The West Country Winery

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘A shame about you and Nathan,’ he adds.

  ‘Me and Nathan?’

  ‘Your marriage. I know it wasn’t your fault...’

  And I wonder for a moment – a very brief moment – if I was partly to blame. I did tell him to go, after all. Though he didn’t have to take me quite so literally. And I could have asked him back. I could have intervened sooner and made it easier for him to see Ruby. But this is what happened. He left. And he didn’t come back.

  ‘Are you and Rob, you know, having a time of it?’

  ‘It’s not exactly ideal, him in Africa.’

  ‘It’s certainly not. Any more news?’

  ‘He’s in Botswana now. The Elephant Highway.’

  ‘Sounds exciting.’

  ‘Exciting, yeah. But scary too – for me as well as him. He says there are lions about so it’s too dangerous to wild camp. He and his new cycling buddy have no choice but to keep going even though the distance between towns can be up to 100 kilometres. It’s sparsely populated and the scenery is so repetitive, like one endless road. I think they’re actually suffering from boredom, despite the sight of roaming elephants and the prospect of being eaten alive by big cats. When they reach the interior there should be more farms, more people.’

  ‘So, all being well, if he survives?’

  ‘If?’

  ‘Obviously there’s some levity in my question.’

  ‘When he gets back, well, we shall have to see.’

  And this is probably the first time I have actually admitted to myself that there is even a choice in the matter.

  ‘Right.’ He claps his hands. ‘The sun is so far over the yardarm it really must be time for a double gin. There’s no wine left.’

  Is it wrong, I wonder, to whoop and holler with joy?

  Winter

  ANOTHER MONDAY MORNING. No need these days to put a sausage casserole in the oven – not with Eve and Melina around. Only Melina isn’t here today, as she left yesterday afternoon to drive to Brighton to stay with her cousin in preparation for her wine course at Plumpton College. She should be back late tonight.

  It’s strange without her. Although she doesn’t talk an awful lot, she’s normally bustling around, cleaning, cooking, sorting. She’s been quieter of late. I asked her a few days ago if she was all right, and it turned out she’s just been distracted, studying for the course. She’s taking the whole thing very seriously. Which is actually rather brilliant. But I hope this doesn’t mean she’s definitely going back home, to put this studying to use there. She has every right to do that, of course she does. But, blimey, we’d miss her.

  Not just because she has a knack of waking those girls up. I’m starting to realize that’s she become a trusted friend to me, too.

  Maybe I should consider that sausage casserole?

  BREAKFAST TIME. Girls are their usual grumpy morning selves, faces in their cornflakes, but when I mention the word ‘party’, they both perk up.

  ‘Can I really have a party?’ Ruby asks, wide-eyed, a child again.

  ‘Well, you are going to be sixteen, and Scarlet had a party for hers in London so I think one’s in order.’

  ‘That seems like ages ago,’ Scarlet says, just a little wistfully.

  ‘It was only at the beginning of September,’ Ruby adds. ‘I never thought I’d be having mine in Devon.’

  A moment’s silence that I will not allow to bloom.

  ‘How about in the barn?’ I suggest. ‘Like we did for the pickers.’

  ‘Really?’ Ruby shivers dramatically. ‘Won’t it be too cold?’

  ‘Not if we have a barn dance.’

  ‘A barn dance? Could we be any more yokel?’

  ‘Bit regionist,’ says Scarlet, spreading some Marmite on her toast.

  Which makes me splutter out my tea. The girl who loved London, now sticking up for Devon. The one I thought would resist, now a firm believer.

  ‘Only problem is we need to find a band. It’s a bit short notice.’ I’m aware that I seem to be winging it these days. Making it up as I go along. And whereas before that would have caused me anxiety, now I feel all right about it. It’s really not so bad.

  Ruby gets up from the table, scraping her chair across the flagstones, Luther following her optimistically to the compost bin where she chucks her banana skin. ‘Malcolm’s in a folk band,’ she says.

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘The Chud Valley Stompers.’

  Scarlet sniggers.

  Ruby gives her evils, suddenly Malcolm’s defender. ‘I think they do weddings and stuff.’

  ‘Barn dances?’ I ask. Maybe this will work out.

  ‘I suppose. But isn’t a barn dance completely crap, Mum? I mean, be honest.’

  ‘No, really they’re actually great fun. I went to a few when I was your age. Everyone joins in. I promise.’

  Ruby remains unconvinced but grudgingly agrees to speak to Malcolm about it.

  At this point Des enters the kitchen, ears flapping. ‘Did someone mention a party?’

  ‘Mum wants Ruby to have a barn dance for her birthday on Saturday.’

  ‘Splendid!’ He does a quick shuffle. ‘Gay Gordons and the Barley Reel. To coin one of your girls’ phrases, bring it on! I found a case lurking in the cellar so . . .’

  Ruby’s face drops and I suspect this will be a hard one to sell.

  BY MIDDAY, AFTER I’ve completed various tasks around the house, I list three more of Des’s smaller paintings on eBay. All of them doe-eyed, buxom women. Perfect for the walls of hipsters. Depending on the outcome, I might suggest we do give the auction houses a go. Just for the larger canvases; he still has around twelve. It’s possible we could make more money that way. And then we really might have the cash to turn the milking parlour into a home for a new wine press at some point.

  After a quick bite to eat, I turn my attention to Ruby’s birthday on Saturday. Usually I’m all prepared by this point of December, what with Christmas coming up and all that means at work and at home. But now, without work, I don’t have to think about conferences and events. Just the party.

  On cue, Ruby texts me.

  Chud Valley Stompers are free Sat. Malcolm plays fiddle and is the caller, whatever that is. x

  Probably free because no other bugger would want a barn dance in December.

  I’ve asked swing band friends to come n Scarlets inviting her crowd.

  This second text is followed by a smiling-face emoji which makes me smile in turn. Hopefully this won’t be an out-and-out catastrophe.

  Instead of worrying, and definitely instead of winging it, what I need is a plan: food, decorations, staging. Hay bales. Trestle tables. Strings of fairy lights. Some kind of heating that won’t give Des palpitations.

  While I’m googling party balloons, Declan phones me. I take him into the understairs cupboard so I don’t get disturbed by Eve or Des, who are both lurking.

  ‘What’s up, Dec? You sound worried.’

  ‘You’ll never believe what’s happened,’ he says.

  I’m thinking the worst. Redundancy. Illness. Accident. ‘What is it? You’ve got me all worried.’

  There’s a huge intake of breath and then he blurts out: ‘Things have been getting serious with Mark.’

  ‘Right.’ I let this sink in a moment while relief washes over me. ‘And?’

  ‘And he asked me to move in with him while we look for somewhere permanent to live. Together.’

  ‘Right. And you said what exactly?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh, I see. That was the problem.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says with a massive sigh. ‘That was the problem.’

  I can hear the regret in the silence that follows and I know I have to pursue this now. ‘Can you see yourself ever settling down?’

  ‘I genuinely never thought I would,’ he says. ‘Didn’t think I was the settling sort. But...’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, now it’s over, I can’t stop thinking a
bout what I might’ve given up.’

  Declan sounds lost, vulnerable, so different from that confident exterior he puts up. I’ve seen him waver once or twice before, but he always bounces back. This seems to be different, though. He must really, really like Mark, more than he’s ever liked anyone.

  ‘Do you love him?’

  Without even having to think about this, he replies: ‘Yes. I love him.’

  ‘Mark sounds like a great guy. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Don’t,’ he says. ‘Just don’t. I’m an idiot.’

  ‘Probably, but look, why don’t you speak to him? Tell him what you’ve told me. Be honest. In fact...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Throw your life into the wind and see what happens?’

  ‘Touché,’ he says, followed by a rude word, and then he’s back to his usual self and turns his attention to me. ‘How are you? Rob? The girls? The vineyard?’

  I give him the lowdown and, while I listen to his witty asides, I realize how much I miss this man, my former daily companion. But Rob? Not so much.

  ‘Come down and stay in the new year, won’t you?’ I ask Declan.

  ‘I wouldn’t miss your next party – or should that be vintage? – now, would I?’ he jokes.

  Who knows if this will pan out? He could be in love with another bloke by then. Or maybe even back with Mark. More likely on an all-inclusive to Puerto de la Cruz.

  I finally emerge from the cupboard like a mole blinking into the light.

  AFTER SCHOOL, THE girls arrive home tired and hungry as usual. Once they’ve had their bread and jam and half an hour fiddling about in their rooms, Ruby seeks me out in the study.

  ‘Thanks for throwing this party,’ she says. ‘It sounds fun.’ She gives me a hug and, even though it’s just a brief one, it’s precious enough that I want to pop it in a drawer for safekeeping.

  Only then she drops a Ruby bomb. ‘Do you think Nathan would come, you know, if I invited him?’

  The question I’ve been dreading. ‘Er...’

  Without waiting for a reply, she wanders off, leaving me speechless, leaving me hankering after the old days – the swimming party, the trampoline party, the year we had the magician who made balloon animals and juggled with actual knives. Party bags. Pass the parcel. Fancy dress. Hectic but fun. Controlled chaos. And now?

  Does she just have her eyes on the prize? Nathan does have a lot of money. And Nathan does have a lot of birthdays to make up for. But maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe she genuinely wants to share her special day with him. And that’s what scares me.

  LATER, AFTER WE’VE eaten vegan sausage casserole and Des hasn’t even objected to the lack of meat, he and I sit at the table and discuss the future of Home Farm wine.

  ‘There’s so much to be done, Des!’ I say, fired up by the prospect. ‘The dairy parlour. The barn. The press. The paintings. The wine licence applications. Once we’re up and running properly we can think about hosting events – parties, weddings.’

  ‘You really are a marvel, Chrissie.’ Des is as enthusiastic as he’s ever been. A bon viveur. A joy.

  Then a beep on my phone just as Eve wanders in with a basket of vegetable-dyed yarn. ‘I’m making Melina socks for Christmas,’ she informs us. ‘She’s been hankering after a pair. What are you two up to?’

  ‘Plotting and planning, my love-cherub. Plotting and planning.’ Des squeezes my mother’s bottom as she passes by his chair.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she says. ‘After I’ve made us all cocoa.’

  And for ten minutes it’s like being a child again. And it’s rather nice.

  I GO DOWNSTAIRS to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and Melina isn’t at her normal spot at the sink or bustling around banging cupboard doors. I can’t see her bag on the window seat or any evidence of her being here. Did she decide to stay another night in Brighton? I wouldn’t blame her. It’s a long journey back. Surely she would have texted? But there’s nothing on my phone except a video from Declan of a baby panda tumbling down a slide.

  Once I’ve checked the yard and confirmed the car is missing, a surge of panic rises within me.

  What if she’s been in an accident? I’m good at imagining the worst. No, there are heaps of reasons why she might not be here, I try to convince myself.

  I take Luther out for a quick walk. I’ve got twenty minutes or so before I have to drag the girls from their beds and some fresh air might calm my nerves. Across the yard and up the lane as far as the common. Luther used to sprint across the grass like a greyhound but now he’s happier to sniff and trot sedately. I take him as far as the edge of the Chudston Estate and there, across the way, I see Nathan’s Range Rover easing out of the gate.

  He’s driving. There’s someone in the passenger seat.

  Melina?

  I catch her eye and she nods to me, glum. Where’s she going? And more to the point, where has she been?

  ONCE THE GIRLS have left for school, I get to work on the accounts, trying not to think about that whole car thing.

  So: we’ve paid the winery for pressing our harvest. The next job is to think about the dairy parlour refurb. It’s not as big as the barn – never had a large herd here. Stone, with a tiled roof and concrete floor. It’s been used for storage over the years we’ve lived at Home Farm, even in my grandmother’s day. A ride-on mower, tools, logs. Rusty pieces of dangerous-looking equipment, the sort you see during the set-up to an episode of Casualty. It shouldn’t take a huge amount of work to get it up to speed. Then there’ll be room for a press – a state-of-theart bladder press like they have at Chudston Winery – and a couple of steel tanks for fermentation. And further down the line, somewhere to store the bottles so the wine can mature ‘on the lees’. Because now I’m determined that we will have sparkling wine: the most expensive, labour-intensive and time-consuming way to make wine, but there you go.

  NATHAN CALLS IN just before lunch. ‘I need to explain about Melina,’ he says.

  ‘It’s none of my business,’ I tell him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and Melina.’

  ‘Me and Melina?’

  ‘She didn’t come home last night. Then this morning I saw you both coming out of the estate in your Range Rover.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Where did you take her?’

  ‘To the airport.’

  ‘The airport? What have you done?’

  ‘Me?’ He does his continental gesture of protest. ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Come on! She stays the night with you and now she’s gone to the airport?’

  ‘She didn’t stay the night with me. I saw her this morning, getting into the car as I drove past your gate. She was in a right state.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’d had a phone call from Poland. Her grandma’s really ill.’

  ‘Oh, poor Melina. Why didn’t she say anything?’

  ‘It was early. She said she left you a note.’

  ‘I haven’t seen a note.’

  He looks round the kitchen, points to the fridge. ‘What’s that?’

  I get up and have a look, snatch the note from its magnet claws and read it. Oh. Poor Melina.

  ‘I told her to get in my car,’ he goes on, ‘seeing as she was in no fit state to drive. We only nipped back to the house ’cause I’d forgotten my phone.’ He takes it out of his coat pocket as if it’s a piece of evidence. ‘Then I drove her to Bristol Airport to get the flight to Kraków.’

  ‘That was... nice.’

  ‘She’s a nice woman.’

  ‘Do you like her?’

  ‘Of course. As I said, she’s a nice woman.’

  He’s making me work hard here. ‘I mean do you like her?’

  ‘You mean do I fancy her? No. I don’t fancy her. She’s lovely. Attractive. But no. I’m off women for a while. The last one led me a merry dance and I stupidly tried to keep up. And the one before, well... I made a mess of that.’ He looks at me, unusually
coy, before snapping himself out of it. ‘Anyway, why are you asking? It’s not actually any of your business. Is it?’

  ‘I’m curious, that’s all.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I don’t fancy her.’

  ‘Ha, ha, Chris. I meant have you heard from Rob, as you well know.’

  ‘I have, actually. There was another blog post this morning.’ I check my phone because I can’t remember the place names. ‘They’ve crossed the salt flats of the Makgadikgadi Pans National Park and are now in Zimbabwe heading for Victoria Falls.’

  ‘Sounds like he’s having a blast.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, it’s definitely an adventure.’ I skim the post again. ‘He says it’s been tough getting through Botswana because of the heat and the thunderstorms. And they crossed paths with a bull elephant, so that must have been a bit dicey for a moment there, until they got off its territory.’

  ‘And here you are with this bull elephant.’

  ‘Here I am.’

  For a moment I remember. That school disco. The evenings he spent here after school, being fed, doing homework, mucking about to Top of the Pops. The A-level revision in our meadow, before it was planted with vines. The promises and the plans. How he was going to meet me in Rome but never showed; he’d got a job and then a place at uni in Leeds. I carried on travelling – I’d had enough of education and wanted to work. Be independent. So I got a job in a bar in Spain and stayed for months.

  ‘Do you remember when we met up again in London, when I got back from travelling?’ I ask him. ‘I thought that was it. Us for life. And then we had Ruby and somehow it went wrong. Why did it go wrong?’

  ‘Oh. Well. Get straight to the point, why don’t you?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘OK. Whatever I say will sound like a pathetic excuse but I reckon I just didn’t know how to be a father,’ he says. ‘All I knew of parenting was learned from your mum and Des.’

  ‘But they were good to you. Don’t have a go at them.’

  ‘No, no. I’m not. They made me feel part of your family. I’m just saying I never had that at home. So then when it was you, me and Ruby, I was overwhelmed. I acted like a prick, I know I did. And I don’t blame you for chucking me out once you found out about Charlotte.’