The West Country Winery

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘Ah, Christabel. There you are. Scarlet’s helping me plan the party.’

  ‘We’re going to hang bunting from the rafters in the barn,’ Scarlet says, excited. ‘And those paper hangy things. And fairy lights.’

  She shows me the sketch; I can see the barn will look great and, much as it pains me to admit it, that having this party is a good thing to do.

  ‘And EU flags!’ Scarlet goes on. ‘And Polish ones too. And we’ll have straw bales and trestle tables and we’ve agreed not to have a hog roast but a vegan feast.’

  Eve squints at me. ‘I know that’s an oxymoron but Scarlet has some wonderful ideas.’

  ‘What’s an oxymoron?’ Scarlet asks. ‘I can’t even google it, Nana Eve, because there’s no signal or anything.’

  ‘Your mother is on to that, fear not.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Hopefully by the end of the week.’

  ‘Brill!’ she says, like a small child at Christmas. I’ve never seen such a happy face.

  ‘Scarlet, you’re amazing,’ I gush. ‘Helping Nana Eve like this and just, well, being so positive about everything. I really thought you’d struggle.’

  ‘You thought I’d be the nightmare but actually it’s Ruby?’

  ‘Something like that.’ My eyes start welling again.

  ‘There’s no need to cry, Chrissie.’ Scarlet gets up from the desk and comes round to hug me.

  ‘I don’t know what to do about Ruby. How’s she going to manage at school on Monday?’

  ‘I’ll be there. I’ve always been there for her.’ Scarlet’s matter-of-fact, not in the slightest put out or after a special award; it just is what it is to her.

  And she’s right; she has always been there for her sister.

  ‘I never give you credit for that, do I, love?’

  ‘That’s OK. You’re an only child, it’s different for you. But she’s my sister. And you don’t have to hold me quite so hard, Chrissie. I can’t breathe.’

  ‘Sorry, love.’ I pull myself together and turn to my mother. ‘But Eve. I need to talk to you about these bills.’ I wave the three letters at her. ‘Are there any more lying around unopened?’

  ‘It’ll have to wait till later, darling. We need to sort this party stuff out right now, what with it being on Thursday.’

  ‘Thursday? As in this Thursday? That’s two days’ time.’

  ‘That’s right, Christabel. The day after Wednesday. Which comes after Tuesday. Which is today.’

  ‘Thank you, Eve.’ I’m about to leave in a huff when I stop myself. ‘Why Thursday? Why not leave it till Friday or Saturday? Why the short notice?’

  ‘They’re leaving on Saturday. And besides, it’s All Saints’ Day on Thursday.’

  ‘All Saints’ Day?’

  ‘The first of November. The day after Halloween.’

  ‘And that’s worth celebrating because...?’

  ‘Because it’s the Day of the Dead and, like, a massive Polish festival,’ Scarlet chips in, excited at the prospect of a party, even if it is with adults. ‘It’s called... wait a minute...’ She looks at the notes in her book... ‘Wsz-yst-kich Swie-tych. Melina told me how to write it but I can’t say it very well.’

  ‘Well, that’s... nice. I think.’

  ‘It’s not scary or anything, Chrissie. It’s about remembering the dead. They put candles on gravestones in cemeteries to help the departed find their way through the darkness.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘The other side, I suppose,’ she says, oblivious to my facetiousness. ‘Like heaven and that.’

  I must stop this. I must embrace her enthusiasm.

  ‘And there’s bread, eggs and honey as part of the feast but I don’t mind about the eggs as long as they’re free-range and I don’t care about the honey as long as it’s local.’

  That’s very good of you, I want to say, but I am the grown-up here. And who knows? Maybe a party isn’t such a hideous idea. It will at least give the girls something to look forward to. ‘It sounds marvellous, Scarlet. But one thing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We don’t have to dress up, do we?’

  ‘It’s not Halloween.’

  ‘Oh. Gosh. I forgot about Halloween.’

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Chrissie. Me and Rube are too old for Halloween. This sounds so much better.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Course. Be open to new possibilities. Who knows what might happen?’

  And I don’t miss the slight smugness on my mother’s face.

  A COUPLE OF hours later, and Des and Ruby are still not back from seeing his harpist friend. She was very close to her teacher in London, so fingers crossed she’ll like him. God knows she needs some distraction from her current angst; she can think about finding a youth orchestra to join and meet friends that way, as well as through school.

  New school Monday.

  Not the school I went to, where Nathan and I were inseparable, but it’s a good community college, with a sixth form which should encourage the girls to have aspirations. Lots of hippy young people go there, the offspring of tree-huggers and soap-dodgers, Steiner graduates and home-schoolers venturing into the real world. They specialize in the arts. Melina says the arts are important but the girls should also put their efforts into maths and science. Melina has a lot to say these days. And I’m listening to her more since we arrived here. Is that because I’ve finally realized, as well as being able to coax a stain out of a delicate woollen jumper, just how much else she knows?

  When I get a moment, I’ll talk to Ruby. Find out how she’s getting on. Straight to the point. No dodging. No swerving. But right now I need to work through the parental unit’s business accounts. Not much of a business if my first scan of the numbers is anything to go by.

  I do hope Ruby likes this teacher.

  A FURIOUS BANG and much stomping used to mean it was Scarlet’s hormones on the loose. But today it is Ruby. Crash! goes the door of her new bedroom. I can hear it from the kitchen.

  I rush off to hunt for Des, find him dazed and confused, standing stock-still in the hall.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Ruby didn’t think much of Malcolm,’ he says, bewildered. ‘I can’t think why.’

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. There could be a multitude of reasons, knowing Des’s circle of friends and acquaintances – a motley assortment picked up over many years hanging about in pubs and restaurants, in the art world and Eve’s hippydom.

  ‘Tell me about Malcolm, Des?’ I ask him, tentatively, unsure if I want to know the truth.

  ‘Malcolm? What can I say about Malcolm?’ This is a rhetorical question. He’s pensive for a moment while he tries desperately to gather his thoughts into some coherent response that will satisfy me and save his friend’s dignity. ‘Malc’s a top gent. Always polite and considerate.’ He does an embarrassed cough. ‘Apart from the odd fruity word.’

  ‘Fruity? How fruity?’

  A pause. More pondering. ‘Oh well, you know, fairly fruity, but he wasn’t as fruity today as he is in adult company,’ he declares. ‘He does have standards.’

  ‘Right.’

  Another pause. ‘And the occasional emission.’

  ‘Emission?’

  ‘He’s prone to a bit of wind. Both ends. It didn’t endear him to Ruby, which is such a shame because once you get past the foul language – and the occasional whiff – he really has impeccable manners and he’s a very good harpist.’

  I shut my eyes for a second. Centre myself. Think of poor Ruby who’s used to an elegant concert harpist with an impeccable, friendly yet robust teaching style.

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean he will make a very good teacher.’

  ‘No,’ Des agrees. ‘I might’ve misjudged that. Do you think I should have a word with her?’

  I shake my head. Rather vigorously. So vigorously, in fact that I feel a bit dizzy. ‘Maybe not right now, Des. I’ll go and see her.’

  A T
ENTATIVE KNOCK on her bedroom door.

  ‘Ruby? Can I come in?’

  ‘If you must,’ she says, in a woe-is-me warbly voice.

  I open the door gingerly, mindful of the booby traps that lie in wait on the other side – discarded undergarments and empty mugs and lonely socks; what has happened to my tidy, organized daughter? – and sit down on the bed where she is lying, prostrate as a Pre-Raphaelite Ophelia, staring blankly at the ceiling.

  ‘Do you think Melina would plaster this?’ Ruby says, pointing upwards, weakly, pathetically, deathbed-ily, as if it’s taking up all the energy she has ever had. ‘I hate looking at those cracks. I keep imagining they’re worms and it makes me feel weird.’

  ‘I’m sure she would, Rube. If you ask nicely.’

  ‘Of course I’ll ask nicely,’ she says, un-nicely.

  I can’t help it: my eyebrows shoot up and I can’t reposition them without her noticing. I brace myself for the explosion. But it doesn’t go off.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I know I’m being a cow, Mum, but I don’t know how to stop.’

  This takes me by surprise. I hadn’t realized just how much I’ve been tiptoeing over eggshells these past few weeks. And although I’m not quite sure how to respond, gut instinct tells me to go along this path with her. Tread carefully, take her lead.

  ‘Oh, Rube.’ I kiss her forehead and remember her newborn smell. Her girlhood. She’s the same as she always has been – it’s just that she’s been possessed by teen spirits. And we’re all dealing with a new life, Rob’s absence, the appearance out of the blue of Nathan. Even if Ruby still doesn’t know his real identity. Bloody Nathan.

  I’ve been an idiot. Handled it all badly. I need to fix this. I will fix this.

  But maybe not just yet.

  EARLY THURSDAY MORNING, All Saints’ Day, I’m in the Co-op in Chudston on a mission to buy olives, falafel, crisps, anything vegan I can lay my hands on. Eve has given me £200 in cash. She said it arrived in an envelope on the doormat earlier, no idea who it was from or who delivered it but she told me never to look a gift horse in the mouth. So I’m doing as directed and, to be honest, I haven’t the bandwidth to question who might be giving us money right now. And there’s something rather soothing about filling a trolley with food. I even throw in some bottles of cava because I seem to have found a taste for fizz.

  Des and Ruby are picking up cider from a nearby farm while Julia, Zofia, Borys and Scarlet decorate the barn, which includes some thatching repairs on the roof; it turns out there are places where there is nothing between the overhead beams and the sky above.

  Eve is inside, beavering away in the kitchen, baking bread, while Melina is making a vat of borscht.

  ‘It’s called barszcz,’ she tells me as I return with bags of shopping. ‘I need more of time to make it properly vegetarian. I hope my friends do not hate me for making bad barszcz.’

  ‘They’ll love you, Melina.’

  ‘We are judged by our barszcz. I cannot disappoint my grandmother.’

  ‘It smells amazing, Melina. It looks divine. They’ll be delighted.’

  ‘Not when they taste your parents’ wine. I hope they bring much beer.’

  Eve chuckles at this comment. Why does Melina get away with this when I would be held to account for such negativity?

  HOURS LATER, AND it turns out that our Polish friends do bring beer. Much beer. And kompot. And vodka. And more food. And lots of energy and fun, and for the first time in ages I let my hair down and enjoy the spirit of the evening, all the better for Nathan’s mysterious absence. Even Ruby cracks a smile and joins in the dancing. And with the folk music playing, and the fairy lights twinkling, and the warm food and the wine, it’s hard not to be entranced by the beauty of the barn. Who wouldn’t want to have a celebration here? If I shut my eyes I can imagine newlyweds spinning around on the floor in each other’s arms, their first dance. A barn dance. A ceilidh. A gavotte. A Para Para. A polonaise.

  Weddings. Could we do weddings? We could do weddings.

  ‘You want to dance with me?’ Tomasz holds out his hands.

  I instinctively check around me; I don’t know why – maybe because I can’t remember the last time a man asked me this question. Probably the school disco, I realize; Nathan dressed like Liam Gallagher in ridiculous shades, swaying to ‘You’re Gorgeous’ or another of those nineties ballads, with me held tight in his arms. He was a lanky sixteen-year-old. Tomasz is much older, he’s lived a life, is rough round the edges and strong, and off he whisks me before I’ve gathered breath. I’m feeling quite giddy by the time we’ve spun around the room a few times, me doing my best not to tread on his big feet, trying to let the music take hold of me the way he is holding me firmly in his hunky, confident arms. Round and round we go, until I have to beg to stop so I can steady myself and get a drink. From the sidelines I watch as he takes Melina in his grip, or maybe it’s the other way round; whatever it is, they fit together perfectly, spinning and laughing, full of energy and fizz.

  The air is heady inside the barn, folksy and earthy and otherworldly. And if the dead were to wake up and take part I shouldn’t be surprised. You can almost smell the old grain that used to be stored here – though that could be the freshly baked bread. All this mingles with the hay bales and the barszcz. The spices of the apple kompot. The jars of local honey. The potato and cabbage dumplings. The chrysanthemums. The heat of dancing bodies. The bursts of laughter. The buzz of life sparking up to the rafters. Up and beyond into the clear night sky, smoke curling up amongst the trees. The hoot of an owl. The honk of a surviving pheasant. The smell of wood fire and countryside and the crispness of autumn. It is magical. All we need is some fizz of our own making to toast the dead, but that is a while and a dream away.

  In the meantime: ‘More wódka?’ Melina asks, pink-faced, eyes glittering.

  It’s late now. The locals have gone, exchanging tearful goodbyes with their continental friends, all too aware of their less-than-certain return next year. There’s a deep sadness to this occasion for us all.

  ‘Churchill himself promised support to the Polish troops who were unable to return home after the war,’ Des says, huskily. ‘Poles have been living in the area for generations now.’ He blows his nose flamboyantly into a vast handkerchief.

  ‘Why couldn’t they go home?’ Scarlet asks.

  ‘Poland was under Soviet control by that point and they were afraid of being taken as political prisoners.’

  ‘Thanks for the history lesson, Granddad,’ Ruby says. She’s half joking, half sarcastic, which is an improvement.

  ‘How can we learn about our present or indeed our future if we don’t know about the past?’ he asks, a question of his I’ve heard many times before.

  Melina is here now, listening. ‘The past is where our dead live,’ she says. ‘Now we go to graveyard to light the candles. You come with?’

  ‘But you don’t know anyone buried there. And it’s Church of England.’ I can hear the primness in my voice, creeping in despite the joy of the evening, the music, the feast, the dancing.

  ‘Our beloved dead are in Poland. We are here. So we do this as symbol, no?’

  ‘How wonderful.’ This is right up Eve’s street. ‘I’ll fetch some torches.’

  ‘No need,’ says Melina. ‘We have lanterns.’

  ‘Lanterns?’

  ‘Piotr and Aleksy make them today. Come on. We must go now.’

  So we gather together, solemn and silent, while Piotr and Aleksy hand each of us a stick with a hook screwed into the end. And from each hook hangs a jam jar with wire round its neck. Inside each jam jar is a tea light. One by one, the candles are lit – Des on fire watch – and off we process; out of the barn, across the yard, through the gate, down the lane, past the few houses in this small village which has no shop, no post office, no pub, but which is the proud home of a beautiful red-stone Norman church, St Mary Magdalene. It’s surrounded by an old graveyard, a lychgate and a path lined with yew
s. The gravestones are arranged higgledy-piggledy, huge slabs of granite leaning at all angles, the names, dates and epitaphs eroded by exposure, blurred by the passing centuries.

  I check on Scarlet and Ruby, who might be concerned at the prospect of ghosts and ghouls, but both are transfixed by the beauty of the gathering. The bright clear moon. The glow of the lanterns. And as the jam jars are unhooked and placed on the graves one by one, we’re surrounded by dots of light, flashing like fireflies.

  FOR ONCE I didn’t drink too much last night; the atmosphere was enough to keep up my spirits. Today I wake feeling more optimistic. I don’t look at the space beside me straight away. I don’t reach out for the cold sheet.

  And Des has brought me a cup of tea and his big cheery smile, as bright as it has ever been. ‘Another day, another chance to spread a little joy in the world.’

  ‘How do you do it, Des?’

  ‘What’s that, my honeybun?’

  ‘Be so... happy?’

  He releases a Brian Blessed ‘Ha!’, followed by, ‘Now that’s a question!’

  But I’m waiting for an answer.

  ‘I was given the gift of joy by my dear darling mother, and then I found Eve and little you. And now I have my granddaughters here. Why would I not be happy?’

  He beams me his super-smile, the one that has eased a lifetime of negotiations with Eve. ‘Also,’ he says, ‘I’m painting again. Come and see.’

  DES HAS NEVER been an artist precious about his space; his studio isn’t sacred. I used to come in here a lot as a child, even as a teen. I liked to watch him paint his commissions. For hotels and restaurants. Civic halls and community centres. Big splashes of corporate colour. But these...

  ‘Des, these are spectacular!’

  ‘Do you really think so? They’re a departure from my usual work, I know. Not that there’s been much at all for the last thirty years. Commercial stuff, yes. But not my own art.’

  The canvases before us now are nothing like his own art either. Nothing like the huge paintings of the sixties. There are no doe-eyed young women. No bulbous breasts. No curvy bottoms. These are less brazen, finer, a little more impressionistic. The colours are remarkable – subtle yet somehow bold. How does he do that?