The West Country Winery

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘Did you really not move your naked grandmother?’ I point at the faded rectangle on the wall.

  ‘No, Mum,’ she says. ‘I have no idea where it’s gone. But good riddance.’

  ‘Yep. Good riddance,’ I agree.

  We grin at each other, friends again, and I know how stupid I’ve been to put this off. I’m lucky she’s taken it so well, and from here on in, there are no secrets.

  MONDAY MORNING. I wake up with that feeling of trepidation you get when there’s a big day ahead of you. Like it’s my first day of school. I sigh. It’s true what they say: you’re only as happy as the least happy of your children. I feel nervous for Ruby, but also worried for Scarlet – that something or someone will pop that new-found bubble of zest.

  Melina offers to drive them in for their first day, but after that it’ll be the school bus. I feel guilty for accepting with such gratitude but I know they’ll be calmer with her. So I manage to grab a quick hug from each of them before they trundle out of the door in their new uniforms, polished shoes and winter coats, lugging the usual bags of stuff.

  ‘Don’t be so worried,’ Eve says, once the sound of my car has faded. ‘They’ll surprise you if you let them.’

  ‘What do you mean, “if I let them”?’

  ‘I’m simply saying, trust in them. They will find their path.’

  ‘I suppose.’ I hope. I pray. Anyway, right now we need to go down a financial path. ‘Let’s talk about your paperwork. Are you and Des free for a chat?’

  ‘He’s painting. He was up at six, feverish with creativity. It’s like the old days, when I first knew him.’ She looks wistful.

  ‘He’s a bit older now.’

  ‘He’s a lot older now, but one must make hay while the sun shines.’

  The rain beats down outside. The windows rattle in the wind.

  ‘Gosh, I miss those Poles.’ Eve sighs. ‘It’s so quiet without them.’

  There has been a strange stillness and sense of loss since the party. Because of a politician’s whim, they might never return to work the harvest here. It makes my heart ache, and I can do nothing else but focus on the girls. And these wretched books.

  ‘I’d better check on Des,’ she says, dragging herself from her daydream. ‘It’s time he had a break.’ And before I have the chance to ask, she says, ‘Don’t fret. We’ll have your chat in a bit, after coffee.’

  She makes it sound like she’s doing me a favour. Really, this woman can be impossible.

  MELINA IS BACK and tells me that the girls were fine. Which is a relief. A huge relief.

  ‘They stick together like glue and many boys stare at them. Many girls too, though not so good.’

  So maybe not such a big fat relief after all because now I’m paranoid that they’ll be beaten up by the locals for encroaching on their patch. Or hit on by inappropriate lads.

  Fortunately, I’m distracted by the meeting around the kitchen table, to which Eve invites Melina. The four of us make an unlikely team but there’s no reason why this can’t work. Well, there are probably hundreds of reasons why, but I am going to be positive.

  I crank up my laptop and start taking notes. I am determined to make this professional if it kills me.

  Over the next hour, despite protestations of backache, the bathrooms needing a clean and an impending t’ai chi lesson, we highlight the bills that need immediate payment, the bills that can be put off for another couple of weeks, and the loans that can be consolidated into something more manageable. I call Chudston Winery, who have our wine in their vats – a sort of ransom, and do my utmost to negotiate a discount if we can give them something in return. And before we know it Des has taken the phone from me, and offered to do a painting of their vineyard to hang in their cafe.

  The owner is delighted and Des organizes a time to visit, to take some photos and do some sketches. It would also be an opportunity for Des to see another family wine business that actually works. Why Eve and Des have never bothered to do this before now is a mystery.

  Back to the agenda, and the last item is the website and social media. ‘Scarlet has willingly agreed to take it on,’ I tell them. ‘She’s really good at this sort of thing.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be wonderful,’ Eve says. As if Scarlet isn’t capable of doing anything wonderful, which is completely contradictory when Eve’s always been Scarlet’s greatest champion.

  ‘It will be,’ says I, Ms Hoity-Toity. ‘It has to be. First impressions count, Eve. I know that’s not your philosophy but you have to see it that way when it comes to the wine business.’

  She’s about to speak when Luther interrupts with his trademark low bark and his claws patter across the flags as he ambles arthritically to the door.

  ‘Morning, Luther.’ Nathan turns his attention to us. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting.’

  The barking stops and the tail wags. Traitor.

  I want to tell Nathan that he is actually interrupting, but I’m aware of Melina, Eve and Des looking from him to me, all of them no doubt wondering how I will react, so I don’t make an issue out of it. Instead I let him sit down. Watch him help himself to coffee from the cafetière, getting his feet under the table.

  ‘We were expecting you at the party,’ Des says. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I didn’t want to interfere in their fun,’ Nathan says.

  ‘Party pooper,’ Eve teases.

  ‘Something like that.’ He smiles what some people would call an enigmatic smile but I would call something far less mysterious. Smug, for instance. Or annoying. Or face-slappable.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about that anonymous £200 in notes that found its way onto our doormat?’ Eve asks, a little more flirtatiously than is necessary.

  He smiles the smug, annoying, face-slappable smile again and throws in a continental shrug. ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘Nathan, you are naughty,’ Eve says. And offers him a biscuit.

  ‘These look delicious. Thank you, Eve. I’m glad you’re back to baking.’

  Oh, good grief. Stop now. Meeting closed.

  LATER, WITH NATHAN gone, lunch consumed, and after much admin, I return to Des’s studio. He’s having a nap on his filthy chaise longue.

  ‘Just forty winks,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘It’s time I got up and moving again. I forgot how exhausting painting can be.’

  ‘You’ve been at it for hours.’

  ‘I’m worried if I stop I’ll lose that urge. I’m not stupid enough to believe you have to wait for inspiration; I know you have to work at your art or craft even when you don’t want to, even if what you do isn’t your best, because it’s only by doing it, by creating something, that you have the basics to work with. But some days, like today, there’s magic afoot and you can feel the blood pulsing through your brain, down your arm and onto the canvas. Well, not literally blood. I’m not one of those modern painters who use bodily fluids.’

  ‘Des, please. I feel sick.’

  ‘Sorry, honeybun.’ He stretches and heaves his bulk to a standing position. ‘Did you want something?’

  ‘A couple of things, actually.’

  ‘Let’s have them, then.’

  ‘First, the painting of Eve. Where is it? Are you restoring it or something? Only I’m worried Ruby might have pilfered it. You know how embarrassing she finds it.’

  ‘Could never understand that.’ He shakes his head, his shock of white hair falling over his forehead. ‘But no. It’s in the study. Scarlet’s put it on eBay.’

  ‘She has?’

  ‘I relayed your thoughts and she offered to help. And Eve and I told her it was a quite brilliant idea. Testing the water to see if there’s anyone out there who wants a piece of kitsch art for their kitchen wall.’ He winks at me, the old devil. ‘And what was the other thing you wanted to talk about?’

  ‘Ruby.’

  ‘Ah. Lovely Ruby Tuesday. She’s not a happy young woman right now.
Feels as if life has put rather too much on her plate.’

  ‘Has she told you that?’

  ‘She feeds me dribs and drabs, while she’s practising her scales. In fact I suggested moving that harp from the study into here so she could play while I paint but she says it’s too cold. She doesn’t want a warped instrument.’

  ‘She wasn’t impressed with Malcolm either.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘But the letter might have swung it. She almost looked like she was prepared to give him another chance but couldn’t bring herself to admit it.’

  ‘Really? Right. Leave her to me. She can accompany me to the winery after school tomorrow to discuss that commission. A car’s a good place for a chat.’

  ‘I’ve talked to her about Nathan.’

  ‘Ah. And?’

  ‘She seems rather laid-back about it. Maybe you could find out more?’

  ‘Of course, honeybun.’ He winks. ‘I’ll do my very best.’

  He gives me an absent hug, then picks up his palette and starts mixing colours. Our conversation is over for now. I tiptoe out of the room and leave him to it.

  A LITTLE LATER, on the computer in the study, I check to see if there’s any news from Rob, hoping for a message of some kind. He has posted his first blog. He’s calling it ‘From Table Mountain to the Pyramids of Giza’, which isn’t that snappy considering this is what he usually does for a living. But he’s taken some stunning photos – Table Mountain, the Atlantic Ocean, the wine valleys, the rugged coast – though I suspect it’s possible to point your camera anywhere there and the result would look like it came from the pages of a travel brochure.

  He says how he loved the silence of the Western Cape but is struggling now with the unrelenting heat of the Northern Cape. Sweat is a problem. The burning sun. Aching muscles. Flies. He’s wild camping. Feels safe from other humans, who are few and far between anyway, but it’s the prospect of animals that would keep him awake if he wasn’t so exhausted. Within the next few days he’ll cross the Orange River into Namibia.

  He signs off with the words: Everything is different in Africa.

  But no messages. No emails. I suppose Internet opportunities are difficult to come by, though he’s managed to post this blog. To distract myself, I check the eBay account set up by Scarlet. My mother’s portrait has had thirty-four views, twelve watchers and as yet no bids. But there are still thirteen days for her to make our fortune.

  IT’S ALMOST FIVE o’clock by the time the girls tramp across the yard and fall in at the front door, ties off, hair a mess, starving. I feel huge amounts of relief, knowing they are not only alive but actually quite communicative. Even Ruby. But I also know enough not to ask about school. I will wait for the drip feed of information.

  There’s some nice people. The canteen’s decent. The bus is gross. Their timetables are OK. There’s a swing band. A hiking club. And what’s for tea?

  ‘Melina’s made spag bol,’ I tell them. ‘Meat and vegan.’

  They grab some bread and jam and disappear to their rooms. And that’s as much as I’m getting for now, but I’m happy.

  ‘I told you girls will be fine,’ Melina says.

  But I’m not naive enough to believe this will be plain sailing. Oh no. There will be storms ahead.

  AFTER TEA – eaten outside around a non-existent bonfire, washed down with the last of the reds while listening to distant fireworks, Des on edge with every bang – I chivvy everyone into the warmth of the study, where I show them Rob’s blog. They crowd around the computer screen, exclaiming in awe and wonder – all except for Ruby, who creeps unnoticed out of the room. Not unnoticed by everyone. I follow her and find her under the stairs.

  ‘My favourite place,’ I tell her after letting myself into the cupboard to join her.

  ‘Did all the walls use to be covered in this type of paper in the old days?’

  ‘If by the old days you mean the 1970s, then yes, pretty much. Sometimes it would even be flocked.’

  I go on to explain what flocked means, how it felt, the dust that would accumulate, while she looks suitably horrified. ‘It wasn’t all Arctic Roll and Swap Shop.’

  This of course goes straight over her head, so she chooses to ignore it and ploughs on with her own thoughts.

  ‘I didn’t actually hate school,’ she admits. ‘The other students were all right. They showed Scarlet where to smoke. She went with them but she told me she didn’t smoke anything because she doesn’t really like it.’

  For a moment, I have my Ruby back, grassing up her sister in that truthfully innocent way of hers. Scarlet didn’t flush the loo. Scarlet put her peas in the waste paper basket. Scarlet knows how to undo the parental controls on the computer. And I see Ruby through Rob’s eyes. Did he feel threatened by her? And what would it do to Ruby if she ever guessed that? But there’s nothing I can do right now except be grateful she’s talking to me, that she doesn’t hate school, that she’s not smoking weed or taking pills.

  Oh, for the days when all I had to worry about was what to give them for tea. Dealing with the emotional stuff is so much harder but I must persevere. ‘Have you thought any more about Nathan? I mean, how you feel about it all?’

  ‘It’s a bit confusing really. I feel sort of numb. Also quite sad sometimes. But also kind of excited. Is that normal?’

  ‘I don’t know how you’re supposed to feel, Ruby. Your feelings are your feelings. But believe me when I say there’s no such thing as normal.’

  As if to highlight my point, we hear Des walk down the hallway singing ‘Firestarter’.

  She rolls her eyes at me and grins, then leaves me in our cubbyhole to do her homework upstairs in her room, at an old desk we found in the studio, spattered with years of paint, now upcycled by Melina.

  I remain for a while, in the quiet of the cupboard with a bottle of red. It’s amazing what you get used to when you keep at something. But I never want to get used to this bloody awful wine.

  LATER, IN THE kitchen, Luther sits patiently by the door in a pool of moonlight, waiting to be let out for his night-time pee.

  ‘Come on, matey. Let’s go.’

  Outside, the air has a threat of winter to it. As Luther sniffs around, cocking his leg, I stand there in the middle of the yard, breathing deep. Farmyards. Mould. Sulphur. The moon and stars are enough to see by. Ahead of me, stretching up the hill, are the vines. Like ordered rows of mini Roman soldiers. It’ll be time to prune before long and then who knows what next year’s harvest will bring.

  And I think of Rob, far away, on his journey across Africa, on his adventure. And here I am, back where I started. Before there’s time to get maudlin, I realize I can’t see Luther. But I can see a light bobbing along. A torch. Someone is coming up the lane. Why is Luther such a rubbish guard dog? He trots back up to me with a large man and two springer spaniels in tow.

  ‘Evening,’ Nathan says.

  The bouncy dogs run circles round Luther.

  I’m about to ask what Nathan wants but he doesn’t wait.

  ‘There’s a hole in your fence,’ he says.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I thought you should know. You don’t want deer getting in.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’ll sort it.’

  I don’t thank him, interfering bastard. But then again I don’t refuse either. But I do have a question. ‘Why are you lurking here in the dark?’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he says, put out by my line of attack. ‘I was just walking the dogs. Thought it might be Des out in the yard.’

  By now, Luther is waiting by the door to be let back in, ignoring the sniffing spaniels. I want to go back in too because this is awkward. I don’t know why it should be awkward. But there’s something about his expression. It’s not slappable.

  ‘Did you want to come in or something?’

  He’s stumped for a second, suspecting a trick. Then, ‘You offering me a nightcap?’

 
‘I was thinking more along the lines of a cup of tea.’

  ‘Right then,’ he says. ‘That’ll do.’ And he claps his hands together, sending an echo around the valley.

  WE SIT IN the kitchen. We talk about his plans for the estate. Corporate awaydays. Arable farming. Renovating the outbuildings for holiday lets. Then I have to delve deeper into the past.

  ‘So what have you actually done over these past ten years?’

  He has a swig of tea, buying himself a little time, weighing up my mood, before going for it. ‘Well, we worked in Auckland for a year. Then another, like I said. Then we did some travelling and somehow ended up on a sheep farm for a couple of years.’

  ‘A sheep farm? What did Charlotte think about that? She couldn’t exactly wear her heels and business suits there.’

  ‘She grew up on the streets of Stepney. She’s actually no stranger to hard work. Problem is, she likes to play hard too. That’s partly why we stayed so far away, for such a long time. So she could, how shall I put it, detox.’

  ‘I see. The illness. She had a... problem?’

  ‘She did. To be perfectly honest, she still does. It’s always a battle. She has these demons gnawing away at her.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’

  ‘No, Chrissie. I know you had a bad deal with me but you’re OK. You’re sound. She’s really not.’

  I don’t know how to take this. Should I be pleased? Angry? Or what? ‘Are you still together?’ Suddenly this is of paramount importance.

  ‘Actually, no,’ he says. ‘She wants to be but I can’t do it any more.’

  ‘Right.’

  A moment of stillness.

  Then: ‘Was it worth it? Leaving Ruby?’

  He slowly shakes his head, brow furrowed, but he looks me in the eye. ‘The honest answer is no, Chrissie. It wasn’t.’

  ‘So what was it all for?’

  He thinks about this. He’s searching deep but I don’t expect him to come up with an answer. Certainly not one that I will be able to stomach. Because there isn’t such a thing.