The West Country Winery

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘Oh, Melina. I’m so sorry,’ I tell her, knowing words are useless but having to say something. I feel such sadness for her.

  ‘We do not keep calm and carry on,’ Melina continues. ‘It is not our culture to smile and tell jokes of the dead.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, not quite sure where this is going but knowing she just needs me to listen.

  ‘Babcia, she downstairs in coffin. We cover mirrors and stop clocks. Her gromnica candle will light her way to afterlife. We pray – all of us – say rosary around her. Is very sad, Chrissie, very sad.’

  I hear her choke back tears and my heart aches for her.

  ‘In three days we bury her,’ she continues, between sniffs. ‘Next to my grandfather. He is waiting very long time for her.’

  ‘Oh, Melina. Have you got help with all this?’ I ask her, as if she’s planning a corporate awayday, not a final farewell to the most important person in her life.

  ‘My uncle is not very good at help but my aunt is excellent and strong. And I have Tomasz.’

  ‘Tomasz?’

  ‘Yes. Tomasz is still here,’ she says, a gentleness to her voice as she speaks his name.

  Before I have a chance to think about Tomasz and how important a person he seems to be in Melina’s life, she asks: ‘And what about Nathan? Is he still sniffing you?’

  ‘Sniffing me?’

  ‘Around you?’

  ‘Oh. Nathan. No. He’s been sniffing someone else.’ I tell her about the appearance of the blue-eyed Charlotte.

  ‘She should stuff herself with hay,’ Melina quips.

  I have no idea what this means though it sounds rather violent so I don’t pursue it.

  And as I listen to her talk, about her home, her grandmother, her extended family, I feel my heart melt for Melina. And I remind myself to give Eve and Des an extra hug before this day is out. Our loved ones are precious.

  ‘We shall raise a glass to your babcia tonight.’

  ‘Thank you, Chrissie.’

  THIS DAY IS far from over. Once the kitchen is cleared up, we retire to the sitting room to lounge by the fire and open more presents.

  Des pushes in the drinks trolley where there is a veritable cornucopia of bottles and shakers on display. ‘Anyone for a snowball and gin?’

  I have no idea where Des gets his cocktail recipes from or whether he just pulls them out of his brain, but they invariably work out just fine. Lethal, but fine. Though I’m giving the ‘Home Farmarama’ a miss as it’ll knock me out cold till Epiphany. I’m more than happy with a glass of wine.

  While I have a sip of warming Merlot, I make a silent toast to Babcia – silent because I don’t want to spoil the day any more than it already has been by passing on this sad news. That can wait till tomorrow. Meanwhile, I just need to get through the next couple of hours and then I can tell myself I’ve survived a Christmas without Rob, if not a Christmas without drama.

  ‘Please can I have a snowball and gin?’ Ruby asks her grandfather innocently.

  ‘And me?’ Scarlet adds, not wanting to miss out.

  The pair of them sit on cushions by the log burner, their new gifts spread around them – fluffy socks and fancy stationery and sparkly bracelets – and it’s so nice seeing them content and getting on with each other that I nearly agree.

  But I’m forgetting the voice of the authoritarian in the corner. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Ingrid says. ‘I didn’t have my first sip of alcohol until I was twenty-one.’

  The irony of watching their party-pooper grandmother slug back a glass of Home Farmarama does not go unnoticed by Scarlet or Ruby. Nor does the surreptitious wink from Granddad Des, which puts a smile back on their faces. They can always rely on him to break the rules.

  Oh, give me strength.

  I WAKE UP with a hopefulness in my heart because the girls and I have made it to the last day of December and Rob’s return ‘next year’ suddenly doesn’t seem so far off. I can’t help my feeling of doubt about this, though. Doubt in Rob? In me? Or in us? I’m not sure which.

  I also have an anxious feeling gurgling away in my stomach. Tonight we have been invited up to the big house for drinks.

  ‘I wondered if you’d all like to come over on New Year’s Eve?’ Nathan had asked me when he returned to Home Farm on Boxing Day to apologize for the showdown the day before. ‘Charlotte’s invited some of her London crowd here for a party,’ he explained, looking sheepish.

  ‘So are you two back together?’

  ‘No, we most certainly are not back together.’

  ‘So why is she bringing her friends? And why would I want to go?’

  ‘I thought it might be nice. I thought it might help atone for the mess on Christmas Day.’

  ‘But Charlotte?’

  ‘I know, I know.’ He sighed, cross with himself. ‘It was all over long ago but I still feel some responsibility for her.’

  ‘It’s clearly not over for her.’

  He shook his head, not a no, but a gesture of helplessness. ‘I just feel sorry for her.’

  ‘You feel sorry for her?’

  ‘It’s stupid, I know. Look, I shouldn’t have asked.’

  I hesitated. Maybe a party would be good. Might be preferable to staying in with Ingrid. But still. Charlotte?

  As he turned to leave, I thought of Ingrid, the way she judged me all those years ago without knowing me, and sighed, and agreed to go to the party – not wanting to be like my mother-in-law. Not wanting to judge. After all, I thought, if Ruby wants to get to know Nathan, despite what he says, Charlotte could well be part of the package.

  I’d do it for Ruby.

  SO IT’S DECIDED. At seven o’clock on New Year’s Eve we all head next door in our semi-glad rags, which means me in a corduroy dress that’s supposed to be vintage but just looks second-hand. Des drives Eve and Ingrid while Declan, Scarlet, Ruby and I walk. We will stay for a couple of hours, sample the good bits of the evening like the bubbly and canapés, the buffet and the band, but leave before it gets too boozy.

  The air is fresh but still and after a few minutes we warm up and stop complaining about the cold. It’s actually a relief to be away from Ingrid for a while and just be with my daughters and dear Declan, who they adore.

  After a while, as we turn into the entrance to the Chudston Estate and begin the hike up the driveway, the girls steam on ahead, deep in conversation. It’s so lovely to see them communicating with each other in words rather than grunts and complaints.

  ‘What are they in cahoots about?’ Declan asks.

  ‘I don’t know and I’m not going to pry. I’m just happy they’re not getting steamed up in each other’s company.’

  Though when I catch the name ‘Nathan’, my heart freezes for a moment. Maybe Scarlet is quizzing Ruby over him, or Ruby defending him? Maybe I’m overthinking this? Maybe I should stop fretting and be grateful they’re not tearing each other’s hair out.

  THE FIRST PERSON we meet at the grand front door, welcoming us in as if she owns the place, is Charlotte. Bloody Charlotte. I give her the once-over, which she reciprocates. She is attractive, yes, but close up I can tell she has had Botox. And lip-fillers. And possibly teeth veneers. And definitely eyebrow tattoos.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ she says, all cheery though her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, possibly because her face can’t actually move. ‘I’m Charlotte. Who have we here, then?’ As if she’s never met any of us, when she knows damn well she barged into our kitchen during Christmas lunch. When she knows damn well she ripped my family apart once upon a time. Has she whitewashed that from memory?

  Politeness takes hold and we introduce ourselves all round before Charlotte makes sure we each have a drink and our coats are taken care of. Then she disappears into the throng in the grand hall, other partygoers spilling out into the rooms offstage.

  I have to admit the hall does looks fabulous. A humongous tree dotted with hundreds of fairy lights, and decked out with glittering chandelier-like glas
s droplets, takes pride of place at the foot of the magnificent staircase, the banisters of which are adorned with woodland garlands. A fire blazes in the huge stone fireplace, its mantelpiece swathed with greenery. A handful of smartly dressed waitresses move effortlessly, silver trays brimming with Buck’s Fizz and mulled wine. Scarlet actually stands with her mouth open in awe. ‘I never knew it would be as fancy as this inside,’ she whispers eventually, once her sister has poked her in the arm.

  They disappear soon after, the girls upstairs, Declan hunting down the bar, and I’m suddenly Billy No Mates, so I do the only thing to be done – start enjoying.

  BY NINE O’CLOCK, I have eaten my way through mini sandwiches, cocktail sausages, an assortment of cheeses and a sea of smoked salmon. I have mingled. Chatted. Made small talk. And now I’m knackered and wanting to go home, though my feet are aching at the prospect of the hike back. But just as I’m thinking about finding the others to see if they’re ready to leave – which I know is a long shot as there’s still so much free food and wine – in walks a familiar person.

  ‘Chrissie! What the hell are you wearing?’ she exclaims, taking in my shabby-chic appearance.

  ‘Hello, Jackie. You look nice too.’

  She snorts in derision.

  ‘I’ve seen that son of yours somewhere with my daughter,’ I tell her, sweetly, calmly, her jagged edges smoothed by my wine-induced fuzziness.

  ‘Which one?’ she asks.

  ‘Ruby.’

  ‘I mean which son?’

  ‘Is there another one here?’

  ‘There should be at least two of them here. And a couple of daughters. I’d better round them up to check they’re all still alive but quite frankly I need a drink. What are you having?’ She nods at my glass. ‘As if I didn’t know. Sampling the opposition?’

  ‘The opposition?’

  ‘Champagne, of course. Still planning on making sparkling wine? Are you off your trolley?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘It’ll never work.’

  ‘Have you ever tried English sparkling wine?’

  ‘No, I jolly well haven’t,’ she says, as if I’ve asked if she’s ever licked an elephant’s bottom.

  Nathan joins us and hails a waitress the way he hails cabs.

  Such a show-off, I think.

  Catching her eye, the waitress weaves in and out of the party people until she’s standing smiling at Jackie, proffering a tray filled with flutes of champagne.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Jackie says. She takes one. Then she takes another one in the other hand. ‘For your mother,’ she says to me.

  But before she hightails it, Nathan stops her.

  ‘Guess where this wine’s from, Jackie?’

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s from England.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘I thought not. Spain?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Italy then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘New Zealand? South Africa? America?’

  ‘No, no and no.’

  ‘Where, then?’

  ‘Wales.’

  ‘Wales?’

  ‘Yes. Wales.’

  She sniffs it, the wine. Puts the glass to her lips and tilts her head back. Takes a sip. Then another. ‘Iechyd da,’ she says.

  I’m not sure if she’s swearing at Nathan but I don’t get the chance to ask because there’s a sudden rumpus in the middle of the ballroom nearby. We all turn to look at Declan, who’s been holding court with a group of WI members. He’s just let out a piercing scream of joy and is currently staring adoringly at a tall dark-haired stranger, who looks as though he has just come in from the cold.

  It seems that Mark, ‘the only man that I have ever genuinely loved’, as Declan told me, has decided to visit.

  ‘HOW ON EARTH did you find me?’ Declan asks Mark a few minutes later, once we’ve moved away from the main crowd and are sitting in the great hall by the fireplace, with Ruby and Scarlet, too.

  ‘I got a cab to Home Farm and was told you’d be here,’ Mark says. He looks around him in awe. ‘I didn’t realize you were keeping such high society.’

  Declan shrugs, like this is the sort of place where he always hangs out. ‘Who told you that?’ he asks. ‘We’re all here, everyone from Home Farm, so it wasn’t one of us.’

  ‘An old bloke was driving past,’ Mark says. ‘He stopped me as I was getting out of the cab. Said I’d find no one at your place as you were all up at “the big house”.’

  ‘Weird,’ Declan says. ‘Who could that be?’

  ‘He was a bit weird,’ Mark says. ‘Eccentric-looking. Funny smell, like he’d been rolling in cow pats.’

  ‘Malcolm,’ the four of us say in unison.

  Ruby explains who Malcolm is. Mark is impressed she can play the harp. He can play the piano. They talk music. A foreign language.

  ‘And who is that?’ Mark has stopped thinking about treble clefs and nods at Nathan, who has just walked in.

  He still scrubs up well, I’ll give him that. A crisp white shirt and faded jeans. He’s giving the locals his I’m-the-down-to-earth-lord-of-the-manor act, doling out more booze like there’s no tomorrow. Which there probably will be. With headaches.

  ‘Where to begin...’ I say.

  Declan sits back and pretends to eat popcorn. ‘Now this is a story,’ he whispers loudly to Mark, nudging him in the ribs.

  By the time we’ve brought Mark up to speed, Nathan has made his way over to us and is introducing himself.

  He ruffles Ruby’s hair. ‘Happy New Year, Ruby,’ he says. ‘Here’s to exciting adventures in 2019.’

  He squeezes his arms around her shoulders and I don’t fail to see a look of pride and longing and whatever else this man I used to know so well is feeling right now. He probably doesn’t even know himself. I’m sure I don’t. How must Ruby feel? I mean, really feel? It’s hard enough for young people to untangle their emotions, let alone in this situation. The squire with his heir. And what about Scarlet?

  And then, as if he can read my mind, Nathan says: ‘Happy New Year to you all. May we have a great year ahead getting to know each other.’ He raises his glass.

  Ruby is smiling at him with genuine admiration. I feel that pebble in my stomach again. It’s really quite uncomfortable despite the possibility this could be a good thing, Ruby forging a relationship with her birth father, especially as Rob is away for so long.

  Rob. Will he ever return? And do I truly want him to?

  Pushing my doubts aside, I go in search of my parents to see if they’ve had enough carousing for this year. I presume not. I’m sure they’ll want to stay put for the chimes and the ‘Auld Lang Syne’s, but I’m heading home. I’m done in. I don’t have the energy to deal with all these people. I might be good at organizing events but I’m rubbish at being a guest at them, especially when they’re filled with snooty, husband-stealing types like Charlotte.

  Time to go.

  I make my excuses to Nathan and head off to search for Eve and Des, eventually finding them in the library. With Jackie. And a bottle of home brew.

  ‘Blackberry wine,’ Des says, answering a question I haven’t even asked. ‘Not a bad little tipple.’ He holds up the glass. The muted lighting makes the purple liquid gleam like amethyst. He’s lost for a moment, then notices I’ve got my coat on. ‘Are you off, honeybun?’

  ‘We are.’ Oddly to me, the girls haven’t made a fuss about leaving early; as far as adults go, Declan and Mark are highly entertaining and so they’re happy to see the new year in with them. So we’re leaving en masse. ‘Have you seen Ingrid?’ I ask my parents, as a guilty afterthought.

  ‘She was with Major Carter,’ Eve says. ‘They were dancing to T. Rex.’

  ‘Ingrid was dancing with Major Carter to T. Rex?’

  ‘Don’t look so horrified, Christabel,’ she says. ‘Us old people like to let our hair down from time to time, too.’

  ‘But Ingrid?’

  Eve knoc
ks back the rest of her wine, suppressing a smile.

  Then Jackie, slightly the worse for wear, her lips stained blue, pipes up. ‘Can you take Barney with you? And possibly Morley? They get on with your girls, apparently – and don’t worry about shenanigans. They’re good boys. I’ll pick them up tomorrow. Probably not early. Let’s say midday. Ish.’ She hiccups, then starts belting out ‘Solid Gold Easy Action’ in a very good approximation of Marc Bolan.

  Much as I want to stand and stare, I do as I’m told and hunt everyone down so there’s quite a crowd of us leaving – just in the nick of time, judging by the noise level; I sense a party on the edge of degeneracy.

  Outside, light from the windows tumbles onto the gravel, and there’s a cold, sharp chill in the still air. January is on its way.

  I pull my coat around me and put my head down, the others chatting and shivering, fumbling with buttons and zips, pulling on gloves. We’re a few yards from the fountain where Charlotte and a friend of hers are sitting on the wall, smoking. They’re drunk. Possibly worse. Rowdy and vulgar, the way only the London rich can manage. Scarlet hurls scornful looks their way so I try to herd the young people past them, quick-sharp.

  ‘You off?’ Charlotte calls out. She might sound chummy and friendly but I can see right through her. ‘You’ll miss the fireworks.’

  ‘Fireworks?’ Scarlet says, shooting daggers with her glare. ‘Our dog hates fireworks.’ She turns her back and strides off, muttering under her breath, but I can hear the words ‘selfish pigs’ clearly enough.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, love – poor old Luther,’ I tell Scarlet once I’ve caught up with her. And Morley, who is shadowing her closely. ‘Des won’t be happy with fireworks either.’

  ‘Nor am I,’ Scarlet says grimly.

  ‘I can see that. We’ll sit with Luther in the living room, curtains drawn and fire lit. He’ll be OK.’

  Ruby and Barney are skipping along ahead of us like kids, chucking twigs at each other and singing songs, oblivious to the class war going on in front of their eyes. I’m so relieved they’ve found each other and I reckon any ‘shenanigans’ between them seem unlikely – or would be pretty innocent, anyway, maybe just the odd sip of illicit cider. Morley and Scarlet, on the other hand, are a tad close for comfort, talking intently, intensely, but too quietly for me to catch a word. I shall have to keep an eye. I don’t believe for one minute Jackie’s insistence that he’s ‘a good boy’ when it comes to sex; Jackie’s clearly deluded – he’s a sixteen-year-old lad, for goodness’ sake! Entranced by a beautiful, intelligent young woman, for whom I’m responsible. To whom I am stepmother and in loco parentis.