‘Did you feel that?’ she asks me, standing up straight and looking towards the darkening sky. ‘Rain,’ she adds, unnecessarily.
Yes, I did feel that. A few splats of the wet stuff. Across the vineyard waterproofs are ruffled out of backpacks and Eve has ordered Ruby to distribute a ragbag collection of capes and anoraks for those who’ve come unprepared. It seems we will have to carry on.
‘Just a squall,’ says Clara.
AND SHE’S RIGHT: ten minutes later the clouds have cleared, leaving behind a breeze and sunshine. Now, hopefully, the grapes will soon be dry and won’t leave any water in the press – a known problem in winemaking.
Des can’t understand it because the weather forecast did not predict this. Or his barometer. Or his gout. But he insists we take a break to give the elements a chance to do their magic.
‘It’s going to be a long night,’ Clara murmurs.
WE’RE GATHERED BACK in the barn with the tea urn and cake.
‘Shop-bought,’ Eve apologizes again. She’s damp, dirty and decidedly dejected.
‘Can’t we leave the picking till tomorrow?’ Ruby asks Des.
‘Definitely not,’ Des says. ‘Time is of the essence. The sugar content and acid levels are at their peak. It’s just a short window of opportunity. Once they’re dry again, it’s back to the vines.’
‘How much is left to pick?’
‘We’ve got two acres. We’ve maybe done a quarter.’
‘Is that it?’
‘’Fraid so. The Pinot Noir will be a few more days yet before they’re ready but the Chardonnay needs to be picked this weekend. Normally we have about three tons, but this year it looks more like five.’
‘How many bottles is that?’
‘A lot,’ he says.
Ruby waits for something more specific but it’s not forthcoming.
Business acumen: zero.
Before I suggest creating a spreadsheet, we hear a nerve-jangling scream followed by a scuffling of boots outside in the yard.
Scarlet. I’m about to go and fetch her when she appears, breathless, in the entrance to the barn.
‘Scarlet? Whatever’s the matter?’ Eve is straight over to her granddaughter, good arm around her, worry written all over her face and in her gestures. I can’t remember her ever showing me such concern.
‘There’s a... pair of... dead birds... in the loo.’
‘Oh, those,’ Des says, unhelpfully. ‘Those are the partridges I shot earlier in the week.’
‘But why?’ Scarlet looks bewildered. Shocked.
Why does she think? How naive our children can be; for all their apparent streetwise London ways, they know so little about life, death and the country.
‘To make them taste more tender,’ Des answers.
‘You’re going to eat them?’
‘Of course we’re going to eat them.’
‘I’m not going to eat them!’ Scarlet exclaims.
‘Then don’t. All the more for the rest of us.’
‘I’m not going to eat them either,’ Ruby says.
But Scarlet doesn’t hear her sister’s support because she has stormed off in that typical response of hers. She’ll be trying to find a couple of bars of mobile-phone coverage to group-chat her mates and vent her spleen. Or possibly having a sneaky roll-up behind a hedge, sending smoke signals into the ether.
‘Why are you shooting partridges?’ Ruby asks, round-eyed with disbelief.
‘Because it’s too early for pheasants,’ Des replies, as if that’s perfectly logical to a fifteen-year-old from south London.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER and Des claps his big hands, chivvying us with his never-faltering cheeriness. ‘Come on, troops.’
‘I’ll just pop next door and see if the neighbours have any spare hands,’ Rob suggests. ‘After all,’ he adds, turning back to face me, ‘your mum’s always saying what a great community this is.’
‘It is a great community.’ Eve has acute hearing when she wants.
Despite the team talk, looking out upon the rows of vines it’s clear there are a lot more grapes still to be picked and there’s an audible sigh from the group.
‘Well, let’s see how much civic responsibility this dude has,’ Rob says, heading off to find out. It’s a bit of a trek to next door so he jumps in the car and disappears through the gate and up the lane, leaving me wondering how on earth he will cope cycling across that great continent, crossing the equator, from Cape Town to Cairo. Eleven countries. None of which he has ever visited.
AN HOUR FLASHES by so quickly we barely notice how tired we are. Ruby continues to do the donkey work, shifting the crates to the barn single-handedly in Rob’s absence – where is he? – while the rest of us carry on picking, a slower pace than before, apart from Melina, who is a machine.
I’m heading back across the yard after a visit to the partridge loo, when in pulls the truck driven by Tomasz, back from the winery up the valley. Only he offloads more than the empty crates. A battalion of labourers pile out – mainly men but also a couple of women.
‘I bring help,’ he announces to anyone who will listen, though there’s only Eve – doing a few yoga stretches – and me near enough to hear, everyone else beavering away up the hill.
Then Rob returns with a stony-faced but slightly calmer Scarlet, arms crossed, in the passenger seat. He winds down the window. ‘I’ve brought the cavalry,’ he says, pleased with himself, as if it’s anything to do with him, the messenger. He parks and heads straight up the hill to help Ruby, Scarlet reluctantly in tow, while the men get themselves organized, fussed around by Des and company.
And then a Range Rover pulls into the yard, parking up by the barn, dispersing a cloud of dust. The driver gets out, slamming the door and surveying the scene, a caricature gentleman-farmer type kitted out in tweeds, boots, flat cap, the works. The new neighbour. The new neighbour who looks – ohmygod – somewhat familiar.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ I ask my mother.
‘Oh, didn’t I mention that?’ Eve asks, innocent as a fox with feathers in its mouth. ‘No time for chatting now. Back to work. Chop chop.’ And she tries to bundle me away before I make a public affray.
But I put my foot down and this is how I come to be standing in my socks on the kitchen flagstones in front of the Aga slugging from a bottle as I face my ex-husband.
‘HOW’S THE WINE?’ Nathan asks.
‘Don’t.’ I eyeball him and take another sip. ‘Just don’t.’
He helps himself to a glass from the cupboard, knowing exactly where to look, and reaches across me to pour himself some of the wine, which he then downs. ‘The best way,’ he says.
I ignore this, shut my eyes wishing he’d disappear back to where he came from, wherever he was before he decided to move in next door. ‘Since when have you been interested in farms?’
‘I grew up on a farm, remember.’
‘Of course I remember. You bloody hated it. Couldn’t wait to leave.’
‘Well, that’s something we had in common.’
‘That and only that. Only you made a habit out of leaving whereas I had to stay put. What with having a young child. Our young child.’
‘You could have come back here.’
‘Why should I have had to? I wanted to live in London but you made that very difficult for me.’ The bastard. The utter bastard. ‘Why did you have to buy next door? It’s my home, for goodness’ sake.’
‘But it’s not your home. You hate it here.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Of course it isn’t.’ Honestly, I can’t believe the audacity. And I don’t know which is worse. Nathan buying next door or Nathan standing in his ridiculous clothes in my mother’s kitchen.
Actually, I do know what’s worse. And that is the fact he hasn’t seen his daughter in years. Where’s he been all this time? Last I heard he was in New Zealand. A decade ago. With a woman called Charlotte.
&
nbsp; And finally, the penny drops. All over the flagstones.
‘Was that Ruby I saw? Carrying baskets?’
‘Yes, that was Ruby.’
‘She looks so grown-up.’
‘She’s fifteen so technically still a child.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ve been a bastard.’
Oh.
Well.
I wasn’t expecting that.
But it’s true. So true.
‘Yes, you have, Nathan. You’ve been a complete and utter bastard. All this time and no word, no money, nothing. You can’t just say you’re sorry and expect everything to be fine.’
He’s about to speak and I remember how Eve has been on the verge of saying something since our arrival yesterday. She knew she should tell me about Nathan, but she deliberately didn’t do so. When I find her I will ask her why exactly she omitted to mention that my bastard-of-an-ex-husband-shit-for-brains-absenteefather-of-my-daughter is back on the scene.
At this moment I’d like to beat him about the head with the brace of dead partridges but that would be a waste of their pitifully shortened lives. Besides, I can’t look at him any more and the sooner the work’s done, the sooner he’ll be off this property and back to his own stinking farm.
I turn and leave him alone in the kitchen, shove on my boots and stomp back across the yard, hoping to head off Ruby before she catches me with her unknown father. Because I have no idea what to say to her when she finds out. Which she will do.
And then there’s Rob. And Scarlet. I could throttle my mother for not warning me.
AS DUSK FALLS, there’s a decided chill in the air. Des calls it a night, though I suspect the new workers will keep going. I slip inside the house before anyone else, grab the half-empty bottle of wine that’s still on the kitchen table, and head for the bathroom.
And maybe I’d feel slightly more human if there was actually enough hot water for a bath, but there isn’t, so I have to make do with a lukewarm shower.
Afterwards, wrapped up warmly in joggers and a sweatshirt, I creep back downstairs, feeling bad for abandoning the girls – but then reminding myself that they’re in their grandparents’ house and I’ve only been gone half an hour. I’m not exactly disappearing for a year. Or for many years, like some I could mention. Bastard Nathan.
I’m in the hall when I hear his voice. Unmistakable. Not convivially loud like Des, but boomingly annoying. I just can’t face him now. Not yet. I hide myself in the telephone cupboard and help myself to another bottle of wine and take a swig.
It really is bad wine, but needs must.
And it’s quite cosy in here, with a pouffe and a blanket. A seventies cocoon. I remember hiding here as a child, reading The Famous Five and Malory Towers. The girls used to make dens in here as well. They’d write secret messages to each other. Their own code. Sisters from different misters. And different mothers. But sisters always. I’ve never felt as homesick as I do right now. Not for our cosy London house, though – for here. Is it possible to be homesick when you’re actually home?
WHAT FEELS LIKE seconds later but must be longer, I jolt upright. My neck is stiff and there’s drool across my cheek. The bottle is empty. The house is quiet. Where is everyone?
Shaking myself awake, I stretch and emerge into the hallway, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. A strip of light is visible under the door to the living room so I head on in, to find Ruby and Scarlet wearing old dressing gowns and towels for turbans, spread out on the sofa under blankets and throws. Luther lies like a pampered prince between them. Rob is on his knees before the inglenook fireplace and Des’s canvas that hangs above it, as if in worship of the Goddess Eve in all her splendid naked glory. He is not actually engaged in some kind of pagan ritual but leaning over the fire trying to resuscitate it, making a hash of the old newspaper trick, which really is not one for an urbanite to try. Not if he wants to keep his eyebrows.
‘If Des catches you doing that, he’ll have a fit,’ I tell him. ‘You know how paranoid he is about fires.’ I’m about to offer to do it myself, but hang on... ‘Where are Des and Eve, by the way?’
‘Pub,’ the girls say in unison, eyes focused on Strictly.
‘Really? They could’ve asked us if we wanted to go.’
‘They did,’ Rob says, leaning back on his heels. He looks exhausted.
And again, that thought: how the hell will he manage the challenge ahead of him? All those wild animals: lions and elephants and hungry hippos. All those wide open deserts and death-trap mountains. Civil wars and insurgencies. Heat and exhaustion and mosquitoes. A marathon trek across a vast continent he’s never visited. One he’s only seen on David Attenborough and The Lion King.
And perhaps, if I’m totally honest, I’m rather more worried about myself. How will I cope without him?
‘I thought you’d rather stay in,’ he goes on, interrupting my spiralling-out-of-control thoughts. ‘Besides, you were talking to his nibs from next door. What’s his name again? Lord Lucan? Farmer Giles?’
Before I can reply, explain myself, say anything, in fact, the door bursts open and Nathan appears with kindling and newspaper. ‘I was just heading back home when I noticed the chimney smoking,’ he says. ‘Thought you might like a hand. It’s notoriously difficult, this one. It’s jealous.’
‘Jealous?’ Rob’s as confused as I am.
‘It’s something the French say. When you’ve got more than one fire going at a time. One of them takes all the draught.’
‘Where’s the other fire?’ Scarlet squints at Nathan. If only she’d wear her glasses she’d see him for who he is.
‘There’s a log burner in Des’s studio,’ I tell her.
‘Is he painting again?’ Ruby asks.
And for once, Nathan is without words. He’s actually stumped. Because there is his daughter, in all her tired, worn-out glory. He stares at her. Stares some more. Doesn’t say anything. Not a word.
I have to break this silence open, smash it like a champagne bottle against the hull of the Good Ship Family Dysfunction.
‘I can do the fire,’ I tell Nathan. ‘You get off. We mustn’t keep you any longer from your Saturday evening.’
‘Well, all right. If you’re sure.’
‘Quite sure. It’s amazing what I can do when left to my own devices.’ I can actually feel my eyes glitter menacingly at him.
‘Right. Yes. Of course.’ He backs out of the room, half reluctant, half relieved, one eye on Ruby. My precious jewel. My precious daughter.
And now seems as good a moment as any to talk to the girls about Rob’s plans. Anything that’ll distract me from having to face up to Nathan’s reappearance and what the repercussions of this might mean for us as a family. Maybe if I tell Rob about Nathan, he’ll decide to stay? But then he’d be miserable. And I’d be miserable. And I really don’t want misery to be the legacy we give to our daughters.
It’s just a shame that it takes me so long to get the fire going. And that I’m a tad squiffed. Best leave it till tomorrow. There’s a lovely peace drifting through the room as it gently warms up, and I’m lulled onto the sofa, a girl on each side and Luther on top of me.
Blimey, this dog is heavy.
I WAKE MISERABLY with a banging head. Why do I never learn? I only did this the other night; now here I am again. That bloody wine.
I roll over into the empty space next to me. Pipes clank so presumably Rob’s already in the shower across the landing, nabbing the hot water before it’s snaffled by his daughters and wife.
I sigh. I really must speak to Eve about the central heating. A boiler instead of the ancient Aga. Workhorse it may be, but spontaneous? No. But of course there’s no gas in the village... if you can even call it a village; more of a hamlet, really, a smattering of dwellings running alongside Billy Big Bollocks’ estate. My mind is going into overdrive.
‘Mum? You all right? I’ve got you some tea.’
‘Oh, Ruby, thanks. That’s kind of you. I was miles awa
y. Well, right here to be more precise, thinking about the central heating system.’ I take the tea from her and shuffle over a bit.
‘I didn’t know there was a central heating system.’ She sounds surprised. It is surprising.
‘Well, there isn’t really. Not as we – normal, civilized people – would think of a central heating system. Anyway, get under the covers, Rube. You’re shivering. There’s still a warmish spot left by Rob.’
She’s wearing her brushed-cotton tartan pyjamas and her feet are sporting the finest woolly socks, rainbow-coloured, hand-knitted by her grandmother. Eve’s trademark. Ruby flexes her toes.
‘Nana Eve made a pair for me and a pair for Scarlet. What do you think?’
‘They’re lovely. Cosy. Get under the covers though, love. You’re freezing.’
‘I might be getting a cold.’
‘Really?’
‘Nana Eve gave me something disgusting to drink.’
‘Not some of her wine?’
‘Mum. No. Some... “tincture” she called it. Herbs.’
Herbs. Eve’s a big fan of herbs.
‘Who was that man yesterday?’ Ruby segues startlingly.
‘Which one?’ I try to buy myself time. ‘There were quite a few.’ Hopelessly. Because I know exactly which man she is referring to.
‘The farmer.’
Bingo.
‘That’s exactly who he is. The farmer. He owns next door.’
‘What happened to Old Joe?’
‘He sold up once his wife passed away and moved to Florida with his new girlfriend.’
She’s quiet for a moment, probably thinking about Old Joe and his girlfriend sunning themselves in Tampa. Possibly wondering why I’m being so cagey about the new owner.
‘What’s the new owner called?’ she asks.
Damn.
‘Nathan.’
She does a double take. ‘Nathan?’
Damn, damn.
The West Country Winery Page 4
