rob whines. ‘How am I supposed to survive on Linda McCartney sausages? My hair’s falling out as it is and my muscle’s turning to fat.’ He points at his stomach area. There might be just the smallest bulge, but he’s not doing badly for a forty-two-year-old – although a forty-two-yearold who sounds more like a teenager, and we already have two of those in the house. One of whom is right now as bright red as her name suggests, the high colour of her father.

  ‘What’s Chrissie going to say?’

  ‘I don’t know, what is Chrissie going to say?’ Then, catching sight of me, ‘In fact, why don’t you ask her?’ Scarlet points a finger in my direction.

  Rob spins round, finally noticing me standing in the kitchen doorway, briefcase still clasped in my clenched hand, heels still clamped on my tired feet. ‘Oh, I didn’t see you there.’ He checks his Fitbit. ‘You’re late, aren’t you?’

  As if I need to be reminded. I’m about to open my mouth and respond but in that moment, seeing father and daughter reflecting each other’s stubbornness, I realize I don’t have the energy. So I make a sharp exit, retreat down the hallway, take off my shoes, and head upstairs to get changed.

  Our bedroom used to be a sanctuary of calm and serenity but recently that doesn’t seem to be working out so well. Rob has implanted an exercise bike in the corner – cycling being his latest obsession – and Ruby is currently ensconced on my favourite piece of furniture, my grandmother’s cocktail chair, plucking away at her harp.

  ‘Hi, Mum. You look terrible. Do you like this?’

  I do feel terrible so I perch on the bed to gather myself and listen to her play. The relaxing, whimsical notes of Joanna Newsom fill the air.

  ‘Actually, I really do like it,’ I confirm after a trance-like few minutes.

  Ruby’s cupid lips turn into a big smile. She’s very good and the harp is very soothing. The harp is also very big. Too big to fit in the bedroom shared with her stepsister, so she comes into my room – our room – to practise.

  ‘I really like it, Ruby, but haven’t you played enough for one day?’

  ‘I want to get this piece right,’ she says, brow furrowed in concentration. ‘And it means I don’t have to listen to those two shouting at each other.’ She continues to run her fingers across the strings and I remember the first time she had a go on a harp, her hands so small I never thought she’d be able to make a tune.

  ‘You all right, Mum?’ She stops for a moment, turns her serious eyes upon me. Deep brown eyes, sometimes murky, other times bright, like amber. In fact, my mother suggested I call her Amber, but Ruby was the only name Nathan and I could agree on. Actually, that was the only thing that Nathan and I could agree on. ‘Mum?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, sorry, Ruby. I’m just a bit frazzled, but I’ll be OK after a glass of wine and some dinner.’ I start to take off my work clothes and decide it’s already pyjama time. ‘Did you know Scarlet’s gone vegan?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, as if it’s old news. ‘She’ll get bored.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Last month it was raw food. It’ll be something else next month.’

  ‘I dread to think.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ she says. ‘Let’s go downstairs and eat. Scarlet can have beans on toast. That’s vegan, right?’

  ‘Yes, definitely vegan.’

  We share a smile.

  ‘OK, then. Just let me get changed.’

  Ruby slips out, quiet as anything. Only her harp remains, a reminder that my daughter is an angel. And my stepdaughter... Not so much. But I love them the same. I’ve known Scarlet since she was a tantrumming toddler. I know her moods will pass, her emotions are changeable. I almost wish some of that passion would rub off on Ruby – quiet, shy, self-contained Ruby
– but that really would be asking for trouble.

  AN HOUR LATER and we’ve eaten. Ruby joined her sister in the baked-bean feast and put forward the idea that she might like to be a vegetarian – not a vegan because she could never give up cheese – so there’s plenty of rotting-flesh casserole left over for Rob to consume at work tomorrow after his Friday-lunchtime spin class. Now he’s disappeared and I can hear the whirr of him above, in our bedroom, pedalling away on the exercise bike, giving himself indigestion. The girls are doing homework – they’re pretty good at getting on with it, I’ll give them that, even Scarlet who finds concentrating much harder than focused Ruby. This gives me the chance to catch up on some work of my own at the cleared kitchen table; there are a few loose ends to tie up ahead of Saturday’s conference.

  I’m just contemplating a second glass of Merlot when the phone goes. The landline. There’s only one person who uses this number – apart from the occasional stray nuisance caller who has escaped my eradication – and this person uses the landline because, where she lives, there isn’t a single bar of signal unless you climb up the steep hill behind the house.

  Mother. Or ‘Eve’, as she likes to be known.

  ‘Hello, Christabel.’

  My mother is the only person allowed to use my official, ridiculous name. I don’t remember my father as he was gone before my memory was even a thing, though I sometimes wonder when I catch a whiff of old-man tobacco... But really I hardly ever think of him because there’s been no need – not when I have my glorious hippy Eve and my larger-than-life stepdad, Des, exasperating and infuriating as they are.

  ‘We’ve got a bit of a problem.’

  ‘Oh? What’s happened?’

  ‘Calm down, my darling. It’s nothing too serious.’

  ‘Serious? Oh my God. Serious?’

  ‘I said it’s not serious. It’s my wrist. I tripped over a vine and fell awkwardly. I’m in plaster. It’ll be fine. Though the lovely doctor thinks I could have osteoporosis but that’s not what I’m worried about.’

  ‘Osteo... Wait, what?’

  ‘It’ll be fine. I’ll eat extra yoghurt. The problem is the wine.’

  ‘Should you be drinking?’

  ‘Of course I should be drinking! But it’s the vineyard I’m worried about. We’re going to harvest this weekend.’

  My mother, the winemaker. The very unsuccessful, terrible winemaker.

  ‘Bit early, isn’t it?’

  ‘The grapes are ready. Never seen them so plump and juicy. And there’s just so many of them this year.’

  ‘I’ve been telling you for ages to get some contract pickers in. You can’t always depend on the neighbours.’

  ‘The neighbours love it, you know they do.’ She’s using that tone of voice and I know what she’ll say next. ‘It brings us all together as a community.’

  Eve’s all about the community. Ever since she lived on a commune back in the day when I was just a bun in her oven.

  ‘You can’t rely on their goodwill.’

  ‘Of course I can rely on their goodwill. Besides, they get paid well.’

  ‘In wine.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  I want to ask my mother if she’s actually got any taste buds but I can’t deflate her. This is her latest passion. One that’s lasted longer than Jimi Hendrix or LSD or hot yoga. I want to ask her if that’s perhaps why the business is failing, because they’re giving the wine away, but she’s yabbering about the difficulty of recruiting extra volunteers, Des’s gout and inability to bend down, the uncommonly harsh winter, wet spring and long hot summer which have meant a bumper crop, and it’s hard to inform her that enthusiasm – and hers is as strong as ever – isn’t enough to succeed in business.

  ‘Are you managing, you know, financially?’

  ‘Christabel, really, don’t be vulgar. Of course we’re managing. We don’t need much.’

  They live off Des’s dwindling capital accrued when he was a trendy painter back in the sixties, producing vast kitschy canvases of buxom, big-eyed Tretchikoff-style women. Including one of my mother, who was his model for a time. It takes pride of place in their living room, above the inglenook fireplace, so that when you’re trying to watch the telly of an evening, you’re distracted by my mother’s youthful nudity. Now she’s sixty-nine with a broken wrist, possible osteo-whatsit and no cash in the attic.

  ‘Des isn’t exactly known for his sobriety or moderation. If you want to continue living the good life, then maybe you should consider giving up on the—’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s our livelihood.’

  A pause – while I tick off in my mind all the ways they’ve tried to eke out a living over the years, all those schemes that never quite paid off, never allowed them to put in double glazing or central heating. ‘It’s not really your livelihood though, is it, Eve?’

  ‘Well, maybe not our livelihood exactly, but it is our passion.’

  Passion. There’s that word again.

  ‘You could... er... get another passion?’

  A humongous sigh. ‘Sometimes, I wonder if I actually pushed you out of my birth canal. You don’t understand the very concept of passion.’

  Maybe I don’t. Which is just as well because some of us have to keep our feet on the ground. I take a deep breath, blurt it out. ‘You could consider... downsizing? Maybe getting a... bungalow?’

  ‘What?! Christabel, really, no.’ Eve makes an unfathomable noise – somewhere between a snort and a curse. ‘This is our home. Your home.’

  Home.

  This word has emotional meaning, I know that. And I do love it, Home Farm. That big old sprawling heap set in its few acres, nestled in the bosomy Devon hills, once part of the great Chudston Estate with its woodland, farmland, pasture, gardens and a whopper of a country pile, otherwise known as ‘next door’. It was my home too, where Dad’s mother took us in after he’d gone. My grandmother of the cocktail chair on which Ruby plays her harp. And then when Grandma died, the house was left to Eve. I was eight years old and I’d lost both my dad and my gran. But by the time I was nine, Des had moved in and we were a family. Unfortunately, he also moved in his plethora of paintings; they’d plummeted in price as fashions changed (which is why there’s still a stack of canvases in the studio). Des took on commercial work to help pay the bills, enabling Eve to continue doing her stuff – stuff which included running a smallholding, steering a women’s consciousness-raising group, and keeping me in knitted ponchos and patched flares. Oh, those schemes of theirs...

  ‘Christabel? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. I’m still here.’

  ‘This is your inheritance we’re talking about. Home Farm will be yours one day. And then, in turn, the girls’. How can you suggest we sell it?’

  ‘Because I want you to be safe and secure now. Des is nearly eighty, for goodness’ sake. And besides, I won’t ever move back to Devon. I love living in London. I love my job. I love my two-bedroomed terrace. It’s all we need. We have a cleaner and she can give it a going-through in a couple of hours. And there’s no grass to cut in the courtyard.’

  Eve sighs, desperately holding in a whole list of reasons why I should get my family out of London, but she knows better than to reel them off. ‘We’ll manage,’ she says. ‘We always do.’ A pause. ‘Though it would be good if you could help out. To get the harvest in? As I said, it’s a bumper crop this year. Can you make it down this weekend?’

  ‘It’s definitely going to be this weekend?’

  ‘Yes. We need to beat the rain that’s forecast from next Monday onwards. And the grapes will be perfect.’

  And here’s the thing. In the five years since they planted the vines, the last two have produced some fine grapes. They should make fine wine. But... something always goes wrong.

  ‘It’s rather short notice. I’ve got a conference on Saturday and the girls have only just gone back to school.’

/>   ‘They needn’t miss any school. Come down Friday night and leave Sunday evening. Four of you picking for two days will be such a—’

  ‘But the conference...’

  ‘You really need to be there?’

  ‘Of course I need to be there!’

  ‘But Christabel. Do you really need to be there? If I know you, you’ll have it planned military style and Declan will be able to take the reins for once. Give the poor bloke a chance. He’s perfectly capable.’

  Eve knows how to grind me down. She knows me better than anyone and it is incredibly annoying.

  ‘All right, Mother. Let me ask Rob.’

  Eve chooses to let the word ‘Mother’ slip by; she has something bigger in her sights. ‘You don’t always have to ask Rob,’ she says.

  And there we have it.

  ‘I don’t always ask Rob.’

  Another pause, another space where both of us contemplate whether it’s worth pursuing this old thing.

  As I thought, the grapes take precedence and she leaves it. For another time, no doubt. ‘All right, well, see what you can do and we’ll speak tomorrow.’

  ‘All right, Eve,’ I say sweetly, my own peace offering.

  ‘Des sends his love. He’s blowing you a kiss.’

  I’m putting the phone down when I hear Des making squelchy noises. If I didn’t know he was such a lovely bloke, I’d worry.

  IT’S ONE OF those sticky London nights. You’d think after all these years I’d be used to them. There’s something to be said for those cool Devon breezes.

  It’s not that I don’t like Devon. There are things I miss about it. Cream teas. Rolling hills. Secret coves. But we visit several times a year for high days and holidays so it’s not like I don’t get my fix. We probably should go down and help Eve. That’s what a good daughter would do. And I am a good daughter. I think. On the whole. So maybe we could go down for the weekend...?

  I grab my phone from the top of the bedside cabinet and text Declan to ask if he’d be prepared, in theory, to do without me on Saturday. It’s late so he probably won’t see it until morning. Only I’m wrong. He texts me right back with No problem. We’ll manage. I tell him he’s a star but then of course I worry about the girls. They might need some persuading. A weekend without fibre-optic broadband might not fill them with unbounded joy. And Rob. What will Rob think?