The West Country Winery

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘You were a prick.’

  ‘I know. And I’m really sorry for that. And so sorry I didn’t come back. It’s unforgivable and I hate myself for it.’ He looks at me. ‘Please forgive me?’

  I don’t answer. I can’t. Maybe he takes my non-answer as me considering it. At any rate, he reaches out to me and before I can think, I find myself being hugged and I remember what it used to feel like to be held close by him. So I let him hold me. For a short time. And I feel like I’ve come home. But then I come to my senses as his phone beeps.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ he says. ‘Sorry. Let’s catch up very soon.’ And he ruffles my hair. Actually ruffles my hair, so I’m glad when Luther growls at him.

  MUCH LATER, AFTER the girls are back from school and we’ve had tea and updated the guest list, I realise I could have invited Nathan to the barn dance. But I’m glad I didn’t. If Ruby really wants him to come, she’ll have to phone him or visit the big house. I want nothing of it.

  SATURDAY DAWNS MILD and dry. A clear winter sky, a rare one with a low sun. We might even get through this barn dance without hypothermia – if we wrap up warm and keep moving.

  Ruby comes into my room first thing, bringing me a cup of tea and climbing into bed with me.

  ‘Happy birthday, love.’ I give her cheek a kiss. It’s cold. ‘Do you want to open your presents?’ I reach down to the floor and pick up a pile of gifts. All tied with ribbon and bows, the way she likes it.

  ‘Let’s wait for Scarlet,’ she says. ‘She’s coming in a sec.’

  And in Scarlet staggers, her hair like an explosion, dark half-moons under her eyes. ‘Happy birthday, Rube.’ She yawns and lobs a small package onto the bed, before clambering under the covers on the other side of me.

  Ruby unwraps her presents. Like me, she takes extreme care doing this, peeling back the Sellotape and gently unfolding the paper, taking her time. Scarlet and Rob always rip it off, desperate to see what’s within. In this respect, at least, it’s like parent, like daughter.

  Scarlet has given her some joss sticks and an incense burner.

  ‘Don’t let your grandfather see that,’ I warn them. ‘You know how he is about fire. If he gets a hint of a match, he’ll be paranoid about the house burning down.’

  ‘Why does he get so worried?’ Scarlet asks.

  ‘The thatch. He remembers a bad fire at home when he was a kid. Their house on Dartmoor. They lost everything.’

  ‘How sad,’ Ruby says.

  I nod in agreement. ‘The irony being that they’d lived through the Blitz in Exeter and then once his dad was demobbed, they moved out to Dartmoor for some peace and quiet and a new life. A chimney fire caught the thatch and the house burnt to the ground.’

  Silence while we contemplate the enormity of this for poor old Des and his war-weary family. Now would be a good time for another lecture on the evils and dangers of smoking but it’s Ruby’s birthday so I’ll leave that for later.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll be super careful,’ Ruby says angelically and sympathetically. ‘Plus Granddad has no sense of smell so he’ll never know.’ She sniffs the incense packet. ‘Ooh, jasmine. Thanks, Scarlet. This is lush.’

  ‘Glad you like it,’ Scarlet says. ‘Now open the rest. I can’t hang around all day. I’m off hiking in a bit.’ She yawns again, barely fit to scramble back to bed, let alone walk in the cold for miles. She really has caught the rambling bug. ‘And don’t panic, Chrissie. I’ll be back in time to help get ready for tonight.’

  ‘I’m not panicking.’

  They both laugh at me.

  Ruby opens my stash and is very pleased with her perfume, pyjamas, and a silver chain with a cute little ruby set in a heart.

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ she says, damp-eyed, throwing her arms around me, which is all the thanks I need.

  Before I get the chance to weep, we’re called down by Eve who’s made a feast of a breakfast for us all, and we sit together in relative harmony while more presents are opened. The socks knitted by Eve go straight onto Ruby’s feet. And then there’s the most beautiful painting from Des.

  ‘Did you really do that for me, Granddad?’ Ruby asks, amazed.

  ‘It’s the view from your bedroom window,’ he says.

  ‘I’d know that view anywhere.’ She smiles at him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You won’t always live here,’ he says. ‘But if you have that view then you’ll always return.’

  At this point Ruby becomes a bit tearful but then a phone call cheers her up. Rob hasn’t forgotten her.

  WE’RE NEARLY READY for the party. Fruit punch has been made. Birthday cake iced. A plethora of baked potatoes are warming in the Aga and a huge pot of veggie chilli simmers on the hob.

  The barn’s been decorated with balloons and streamers and there are hay bales aplenty. Now the band are setting up and we’re just about to head out there before the teenagers arrive when Ingrid phones, demanding her granddaughter’s immediate attention.

  ‘Hello, Granny,’ Ruby says, a little impatient and fidgety but trying hard to be polite. She moves away from us, out of our earshot, to hear her better.

  I imagine Ingrid telling Ruby she’s transferred some money into her bank account, which is what she always does at birthday time.

  But she has clearly dropped a bombshell instead; I see it explode in the expression of horror on my daughter’s face.

  Once Ruby has freed herself from the phone, she tells us what her grandmother said. ‘Granny’s going to be on her own for Christmas!’

  Normally, Ingrid has Christmas dinner at the house of her sister and brother-in-law, who don’t ‘do’ children, which is how we’ve always got away without spending the actual day with her. But it seems they’re off on a cruise this year.

  ‘I asked if there was anyone from church who might invite her round for lunch but she said she couldn’t possibly impose on a family at Christmas time.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ I’m not in the least surprised no one’s offered to take her on. Who on earth would put themselves out for a grumpy, self-righteous old battleaxe like Ingrid?

  ‘Poor Granny,’ Ruby says.

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ I try to look suitably sad. ‘Poor Granny.’

  No time to dwell on it now, as I need to rally the troops and get this party started.

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, and the party is well and truly started. The band is playing, Malcolm is calling, and nearly everyone is dancing. Des hands me a flute of sparkling white made from the grapes of Chudston vineyard. It’s rather delicious, reminiscent of rhubarb crumble and English roses. Not champagne. But something just as quaffable. Something altogether more British and un-continental.

  ‘This bottle of fizzy delight only cost me £20, with mates’ rates.’ He takes a sip, his head flung far back as his nose is too big for the glass. ‘Worth every penny.’ And another sip. ‘This country is rather good at sparkling wine. We have the right soils with the right acidity and with long-ripening grapes.’ And another sip, draining the glass. ‘A fresh yet elegant taste.’ He gives a satisfied sigh followed by a full-throttled belch before going for the refill. ‘Bottoms up, my dear girl.’ He downs this second glass then puts his arm around my waist. ‘Come and have a dance. It’s about time you let your hair down.’

  THE CHUD VALLEY Stompers are well into their stride. Malcolm, it turns out, is a spectacular caller. Loud and clear. Funny and charming. He is also on his best behaviour. In fact, he goes above and beyond. He quickly puts us at our ease and soon we’re all flinging ourselves around the dance floor. Reels and squares. Circles and couples. Dips and spin-outs. Casting off and promenading. Do-si-dos and figures of eight.

  Ruby’s well into it, dancing alongside Barney and their fellow band members. Maybe Ruby too is finding her tribe.

  I smile, think back to the day we brought her home from the hospital, Nathan cracking open the champers and some elderflower fizz for me, making me feel special. Like we had something to celebrate. Which we did, our Ruby. But
then there came the disturbed nights, the breastfeeding. I couldn’t so much as sniff a wine gum without feeling paranoia. The other mothers in my group all seemed so much more laid-back than me. Less panicky about routines. Maybe I was over the top. Maybe I did push Nathan away. Three years later, it had all gone wrong and he left. New Zealand. As far away as he could possibly go.

  Now, as if the memories have conjured him up, the man himself arrives with an armful of presents for the birthday girl. I watch her smiling at him. Happy. A look I haven’t seen in a long time, and I wonder what all this means.

  Scarlet watches as Ruby opens her presents, one for each birthday he’s missed. Ten in all. This includes a Pandora charm bracelet with sixteen charms.

  ‘Thanks, Nathan,’ Ruby says, trying not to smile too much, a little overwhelmed.

  And then I catch sight of Scarlet’s face. Like thunder. Trouble ahead, I suspect.

  Next time I check, she’s disappeared with her friends. Probably smoking or maybe drinking illicit cider and I feel jealous for a second that I’m not that age again when everything was either brilliant or hideous.

  WE ARE HURTLING towards Christmas, so today is all about emergency planning and action. This is the first time since I was a teenager that I’ll have spent the whole Christmas season at Home Farm. And the first Christmas spent without Rob in a long time. I want to make it as good as possible.

  Not long before evening draws in at only half past three, Scarlet returns fresh-faced from another of her rambles, and she and Ruby set about decorating the tree I bought today from the forest park a few miles up the road. It is now standing upright in its very own copper coal scuttle, thanks to Des, in the large bay window of the sitting room, its lights reflecting in the old dimpled glass.

  The girls unpack the boxes of tinsel, the biscuit tins of tissue-wrapped glass baubles, and the shoeboxes of plastic elves and glittery snowmen, nostalgia for their childhood illuminating their faces. Each item brings back a memory, reminds us of Christmases past – decorations school-made by infant hands, treasures found in charity shops, souvenirs brought back from distant lands. The Delft china bell. The red-and-white moose from the Rockies. The Nativity from Bethlehem. Would Rob think to bring us something back from Africa for next year’s tree? I shut my eyes and try to visualize this. A Masai beaded star. An Egyptian cat. A banana-leaf manger.

  But I can’t. Not now. He’s too far away, in every sense. Besides, we have to be at church in an hour for choir practice and, in the meantime, Barney has magically appeared in the house with his trombone like a heralding angel.

  ‘Nice tree,’ he says, which is high praise indeed from this boy of few words.

  Eve has followed him in and she too compliments the tree. ‘Don’t forget the star,’ she adds before rummaging around in one of the boxes and holding up the wonky, tinselly, pipe-cleaner excuse for the holy star which has always gone on top of the tree. ‘Who’s going to do the honours?’

  ‘You do it, Ruby,’ says Scarlet.

  ‘But I’m not tall enough,’ Ruby says.

  ‘Jump on my back.’ Scarlet turns around, gets down on her knees and after just a moment’s hesitation Ruby climbs on. Very carefully, Scarlet stands up and makes her wobbly way closer to the tree. With her arm outstretched, Ruby reaches the top branch and attaches the star, and Scarlet releases her. They stand back and admire their efforts. It’s hard not to think of this as Rob’s job but, to be honest, the girls have done it pretty damn well all by themselves.

  Eve claps her hands in delight, then takes Barney, Ruby and Scarlet off to the kitchen to fill them up with crumpets and tea, with me following behind. For such a small young man, Barney can’t half pack away the carbs.

  ‘These are the best crumpets I’ve ever had,’ he says.

  Which makes Eve smile. And I wonder what on earth Jackie does to her crumpets.

  REHEARSAL TIME AT St Mary Magdalene, an un-fancy Norman church with a rustic vibe. The walls are whitewashed, adorned with only a few of the standard brass and marble plaques; honours to former estate owners, a roll call of the war dead. The pews are plain and sturdy and there’s a baptismal font at the front, though goodness knows when a baby was last christened here. Then there’s a simple wooden pulpit. A brass eagled lectern with an old leather Bible opened to the last reading. The board with the last hymn numbers to be sung. And up three steps, an altar laid with a white cloth, a pair of brass candlesticks and a cross.

  I remember from my childhood the way that on a bright day light cascades through the beautiful stained-glass windows, illuminating the shepherds, lambs and green pastures. Tonight it is black outside. But within these stone walls, the church is breathtaking. Candles bathe the scene in a heavenly glow. The choristers sit beatifically in the stalls while musicians file into the north and south transepts. Two harps sit one either side of the crossing. One is Malcolm’s thirty-six-string Celtic harp, the other Ruby’s pedal harp. I feel a flutter of hopeless nerves on her behalf.

  We’re the first to arrive, followed in dribs and drabs by more band members, and then a sudden influx of young people, parents and instruments in tow. Flutes, clarinets, saxophones. Violins and cellos. A drum kit. A keyboard.

  I watch on as Malcolm helps Ruby tune up and, after everyone is brought to a hush and parents have been dismissed by the scary-looking conductor and choir mistress, there’s a flutter of music sheets and coughing and before we know it we’re outside in the drizzle.

  As parents from further afield drift back to their cars, I head towards home, but the lychgate with its twinkly coloured lights stops me in my tracks, a festive spirit taking over, and I invite everyone back for a drink. Not one person declines the offer, and so we all huddle together against the weather, walking along the lane and into the yard of Home Farm.

  Inside, in the cosy kitchen with its smell of cinnamon and nutmeg, a pan of mulled wine is brewing on the Aga. Eve and Des, in their absolute element, welcome the community into their home. They both fuss about, relieving guests of their coats and scarves, then dishing out booze, coffee and nibbles.

  I sit on the window seat and look out over the shadows in the yard, thinking back to last year’s carol concert in London – a very different affair, in the girls’ school hall. Rob, Scarlet and I watched Ruby plucking her strings with gusto through twelve carols and then we went for pizza in Blackheath. Scarlet was in a mood because after the concert, while we were having mulled wine and mince pies in the school cafeteria, she’d had an argument with her geography teacher over the tax on sanitary products. By the time we got to the restaurant and ordered our food, Ruby was exhausted and practically falling asleep over her quattro formaggio.

  Back in the sitting room now, everyone’s relaxed, chatting, milling about. Des offers a guided tour of the studio for some while Eve takes a group out to the barn to talk about our future plans for the winery. Our guests are entranced by the idea of an artist at large, and even more so by the vineyard, standing dormant on the hill behind us, waiting until spring to spurt back into life.

  It’s almost time to return to church to collect the musicians. I’m putting on my coat in preparation when I feel my phone vibrate. I excuse myself and retreat into the understairs cupboard. Melina’s name is flashing at me.

  ‘Hey, Melina. How’s it going?’

  ‘Is very bad,’ she says. Her voice sounds distant, younger, with a vulnerability I’ve never heard before. ‘Babcia is very sick. She is in hospital. Very good hospital with excellent doctors but she is old and she has pneumonia.’

  I can hear her sniffing so it’s clear she’s been crying. She never cries. Not even when Jason chucked her out back in September. Not so much as a tear or a raised voice. But now.

  ‘I think she must die soon,’ she says. ‘She has give up. She is happy to go. But I am very sad.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ A wave of sympathy washes over me. ‘I wish there was something I could do to help.’

  ‘I must put up a good face for
a bad game,’ she says, enigmatically – one of her Polish phrases that has lost a little in translation.

  ‘Do you have anyone with you?’

  ‘I have Tomasz.’

  ‘Tomasz? Tomasz who was over here?’

  ‘Yes, same Tomasz. He lives close by in Poland but now he stays with us on farm because his bad girlfriend has found another lover for herself and he has no home. He sleeps in our barn which is not like your barn. Is very modern and clean.’

  Melina is not impressed by thatched roofs or cob buildings. She doesn’t appreciate the concept of historical or architectural significance. She’d have everything bulldozed and rebuilt from scratch if necessary. People are more important than buildings, she always says. And though she has a point, I think I’d still rather have such beauties as St Mary Magdalene.

  ‘I must go,’ she says suddenly – and that’s it, she’s gone. Back to her grandmother’s bedside. Maybe her last vigil. Maybe next All Saints’ Night she will be lighting a candle for Babcia.

  I sit in the cupboard for a while, thinking of this old woman who I have never met and never will meet now, but am somehow brought close to thanks to her granddaughter. I listen to the voices and footsteps of the guests on the other side of the door; they must be gathering to walk back to the church to collect their offspring and drive them home. I sigh. I just need five minutes’ peace for contemplation. I only wish there was some wine left, which is something I never thought I’d think about Eve and Des’s vintage.

  Then I hear another voice, loud and booming, calling my name.

  Bloody Nathan.

  LAST TIME I saw him alone, in the farm kitchen before Ruby’s party, I was being held in those toned arms of his before we were saved by his phone and his sudden departure.

  ‘Chrissie!’ he shouts now. ‘Chrissie! Where are you?’