‘They’re completely different,’ I tell him. ‘But still so... you. I love them.’
He practically does a jump for joy.
‘I’ve never seen you paint landscapes. It was always portraits.’
‘That’s what sold,’ he says. ‘Portraits paid the bills. For a time. But this is what I studied at the Slade. I did a grand tour in my youth. Painting en plein air. The duomos of Italy. The poppy fields of Belgium. The avenues of France.’ He sighs, distant memories fresh once more. ‘I wanted to be a Pissarro or a Monet but I became more of a Vladimir Tretchikoff or a J. H. Lynch. I was one step away from doing Pierrot clowns.’
‘They were popular. You can’t knock it.’
‘I know. Except fashions change.’
‘They’re changing again. We need to get your paintings back out there. Your mid-century work should be very collectable now. We just need to give people a nudge.’
‘You mean like a retrospective? Should I be hustling back into the art world?’
‘I was thinking more of the everyday punter. Some middle-incomers after an original piece of retro kitsch on their kitchen wall.’
‘Retro kitsch? Is that what I am?’
‘Not you, Des. Your old paintings. People love all that nostalgia. Generation X-ers can’t get enough of the stuff. It reminds them of happier times when Valerie Singleton and John Noakes were on Blue Peter and the Osmonds were on Top of the Pops. I’ve organized loads of events for them.’
‘The Osmonds?’
‘No, Des. The Gen X-ers. Fondue soirées, ABBA nights, Abigail’s Party. They want pineapple and cheese chunks on cocktail sticks. Twiglets. Babycham. Biba dresses and flares.’
I think about the telephone cupboard under the stairs. The seventies vibe. I only remember the latter years of that decade but I find comfort there too.
‘They forget about the inflation and the three-day week,’ Des says.
‘That’s because they – we! I’m one of them! – were kids then. It was our parents – you Baby Boomers – who had to deal with all that stuff. But look at those parents now. Houses paid off, full pensions, while my generation are taking care of them as well as our own offspring, who will never be able to afford to leave the family home. Forget Gen X, we’re the Sandwich Generation.’
Des stands before me; an old, vulnerable man.
‘Is that how you see your mother and me?’
‘Oh, Des. Sorry, no. I don’t mean to suggest you’re a burden.’
‘A burden?’
‘What I mean is, people my age are generally pushed for cash. But our kids will be even worse off as they’ll never be able to afford their own home. The future is so uncertain for them.’
‘And Eve and I?’
‘Eve and you loved the Boomer lifestyle but... Well, you didn’t invest wisely, really, did you? You were too Bohemian. And I wouldn’t have you any other way.’
‘That’s not entirely true now, Chrissie, is it?’
‘No, it’s not,’ I admit. ‘I do wish you both took a little more notice of your incomings and outgoings, but I also realize you’re not about to start now, when you never have. Which is partly why we’ve moved in with you. To help turn around the business.’
‘To keep an eye on us?’
‘It works both ways. You can keep an eye on us too.’
He hugs me then and I breathe in the turps and oil and the woodsmoke smell of this man who has been my father since Jimmy wanted to be a long-haired lover from Liverpool.
‘You give people joy, Des. And you could be the answer to the winery’s money problems. We need to raise capital not only to pay bills but to buy equipment. And to upkeep the vines, maybe plant some Pinot Meunier.’
‘Do you really think the old paintings are worth anything? Should I be getting in touch with Christie’s?’
‘I thought we could start with eBay.’
‘Right. EBay.’
‘To test the water.’
‘And what about these?’ He indicates his landscapes. ‘I think they’re a bit Paul Nash.’
‘I have no idea who he is.’
‘He was predominantly a war painter.’
I gaze at the greys and browns and reds for a while longer. ‘There’s something unsettling about them.’
‘Unsettling? Hmm. That’s all right. It’s good to be unsettled every now and then.’
I try to immerse myself in the strokes. The textures and tones. The more I look, the more I see. ‘They’re rather surreal, aren’t they?’
‘Indeed they are. Nash was making sense of the senseless. But I don’t want to look backwards in time. That’s what troubles me about the old paintings. The –whatchamacallit? “Retro kitsch”?’
I nod. A tad embarrassed, but money is what is needed here now.
‘I want to look forwards,’ he says.
‘To what?’ I’m thinking dystopia. Climate change. The end of times. ‘The Apocalypse?’
‘Not actually the Apocalypse, no. I’m just predicting what the future might be if we don’t get our act together.’
‘And is this what you want to paint? What about all that joy of yours? I can’t see much of that here. Is this Eve’s influence? You know, all this... political stuff?’
‘Not at all.’ He feigns shock and horror. ‘I am my own man, you know.’
I don’t say anything. I let him go on.
‘I suppose even the most joyous of us have some darkness within. I can express mine through painting. One must be able to vent somewhere. One must have a passion.’
‘So Eve says.’
‘Well, quite. Your mother’s right about that. “Express your passion, do whatever you love, take action, no matter what”.’
‘Did she say that?’
‘No. Tretchikoff. But it could’ve been your mother.’ He laughs. ‘And while we’re on the subject, you shouldn’t give her such a hard time. She really is trying her best for the girls, to make sure they settle. All these years she’s hoped you’d move back and now it’s finally happened, I think it’s thrown her somewhat. She’s rather desperate for it to work. And that goes for me too.’
‘I feel like I’m intruding on her life though.’
‘Nonsense. She’s just shifting and shuffling to make room for you. I know for a fact that she is thrilled to her very core to have her family with her. You both need time to adjust.’
He kisses me on the forehead and I wish I were little again, no more worries other than finding another Enid Blyton from the library to read. Now there are no libraries and my problems are a whole lot bigger.
‘Right, well, I hope that’s all it is. I’ll give her some slack.’ I look back at the half-finished painting. ‘It’s brilliant, Des. This late flourishing in your career. You’re an inspiration.’
And it’s giving me an idea but no time to use him as a sounding board because Scarlet bursts in.
‘The engineer’s here!’ she screeches.
Anyone would think it was the Messiah.
And now she’s yanking me by the arm out of the studio, shouting, ‘’Scuse us, Granddad!’, allowing me just a glimpse of Des, paintbrush in hand, intense focus all over his lovely old face.
LATER, ONCE THE engineer’s done his magic, and connected us to the universe – Ta-dah! – and once I’ve caught up on my emails, it occurs to me I haven’t seen Ruby for a while. Where is she?
I can hear footsteps thundering down the stairs. Maybe that’s her. Though it sounds more like her sister.
Ah. It is.
‘I’m taking Luther for a walk,’ Scarlet says, shoving on a jumper and hat.
Luther scrambles out of his basket and stretches, wagging his tail half enthusiastically, half reluctantly.
‘That’s nice. It’s cold out, so wrap up.’
She disappears into the boot room and I follow her in, watch her put on her wellies and parka.
She makes a grab for Luther’s lead and he stands submissively letting her clip it onto his old
leather collar. Then she turns to say goodbye and catches something in my expression. ‘You OK, Chrissie?’
‘Me? Yes, I’m OK. I was just wondering where your sister is.’
‘Floating upside down in the river if there’s any luck,’ she says with a sigh, then changes tack when she sees the horror on my face. ‘But probably mouldering away in her bedroom on her phone now she’s got Internet.’
‘Scarlet.’ I shake my head.
‘Sorry, Chrissie,’ she says, not looking particularly sorry. ‘She’s dragging us down.’
She’s about to leave with Luther when I stop her. ‘I know she’s being difficult,’ I say calmly. ‘But—’
‘But, what? She’s doing my head in. She’s being such a pain in the arse.’
Scarlet is getting worked up now. I know the signs all too well. The reddening of the cheeks. The biting of the bottom lip. And so I just come out with it because maybe that way she’ll cut her sister some slack.
‘I need to talk to you about Nathan.’
She’s surprised for a moment, but rolls with it. ‘Put your coat and boots on then,’ she says. ‘You can come with us and tell me.’
I almost say, no, I’ve got too much to do. But there’s nothing more important than sorting this out. And walking is a good opportunity to speak, without having to make eye contact. Steady breathing. Fresh air. And I must stop procrastinating.
‘Two minutes,’ I tell her. ‘While I check Ruby’s alive, then I’ll be with you.’
AT THE TOP of the hill, on a clear day, you can see the sea to the south-east, and to the north-west, Haytor. Today is not a clear day, so all we can make out is the public footpath, which disappears along the wall of the estate. I hope the owner doesn’t loom out of the murk.
‘Stop being so jumpy, Chrissie. You’re making me nervous. Even Luther’s spooked and not a lot spooks him.’
‘Sorry.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m all over the place right now.’
‘Did you find Rube?’
‘Yes. She was mouldering away in her bedroom on her phone.’
Scarlet smiles, but doesn’t say I told you so. She’s never been one for rubbing things in, even during her more deadly moments, which really are dissipating in this new Devon air.
‘Are you going to tell me then?’ she asks.
‘Tell you what?’
‘Whatever it was you wanted to talk about.’
‘Ah. That.’
‘Is it to do with Dad buggering off?’
‘Well, sort of.’
We swap a look, neither of us keen to examine what that means for the long term; it’s bad enough right now, making do without him, resenting him.
‘I need to explain who Nathan is.’
She gasps. ‘You know him, don’t you? Is he an old boyfriend?’
‘You could say that.’
I tell her that Nathan was my first love from school, and that we met up again in London after he’d graduated and made a go of things for a few years, up until toddler groups and school waiting lists. And then he left.
‘He’s Ruby’s dad?’
‘Birth father. Rob’s her dad.’
‘Wow.’
Luther whines, unsure what’s going on or why his walk has come to an abrupt stop. Or why Scarlet’s mouth is still open but no more words are coming out.
‘It was a surprise to me too. Seeing him here. Next door. And in our home.’
I give her a hug because that’s easier than speech.
She leans into me and I wonder at this inner strength of hers that I never knew existed and I think of Laura, her mum.
‘Let me say something and don’t cringe or moan.’
‘What?’
‘Your mum would be so proud of you. And it’s a privilege being your stepmum.’
‘Chrissie, stop.’
She blushes but I can see the words move her and I should tell her more often. And really that’s what I need to be doing with Ruby, too.
‘But why has Nathan never stayed in contact with Rube?’
‘That’s for another day,’ I tell her. Because it’s something even I’m not sure about.
‘You need to speak to Ruby now,’ she says. ‘Like now.’ And she waits for me to turn around towards home before she treks on up the valley.
I FIND RUBY in the living room, sitting on the sofa, staring into space, holding a letter.
‘Hey, Rube? You OK? What’s that you’re holding?’
She hands it over in reply so I sit down next to her and read it.
Dear Ruby,
I must apologize for the use of expletives. I think I might have Tourette’s or it could be because my mother was a fishwife and passed on her bad habits. However, I can assure you that I will work on this dreadful part of my character and endeavour to use only the Queen’s English, God save her, in future.
I must also apologize for my gastric problems. I have consulted your grandmother and she has dispensed some of her herbs which she insists will aid me a good deal. She has also advised me to stay clear of the Devil’s food, otherwise known as wheat. So henceforth I shall be giving the Hovis a miss and will even cut out beer.
Ruby, you must know that there is no greater sacrifice than this, to give up bitter, but I will do it for you as I can see you have talent. And talent is worth nurturing and supporting, and please, dear Ruby, give me a chance to be your teacher.
Your humble servant
Malcolm Everett-Smythe
PS. I will make myself drink wine from this day forward, forever and ever amen.
PPS. Even your grandparents’ wine. What more can I say?
‘That’s quite a letter.’ I hand it back to her. I’m not sure what else to add, but follow her gaze instead and see that it is fixed on the wall above the inglenook. The wall where my mother’s embarrassing portrait is supposed to hang. Only it’s not there. Just a huge rectangle of faded pink wallpaper.
‘Ruby?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ she says. ‘I’d be the first to admit if I’d actually burned it.’
‘Odd. Maybe Des is restoring it?’
‘Maybe you should ask Scarlet.’
‘What would Scarlet do with Eve’s painting?’
‘I dunno.’ She shrugs. Rolls her eyes. ‘She’s sticking her nose into everything right now. Including moaning at me for being moany.’
‘She’s concerned for you, love. As am I. And I feel like it’s all my fault. And Rob’s.’
She starts to cry. So of course I start to cry too.
‘I know you didn’t want Rob to go,’ she sobs. ‘And I know it’s not your fault.’ More sobs. ‘I don’t even hate living here.’
‘So what is it, Rube?’
‘I just... I dunno how to say it...’
‘That’s OK. Take your time.’ I stroke her hair. It has that greasy teen sheen to it. Must buy some better shampoo.
‘I feel like a part of me is... sort of... wonky? Is that normal? Or am I mental?’
‘You’re not mental, Rube. And, by the way, you shouldn’t use that word like that. It’s derogatory, as you well know. You’re just struggling right now because your life’s been turned upside down.’
‘But Scarlet’s loving it.’
‘I know. We all react differently though.’
She thinks about this for a while. I let the silence wrap around us. Watch the flames in the log burner. Breathe in the home smell: damp, woody. Possibly dust and old newspapers.
‘I suppose,’ she says. ‘I do love Nana Eve and Granddad Des and Luther but... there’s something wrong.’
‘Right, love.’ This is it. I can’t put it off any longer. ‘I’m going to tell you something I should’ve told you when we came down for the harvest. About Nathan.’
She looks me full in the face and I see the cogs turning, the pistons steaming, the synapses firing.
‘Nathan’s my father,’ she says with a certainty that shakes the ground beneath me like an earthquake.
‘How did you
know?’ I ask her, with palpitations and a churn of the stomach.
‘I didn’t know,’ she says. ‘At least not until now. Something just slotted together. It’s not as if I look like Nathan. He’s big, for a start. And I’m not. But there’s something about him I recognize. His eyes maybe. The way he walks.’ She takes in my shock. Pats my hand. ‘I know you don’t like him. So I don’t like him either because I trust your opinion.’
Wow. So many thoughts whizzing round my head.
But one thought is uppermost for Ruby. ‘Why did he leave us, Mum? It wasn’t really just to “find himself”, was it?’
‘Oh, Rube.’
‘Tell me,’ she urges. ‘I’d rather know.’
‘He had an affair with a woman at work.’
‘Oh.’ She sounds disappointed. Her birth father reduced to a cliché. Just another bloke having an affair.
‘Who?’
‘Charlotte.’ It still hurts even saying her name.
‘So what happened?’ Ruby presses me, needing to know.
‘I told him to leave.’
She bites her lip, thinking this through, those amber eyes murky with confusion.
‘He took it to the extreme,’ I go on, wanting to hold her hand, make some gesture, but knowing what she needs right now is the truth, unclouded by any emotion from me. ‘He went away with Charlotte to New Zealand for a year. But that year turned into forever.’
‘Oh.’ She takes a moment to think about this, decides it’s too much for now and asks something more pertinent: ‘Why did he come back?’
‘They’re not together any more. He wants to return to his roots. He wants to get to know you.’
‘So he bought next door hoping to get in touch through Nana Eve and Granddad Des?’
‘I think so.’
‘Oh.’ She starts to weep now. I let her cry, saying nothing, holding her close. Then when she stops shuddering, I nip to the kitchen to make us hot chocolate. And we melt marshmallows together over the flames of the log burner, sitting next to each other cross-legged on cushions.
The West Country Winery Page 11
