The West Country Winery

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘I should’ve worked harder,’ he says finally.

  ‘You always worked hard, I’ll give you that,’ I tell him. Though of course it doesn’t escape me that some of those late nights at work would have been spent with Charlotte.

  ‘I meant I should’ve worked harder at being your husband,’ he says, a slight catch in his voice. ‘I should’ve worked harder at being Ruby’s dad.’

  He won’t get any disagreement there but I don’t say anything. I let him carry on. I need to hear this.

  ‘I didn’t feel very good at either of those jobs,’ he says. ‘And, to be perfectly honest, I suppose Charlotte offered me a way out.’ He rubs his hand over his scalp, smoothing his wayward curls, an old habit. And I remember that time he washed my hair for me, after I’d given birth to Ruby. Tender and loving. Then he adds: ‘I don’t know if this regret of mine makes you feel any better?’

  ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘Definitely not. It makes me sad. And angry.’

  ‘Right. Well. I don’t blame you, Chrissie. You have every right to feel those things.’ He has a final gulp of his tea, drains the mug. Then, in a total change of direction: ‘How’s Forrest Gump getting on?’

  ‘I presume you mean Rob.’

  ‘Yes, I mean Rob. Where is he now?’

  ‘Heading towards Namibia.’

  ‘Good for him.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘You’re not happy with this arrangement?’

  ‘No, I’m not happy but I’m resigned to it.’ I sigh to emphasize my point. ‘I’m thinking of our year in Devon as our own adventure. Not sure it’s going that well. I mean, we’ve already handed over the winemaking.’

  ‘But you still have a vineyard. And a business that can grow. And you’ll soon be making your own wine again. Think of this not as a setback but as an opportunity.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I do. From what Melina and the others tell me, the barn party was a sensation. Fabulous setting. Maybe you could think about getting a licence to sell alcohol? Use it for events? That’s your thing, after all.’

  ‘I know. I was actually wondering about the possibility of weddings.’

  Oh. That word. Wedding.

  His right hand automatically moves to that finger on his left hand where once he wore a gold band. There’s not even an indent now. It’s as if it were never there. Like it never happened.

  ‘Good plan,’ he says.

  Conversation fizzles out but his leg is fidgety and he’s rubbing his finger again. I can tell he’s itching to ask a question. And then he does.

  ‘How are the girls settling in?’ he asks. ‘Scarlet seems all right?’

  I swallow. I gulp. I breathe, breathe, breathe. I could let him have what for. Or I could try to be civilized. If I want this next year to work out I really must try my hardest to be civilized. Try hard, Chrissie. Dig deep.

  ‘Scarlet’s been a real surprise,’ I manage to say.

  ‘She does seem to be throwing herself into country life.’

  ‘I know. Apart from the dead-animal thing she’s really embracing rural living.’

  ‘And...’ He hesitates. ‘Ruby?’

  I can do this. So can Ruby. ‘She’ll be fine,’ I tell him with ill-founded certainty.

  And if he’d left it there, it might’ve just about been OK. But he doesn’t. He has to go ahead and ask: ‘Have you told her about me yet?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve told her about you.’

  ‘That I’m her father?’

  ‘Her birth father, yes.’

  ‘And does she want to see me?’

  ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘Does she want any kind of relationship with me? Other than next-door neighbour.’

  ‘You are an insensitive pillock, Nathan, you really are!’ I yell, my calmness falling away. ‘You need to give me some space, all right?’

  ‘I’m just trying to make up for lost time, but you’re making it impossible for me at every turn! Why can’t we just be civil?’

  Furious, I manage a ‘Just go!’

  So he goes.

  Good riddance.

  But the thought won’t go. It buzzes around my head. At some point, Ruby will want some kind of relationship with Nathan. And what do I do when that happens?

  TEN DAYS LATER and I’ve barely seen Nathan, let alone talked to him. Life is sort of chugging along. The girls continue to get used to school. They catch the bus. They’ve made some friends. Scarlet has been embraced by a like-minded group and welcomed into their inner circle of activism. Ruby has found a young lad called Barney who plays the trombone in the swing band, unlikely to lead to romance but who knows. They’re good chums already so that’s fine by me.

  Melina does the school run on a Wednesday with the harp in the back of my car – no mean feat. On Thursdays Malcolm comes to the house to give Ruby a lesson – persuading her to accept his teaching also no mean feat. Having him come here was the best compromise; at least that way she doesn’t have to endure the probable stink of his house. And although he is a complete gent, I prefer having her within earshot.

  ‘He’s actually all right,’ she tells me, after he leaves this evening. ‘I’m kinda getting used to him. He’s different to Shona but then again everything’s different these days.’ She dips into a brief trance of nostalgia for her old life before snapping herself out of it and spurting upstairs to FaceTime Barney, who she hasn’t seen for all of two hours.

  So although everyone is carrying on, the big fat elephant in the room that we sort of addressed, Ruby and I, is still loitering.

  Now Melina is about to serve our supper. Something Polish and cabbagey, patatas bravas, and chicken thighs plus some sort of vegan haggis – she is truly a European.

  Des is cleaning up after another stint in the studio. Last week, he and Ruby visited the winery up the valley. Turns out he knows the owner’s mother, Ruth, from way back. She could vouch for his pedigree as a painter and he’s been given the go-ahead for the commission to paint the vineyard there for their cafe. This will help pay for the winemaking but there’s still quite a shortfall, so we’re banking on Eve. Three days to go and she’s had 298 views, thirty-five watchers and twenty-two bids, the highest currently at £1,550. There is much excitement, the girls giving us regular updates on their grandmother’s worth.

  Eve, herself, is doing well with her injury, regaining mobility in her wrist and, with Melina’s encouragement and her own herbal knowledge, being scrupulous about what she eats in order to strengthen her bones.

  We sit down around the table and Des pours us each a glass of white. There are still a couple of cases left but soon the bad stuff will all be gone. And in January the first bottles of this year’s vintage will be ready to drink. And then we’ll have some idea if this could possibly be a viable business.

  ‘You’re quiet, Christabel,’ Des says. ‘Everything all right? Have you heard from Rob?’

  ‘Not since last week when he’d made it across the Senqu River from South Africa into Namibia. He’s paired up with a bloke from Doncaster who’s raising money for a donkey sanctuary or something.’

  ‘Is Rob doing any of this for charity?’ Eve asks.

  I feel a flush over my face – Why isn’t he doing it for charity? – and before I get the chance to answer, Ruby dives in.

  ‘He’s thinking about it,’ she announces. ‘Scarlet’s going to set up a giving page. But he doesn’t know yet who to raise money for.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit late in the day?’ I ask. Why did none of us think of this beforehand? It might have made the whole saga slightly more palatable.

  ‘It’s never too late, honeybun,’ Des says. ‘Rob has thousands of miles ahead of him to cycle.’

  We’re all quiet for a short while, contemplating the vastness of Rob’s journey and why he is there and we are here.

  Food finished, Melina clears the plates – while Eve serves us all apple crumble and custard with its dairy-free alternative – t
hen sits down and tucks in. She tells us that Poland used to export most of its apples to Russia but now Russia doesn’t want them so the Poles are making lots of cider.

  ‘Is very good cider,’ she states.

  ‘I thought you only drank vodka and beer in Poland?’

  ‘No, Ruby. That is not so. We also make wine. Is very good wine.’ She looks with disdain at the contents of her glass before downing them. She might as well be holding her nose while doing it. ‘Some farms in the south near my home, they have started vineyards. Maybe is better for Babcia than pigs.’

  ‘How old’s your grandma?’ I ask her.

  ‘Babcia is seventy-five.’

  ‘Does she have help?’ I feel bad that Melina lives so far away.

  ‘She has my Uncle Iwan and Aunt Agata.’

  ‘Won’t she retire?’ Scarlet wonders.

  ‘Maybe she can’t afford to retire,’ I jump in quickly. I’m aware as I’m saying those words that they sound completely ignorant.

  Melina, as ever, is calm as you like, monotone and phlegmatic. ‘Last time I go home, I see Poland has changed. The cities and the countryside look more prosperous than UK. Babcia tells me I must return. To work on farm maybe. Or to grow my own vineyard.’

  We listen to her in stunned silence, none of us wanting to contemplate a life without this woman. We watch her as she gets up and walks to the window seat, picks up her bag and brings it back to the table. She rummages inside and produces a booklet of some kind. A prospectus.

  ‘Plumpton College,’ she says. ‘Only college in UK where you may study wine. I want to study wine.’

  ‘How to drink wine?’ asks Des. ‘I can show you that, Melina.’

  ‘No, Des, I wish to study vine-growing and winemaking.’ She hands him the prospectus.

  ‘It’s in Sussex,’ he says.

  ‘Yes. Four hours to drive maybe. I do one day a week for eight weeks. First week in December then start again in January.’

  ‘Right. Wow.’ I am particularly eloquent today. I am also reeling somewhat. Which is utterly stupid. Melina has every right to study more. She has every right to do something positive with her life. To go back to Poland. To forge a career.

  ‘Good for you, Melina,’ I make myself tell her. ‘Good for you.’

  And I really hope she doesn’t think I’m being facetious, because I’m not. I’m really not. I’m just sad at the prospect of losing another important person in our lives.

  But, I must remind myself, I have not lost Rob. He will come back. Only another ten months to go.

  And then what?

  I can’t pursue this line of thought now because there’s a double ping – one from Scarlet’s phone, the other from Ruby’s. They both screech, Ruby with more excitement than I have heard in a very long time.

  ‘Nana Eve!’ she shouts. ‘You’re now worth £2,025!’

  LATER, WITH THE girls in bed and Des retired, I sit at the kitchen table drinking herbal tea with Eve, who is knitting a jumper.

  ‘Should you be doing that?’

  ‘It’s good for my hand,’ she says, not altogether convincingly.

  ‘Where’s Melina?’ I ask her. ‘Has she gone to bed?’

  ‘She’s taken Luther out,’ Eve says.

  I check the dog basket as if I have to see for myself and yes, it’s empty. ‘For a walk? A bit late, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’

  Eve is vague. Which is not unusual. She’s often vague, her head off elsewhere, in dreamland, lost among the loops and purls of her knitting. Though sometimes I’m sure she pretends to be vague and lost so that she can avoid a conversation. Which is ridiculous because if she’s of a mind to do so, she will say whatever she wants and not give two hoots about the repercussions. I think, possibly, this avoidance strategy is something she only employs when dealing with me.

  ‘Eve,’ I say, determined now to get to the bottom of this big nag in my head.

  ‘Yes.’ She carries on knitting, purple-framed glasses balanced on the end of her nose. ‘What is it, Christabel?’ The needles stop clacking. She peers at me over her specs.

  ‘Why have you forgiven Nathan so readily? He’s not been in contact with Ruby since she was tiny. It’s not like he missed a school play or a dental appointment. He’s missed practically her whole life.’

  ‘Right. I understand that you’re upset, I really do. But as I see it, Nathan is back and we need to build bridges between him and us.’

  An impasse. Thankfully Melina returns with a puffed-out Luther. After a brief sniffy bark, he heads to his basket and curls up like a cat. A very large cat.

  ‘Nice walk, Melina?’ Eve asks, putting her knitting aside and wiggling her fingers.

  ‘Very nice. Is cold but I have company. I see Nathan and he is walking his dogs. They are two of springer spaniels and very busy. Luther does not like them, I think.’

  ‘Yes, they are indeed lively,’ Eve agrees.

  Why is Nathan prowling on the edge of his mahoosive estate, wandering the lanes again, so close to Home Farm? He can’t keep away. Is he after Melina? She does look pink-cheeked... The weather is crisp out there so it could be the cold rosying up her complexion. Or is it something else? Something I don’t really want to consider now.

  I say my goodnights and drag myself to an empty bed, taking a hot-water bottle that is wearing one of Eve’s brightly coloured knitted covers. I’m hoping for a deep sleep, so I can switch off from worrying about Scarlet becoming an extreme eco-warrior, Ruby becoming a sad loner, Rob getting eaten by hungry lions. Everything is easier when I’m inhabiting the Land of Nod. I can dream of rows of vines bursting with plump grapes. A sparkling wine to die for. A successful business.

  But the last thought that flits through my brain before it closes down for the night is whether there is something going on between Nathan and Melina. And if there is something going on between Nathan and Melina, what on earth will that mean for Ruby?

  It all comes back to Ruby.

  A DRIZZLY SATURDAY morning: woken by gunfire. Pheasants. Partridges. French hens, turtle doves, ten geese a-laying.

  I’m hoping the girls will sleep through the one-sided onslaught. But apparently not. A knock at the door and in comes Ruby.

  ‘Morning,’ she says, somewhat bright-eyed.

  Is she feverish? Coming down with another cold? Or is she just happier? She has definitely perked up of late. Appears to be more settled. I’ve tried a couple of times to encourage her to open up about the whole Nathan thing but she always manages to head me off. Meeting Nathan, knowing he’s living next door, I thought she’d be keen to speak about him. To speak to him. To have some kind of meeting or other. But no. Nothing. Not yet. But I’m in no doubt that day will come.

  ‘They’re at it again,’ she says.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Next door. Killing stuff.’

  ‘Oh, that. Yes, I know. Did they wake you?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I was already up, tidying my room.’

  ‘You were?’

  ‘You don’t have to look so surprised, Mum.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  But it’s all right; she’s smiling. Then she asks: ‘Do you think Nathan shoots up the pheasants too or does he just take the blood money?’

  Now there’s a question. After a moment’s consideration I play it safe. ‘I don’t know. He never used to have a gun but now he’s (I was going to say lord of the manor but I hold back)... the estate owner, maybe it’s expected.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean it’s right.’

  ‘Country people have a different way of living.’ I’m trying to be diplomatic. Which is tricky.

  No comment on this from Ruby. Instead she retrieves a tray from the landing and carries it over to my bed. ‘Your breakfast, m’lady,’ she says.

  On the tray is a mug of strong-looking tea and two doorstep slices of granary toast and jam. And a postcard.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Guess,’ she says, trying to suppress
a big grin.

  Of course I know straight away who it’s from. There’s a picture of a vineyard and, when I turn it over, a South African stamp, dated more than two weeks ago.

  Dear Chrissie, Ruby and Scarlet,

  I hope you are getting used to Devon. I’m thinking

  of you every day as I cycle along the trail and roads

  through this incredible country. You feel very far away

  but I love you all.

  Love Rob/Dad. Xxx

  PS. I hope you’re enjoying the blogs.

  Short but sweet.

  I give the postcard to Ruby. ‘He sent this ages ago so God knows where he is now.’

  She passes me her phone. ‘This is his latest blog post.’

  It turns out he’s still in Namibia.

  The cycling has been awesome through thinly populated lands, heading north-east on dirt and sand tracks, across the central plateau and up into the Namib desert. And the most incredible moment. A dawn visit to the world’s highest sand dunes. Unbelievable. Why aren’t they on everyone’s bucket list?

  It’s hard not to think of Lawrence of Arabia riding a camel rather than Rob pedalling his bike. I struggle to imagine my husband, the townie, in the middle of a desert.

  ‘When did he post this, Rube?’

  She whips her phone off me to check. ‘A couple of hours ago.’

  ‘Where is he exactly? He must have Wi-Fi.’

  ‘He says he’s treated himself to a night in a hotel which included a wildlife buffet.’ She looks at me – ‘Scarlet won’t like that!’ – then hands back the phone so I can read for myself.

  Tomorrow I’ll be on the road to Windhoek, the capital. When there, I plan to experience the great beer and restaurants the city has to offer. And then the relief of long, flat stretches towards the border of Botswana.

  Hotels. Wildlife buffets. Wi-Fi. Beer. Restaurants. Why is it that these are the words that stand out, shouting and singing at me?

  But I will not show Ruby my disappointment. The sense of being let down. Made a fool of. He’s having the holiday of a lifetime under the guise of a mid-life crisis, leaving me to keep everything together – kids, parents, life.