BEDTIME. SCARLET is out for the count, having hiked with her group of friends over miles of countryside this afternoon. I’ve never thought of her as the outdoor type but she’s revelling in it here. Her cheeks have a healthy glow and she looks strong and lean – she’s taller than me now and I think she’s probably grown an inch since Rob left. Ruby’s like a child next to her – and right now that child is sprawled on her bed, playing some kind of virtual game against Barney, obviously back from choir practice. What a house he must live in! It turns out he’s one of five, which might account for his mother’s erratic behaviour, though despite her barking there’s something likeable about her. It’s probably better to have her as a friend. Keep your enemies closer and all that.
‘So, what made you decide to go and see Nathan?’ I ask Ruby now.
‘I showed Barney Rob’s blog and then we got talking about stuff and I mentioned that Rob’s not actually biologically my dad even though he’s brought me up. And I told him about Nathan and that I haven’t spoken to him yet and he said why don’t we go and see him. So we did.’
‘Barney suggested it? Barney, who won’t say boo to a goose?’
‘He’s sort of determined and strong once you get to know him. Don’t be fooled.’
‘Well, if he’s anything like his mother, then I have every reason to believe you.’
‘She is a bit scary, isn’t she?’ Ruby pulls a face. ‘She asked me to dinner tomorrow, but I said I have to practise my harp. Then she told me she could do with a harpist for the carol concert and I didn’t like to say no.’
‘So you said yes?’
‘I said yes.’
‘Oh, Rube.’ I give her a hug.
Then she says: ‘Nathan’s all right. Sort of funny and cool. And his house is a-maz-ing!’
‘It is amazing,’ I agree. And then I take the chance to ask more. ‘How do you feel now you’ve had a chance to meet Nathan, you know, after all this time?’
‘Do you mean am I angry with him?’
‘Not necessarily. Maybe.’
‘I thought I’d give him a chance first and then decide if I hate him or not.’
‘And so far?’
‘I don’t hate him. He’s actually quite nice. But he’s not Rob.’
‘No,’ I agree. ‘He’s not Rob.’
IT’S A COLD and windy day. When I take Luther out for his morning constitutional, I head up to the vineyard. From the top of the hill the landscape is laid out like a painting. The red fields. The curve of the river down the valley. The barn and the smaller, squatter old milking parlour beyond it. Generations have lived here, eking out a living from the land. Beef cattle. Dairy herds. Crops. Through feast and famine. Invasion and war. From the plague to foot-and-mouth.
It all looks so different from harvest time. Everything is asleep. It’s hard to believe we can ever make a go of it with these woody stalks for vines. But I feel a connection with this place. If I shut my eyes, I can picture a prosperous Roman family adjusting to a new life, away from their Tuscan villa with its mosaic floors and a bath house. I imagine the vines that would have been transported here so the family could have their own wine to drink when so far from home. The taste of sun-soaked hills replaced by that of hedgerows and damp earth. And then the vineyards probably went to seed once the Romans retreated. Maybe, as the centuries passed, they were tended by monks to make wine for communion. Until Henry VIII had his way with the Catholics. Then they would have been replaced by arable crops, grazed by cows and sheep. And now, with longer, hotter summers and milder, wetter winters, the conditions are perfect for the renaissance of English wine. I smile at the thought.
We’ve embraced the champagne of France, the cava of Spain, the Prosecco of Italy, so now is the time – our time – to produce a wine that reflects this island race. A race blended with peoples from all over Europe and across the globe, who have brought with them their winemaking skills and viticultural knowledge. There’s no reason why we can’t live communally and still express our personality.
I think of Des, the patriarch. He might be an almost-octogenarian but nevertheless he is having his own renaissance. Not only is he painting on commission, he is also doing so for himself, evoking dystopian landscapes in oil.
Then there’s Eve. Despite her fall, she is gaining strength from the nature around her while continuing with her yoga lessons and t’ai chi. She’s even considering running classes in the barn once it has been renovated.
This barn would make an amazing wedding venue, darling! Eve said last night, all enthusiasm and passion. We could convert the milking parlour to a winery, too, once we’ve raised enough money to buy a press and vats.
She shares my vision, taking it even further, so I need to stay grounded and practical and realistic.
Next up, there’s Melina. She is a completely different person from the one I thought I knew in London. She is capable of anything she puts her mind to. She takes up the slack when others fall short, instinctively knowing how to approach problems with a store cupboard of ways passed down from her grandmother. She wants to learn more about the vineyard, the agricultural side of things, and also the winemaking itself – hence the course at Plumpton. I’m happy dealing with the accounts, the business, the events that can grow alongside the wine. But we have to get the wine right. Then and only then will our venture be credible.
And Ruby? Well, Ruby has met Nathan and didn’t hate him. Which I know is a good thing, even if I would have quite liked it if she had; I am obviously just worried that she might get let down again. It’s clear she misses Rob. She’s constantly checking for updates and messages and is counting down the days to the next time she can speak to him. Fortunately, having found a firm friend in Barney, she is keeping up with her harp-playing – even if she’s been forced to play in the carol concert.
Which leaves Scarlet, far away from her father but happy with her new friends – so different from those in London, with names like Bogger and Persephone, Morley and Indigo. The city girl who went on marches, now a hiker. Who’d have thought it?
While I’m reflecting on all this, at the top of the hill, my phone beeps. A signal. It might be Rob, I think excitedly. But no, it’s Nathan.
He wants to talk.
WE MEET ON neutral territory up at the beacon, the highest point in the area, with views over the moors and downlands to the sea. The River Chud is even clearer from here, snaking its path through the valley.
Nathan points out Home Farm. The rows of vines make a stripy pattern on the patchwork quilt of Devon countryside, slightly grubby-looking in the murky morning.
We let the dogs off their leads and they run about, even Luther who normally only wants to sniff. The spaniels are like happy, enthusiastic toddlers playing with a pensioner.
‘So what is it?’ I ask him.
‘You wanted to talk. About Ruby.’
‘I did. I do. I was going to contact you.’
‘Does it matter that I contacted you?’
I almost react and tell him yes, of course it matters. But I manage a moment of self-awareness and keep quiet, let him carry on and see what he has to say for himself.
‘Firstly, I appreciate you not kicking off yesterday. You had every right to. Secondly, Ruby is brilliant.’
‘I know—’
‘I’m not expecting to be her father.’
He interrupts my response before I get going.
‘I’d just like to be another father figure in her life. And before you say anything, I am different now. I’ve grown up. Yes, I was annoying when we first saw each other again after all those years, but to be honest, I was embarrassed.’
‘Embarrassed?’
‘Ashamed.’ He’s sheepish as he says this, like it’s a word he doesn’t often utter in connection with himself, but it’s a word that he should jolly well own. ‘What I did to you and Ruby was terrible,’ he stumbles on. ‘I should have kept in contact. I should have paid you.’
‘You’re not getting an
y argument from me.’
A wry smile. ‘And, thirdly, I really should mention that you and Rob have done a great job.’
‘Oh. Right.’ What else am I supposed to say? Thank you?
‘Are you managing all right without him?’ he adds, like it’s his business, when he should be minding his own.
‘I’m managing fine, thank you.’
‘Do you miss him?’
‘Do I miss him?’
He waits for me to answer.
‘Of course I miss him!’ I snap. And why do I snap? Not because he’s so unbelievably and annoyingly nosy but because, possibly, I have to admit to myself that maybe I don’t miss Rob as much as I thought I would. But there’s no way I’m telling Nathan that.
Seeing my reaction, he changes tack, moving to safer ground. ‘So, how’s “Operation Fizz” coming along then? I have to admire you, Chris; it’s a great idea. Maybe I could help? You know, as a financial backer or something? It’d be a great investment.’
Maybe I should accept? After all, he has a lot of years to make up for financially. But not a good idea, however in need of money we are. He’s involved enough in our lives as it is.
‘There’s one other thing,’ he says. ‘It’s Charlotte.’
‘Charlotte?’
‘She’s coming to stay. There’s nothing between us any more. But she’s asked for a few days away and I thought my house is big enough to accommodate her.’
‘It’s none of my business,’ I tell him. I am grateful for the heads-up but I don’t need to let him know that.
Luther has now tired of the young spaniels. He sits by my feet, looking up at me expectantly. Can we go home now?
‘I reckon he’s fed up of my two.’ Nathan whistles and they’re both at his heel within an instant.
I clip on Luther’s lead and stroke his ears. ‘Come on, old boy.’
As I turn to go, Nathan says, all jokey and matey, ‘Old boy? I’m only six months older than you.’
I ignore him, pretend I can’t hear in the wind, and head downhill, Luther by my side, back home.
SUNDAY LUNCH IS the one unmoveable feast of the week. Eve and Des might not be entirely traditional, but this is something they never miss. There are always pre-dinner drinks – gin and tonic, or sherry perhaps, sometimes mulled wine on a cold winter’s day. Des always carves, with an extravagant sharpening-of-the-knife ritual. The joint of meat is always accompanied by every sort of trimming. And there are always, and obviously, lashings of wine. Now we’re down to the last few bottles of white, it’s good to know we’ll be getting our stocks replenished soon – as long as we can pay the winery the remainder of what we owe.
So there’s Eve, Des, Scarlet, Ruby, Melina and me for lunch. Plus Barney, this time happy to stay for food rather than absconding up to the big house. Two of Scarlet’s new friends are also here. Also vegan. Morley, who it transpires is Barney’s twin, and Indigo. They seem good-natured, enthusiastic and chatty, and I’m so pleased that Scarlet seems to have found her tribe.
After lunch, quite a bit later, once Des has regaled us with anecdotes of the Swinging Sixties and Eve has lectured us on the importance of saving indigenous tribes in Peru, we disperse to various locations around the house – bedrooms, study, studio, living room. We’re all on high alert – phones, laptops and computers at our sides – because Eve’s auction ends soon. Although she’s already reached £3,455, there’s a buzz of excitement in the hope that there’ll be a last-minute bidding war.
As the countdown approaches, there’s much hooting and yelping as bids fly in, and suddenly it’s over and Eve is whooping the loudest.
‘I’m worth £4,670!’ she shrieks.
Everyone swarms back to the kitchen, to witness Des giving his wife a passionate whopper of a kiss on the lips, and a squeeze of her bottom – the man who fell for the young woman on the canvas.
‘You’re priceless, my love,’ he says.
And they share one of those intimate moments that I’d pay a squillion quid for.
MALCOLM ARRIVES FOR Ruby’s harp lesson. He is charm personified. Des must have given him a thorough talking-to about what is appropriate language to be used in front of Ruby. Well, in front of anyone, actually.
Ruby wheels the harp into the kitchen, where it’s light and airy and warm enough for her fingers to work properly, and begins her lesson, while I get down to work on my laptop to the dulcet strains of music.
Before I know it, the hour’s up and Ruby’s disappeared to her room, leaving me to entertain Malcolm.
‘Tea?’ I ask him.
‘Ooh, that’d be lovely – three sugars, please.’ As if he’s dehydrated. He’d probably hang around for supper if I asked him.
Which maybe I will. He’s actually an intelligent, educated man. He’s travelled the world with his harp and is always delighted to take on a new pupil because it’s not the sort of instrument many children want to learn.
‘Ruby was always determined,’ I tell him, ‘ever since she and Scarlet were bridesmaids at our wedding, drifting up the aisle to “Ave Maria”.’
Malcolm finishes his tea with much gulping and satisfaction and so I give him a refill into which he stirs another three sugars.
‘Ruby tells me she has another father living next door up at the big house,’ he says suddenly, taking me by surprise.
‘I wouldn’t say “father”. Did Ruby say “father”?’
‘Not in so many words.’
‘Right.’ I offer him the biscuit tin.
He rummages around and picks out a ginger nut, dips it into his tea. ‘I know Nathan.’
I wait for him to expand on this, though he’s temporarily distracted by Luther slobbering at his hand.
‘Mm,’ he continues. ‘I met him at a recital of mine last year. He was there with a young lady.’
‘Young lady?’
‘Well, I say young. Everyone’s young in comparison to me. She was probably your age.’
‘Right. That would be Charlotte.’
‘She was probably very pretty once. Some might even say beautiful. But she had a face like a slapped—’
‘Malcolm!’ Des appears on cue, stopping the word that was about to escape from his friend’s potty mouth. ‘Are you staying for supper?’
‘No, no, old chap. Too much to do, I’m afraid.’ He’s on his feet now, producing a silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiping his mouth quite delicately, which is when I notice what long fingers he has.
‘Glass of wine?’
‘Very kind offer but no.’ He’s firm on this point. ‘Must be going. Same time next week? I’ve given Ruby the Christmas carols to practise and we’ll focus on those from now till the concert.’
‘And she’s happy about doing the concert?’
‘I wouldn’t say happy exactly. But resigned. It’s very hard to say no to Jacqueline.’
‘You know Jacqueline, then?’
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Her husband’s my nephew.’
My heart does that thing – sinks a little before popping back up again. I know you’re supposed to like that about living in the country. You’re supposed to like knowing everyone. But I do sometimes long for the anonymity of London. Where people are happy to ignore you. Where your cousin isn’t married to your dentist and you don’t shop at the same chemist’s as your kid’s teacher.
‘Let me see you out, Malc,’ Des says.
I realize my expression must be pained.
They both disappear into the yard, Luther in their wake.
I’m exhausted; that must be why I’m so jumpy. Niggling thoughts keeping me awake at night: Do I love my husband? Will we ever make good wine? Why doesn’t Nathan sell up and go and cycle across Africa?
I sigh, remind myself that this has been a good day. I’ve made some progress with advertising the paintings. They’re catalogued and scheduled to go on eBay; there’s no point in using an auction house since the sale of Eve – this is working perfectly well. We might not
be so lucky with the next batch, but it’s got to be worth a shot.
When Des returns, I ask him about something else that’s been bothering me.
‘Do you mind selling your paintings, Des?’
‘Not at all,’ he says without even considering his answer. ‘That’s why I painted them all those years ago, to make a living. It’s just that they fell out of favour and now we need to make wine while the sun shines, so to speak.’
‘I see what you did there,’ I tell him with a smile. ‘And about that...’
‘Yes, my love?’
‘Any thoughts on doing up the milking parlour? Just enough so we can possibly think about buying a new press? And a couple of steel vats? We should be looking beyond this year.’
‘I realize that, my honeybun,’ he says with an enormous sigh that is strong enough to knock over a small child. ‘Problem is, neither your mother nor I appreciated just how long a game you have to play with a vineyard. Five years to establish the vines adequately. Another two if you want sparkling wine. And we’re only a small concern, aren’t we? Just a couple of acres. Two hundred or so vines. We’re never going to be a Nyetimber or a Sharpham.’
I smile, pleased these English winery names are familiar. Then, ‘But we do want a business, don’t we, Des?’ I check.
‘Of course we want a business. It’s just that occasionally, when I’m having a senior moment or when I’m a bit glum, I wonder if your mother and I will actually live to see it running to profit. If we’ll ever see our bottles on the shelves of the local off-licences or displayed in a crate of hay in a farm shop. Or indeed if anyone other than us will actually like the damn stuff.’
Sometimes I doubt if I will live to see this day.
Unless we diversify.
‘You’re thinking about weddings, aren’t you?’ he asks, reading my mind.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Call it a hunch. An educated guess. A stab in the dark. Any of those really. Am I right?’
‘Yes, you are indeed right,’ I respond, reminded of just how well he knows me. ‘I am thinking about weddings.’
The West Country Winery Page 15
