‘We left an aniseed trail,’ she says.
‘Aniseed?’
‘Yeah, aniseed essential oil mixed with white spirit and sprayed with one of Des’s water things. Pheasants will follow an aniseed trail and then stay put if you’ve left enough food.’
‘Where did you get it from?
‘What?’
‘The aniseed oil.’
‘Nana Eve.’
‘Nana Eve knew about this?’
‘No,’ Ruby says, sticking up for her grandmother. ‘She gave it to Scarlet for a cough.’
‘Scarlet doesn’t have a cough.’
‘I know.’
I go over this in my head, taking out the plaits from Ruby’s hair and brushing away the mud as I do.
‘But why were you there today, if you’d already moved the feeders overnight?’
‘Scarlet was worried that wouldn’t be enough to shut down the shoot. So we went next door and...’
‘And...?’
‘Waited for the beaters and shooters to get in position... and then… and then… we...’ She trails off.
‘Then you what, Ruby? Tell me. You didn’t...’
‘We stood in front of the shooters to stop them.’
Before I can respond, we hear shouting coming from the kitchen: Scarlet’s gruff voice and a much lower booming one. We rush back to see what the commotion is all about – though I’m pretty sure I can guess.
Nathan. In the kitchen. Pacing up and down. Ranting.
‘I knew something like this was going to happen,’ he’s saying, running his hands through his hair like he’s going to tear it out. ‘I’ve been patrolling the boundary walls of the estate for weeks. Most evenings. I’ve never caught anyone, seen anyone – until that day you were there, Scarlet. You and your mates.’
He doesn’t seem to notice my appearance, or Ruby’s for that matter. He’s too busy fuming at Scarlet, who is pointedly looking out of the window, twitching her leg, that nervous habit of hers reserved for times when she is trying desperately not to go off on one.
‘I innocently thought you were just walking,’ he goes on, his voice quieter now. ‘I should’ve known you were up to no good.’
That’s it now. I’m not having this. ‘No good? Have you seen her face?’ I jump in.
‘Yes, I’ve seen her face. Things got out of hand. That’s why I’m here. To check she’s OK. To give the pair of them a rollicking. They could’ve been shot!’
‘And where are the police now? Why didn’t they do anything?’ I ask.
‘They left pretty quickly. It’s the last shoot of the season and so they’re hoping tensions will die down naturally.’
‘Probably given a brace of pheasants for their trouble,’ Scarlet mutters.
Eve puts her hand on Scarlet’s arm.
‘Well, I’ve a good mind to talk to them about an assault on a minor!’ I’m livid. ‘A grown man threw a stone at her.’
‘I don’t think he meant it to actually hit her. He was just upset,’ Ruby says, suddenly an arbitrator.
‘Upset? I’ll give him upset.’
‘Not a good idea, Christabel.’ Eve is the picture of serenity. Her complexion glows. Her hair shines. She could have a hippy halo above her and I wouldn’t be surprised. But she’s a tough one and you ignore her at your peril. ‘Scarlet and Ruby could get in trouble. They were trespassing, after all.’
I point at Ruby. ‘It’s her father’s property.’
There. I’ve said it before I knew I even had those words in that order in my brain.
Her father.
Everything in the room slows down, almost stops for a little while. The words hang heavy, heard by everyone, felt by everyone, and I can’t take them back. I can’t make them be unheard, or unfelt.
Her father.
Rob’s her father.
But Rob’s not here.
And Nathan is.
Right. Yet again I’m going to have to deal with this single-handedly. I’ve got to halt this extreme behaviour. Who knows where it could have led? I could be phoning Rob to tell him that Scarlet is badly injured. Or in custody. And what’s next in store? Building tree houses? Digging tunnels? Gluing her hands to the windows of governmental buildings? Who knows what she’ll get up to in the next few months?
‘That’s it,’ I tell Scarlet. ‘I’m calling your father. It’s time he came back.’
But when I do, an unfamiliar voice answers the phone.
Spring
THREE MONTHS HAVE passed since I asked my husband to come home. Three more months without him while he’s been lying in a hospital bed in Nairobi recovering from malaria. Though we’ve had more contact with him in recent weeks, since he’s been feeling better. It turns out his biggest struggle over the time he’s been away hasn’t been the malaria, the flies, the corrugated roads, the relentless heat. It wasn’t even the face-off with that bull elephant. It was missing his daughters. Both Scarlet and Ruby.
‘And I miss you, Chrissie,’ he said.
So I told him I missed him too.
‘Come to Cairo,’ he said. ‘I’ve only got Ethiopia and Sudan to get through before I’m in Egypt. Then, depending on recovery and fitness, we thought we’d come home via Europe.’
‘Europe? But didn’t you book a return flight from Egypt?’
‘No. I wasn’t sure how far I’d make it, to be honest. I’ve surprised myself. Most people complete the ride in a few months and it’s taken me much longer. I’ve slowed down and stopped and stared. I’ve learnt to accept that life’s about the journey—’
‘Not the destination.’
‘Exactly.’
A bit like wine. We’re on a journey. Though obviously I’m looking forward to the day when we taste our first bottle of Home Farm Fizz.
In the meantime I’ll have to make do with whatever Bargain Booze has on offer.
A WEEK SINCE Easter. The chocolate eggs are long gone and thankfully we were spared a visitation from Ingrid because her sister and brother-in-law, a.k.a. the Child Catchers, insisted she spend it with them so they could show her the PowerPoint from the cruise they went on at Christmas. Mark and Declan have not been back either, their lives full-on with work and each other, but they want to come down for a weekend soon. So it’s just been us: Eve, Des, Melina, the girls and me.
As for the vineyard, it looks totally different now it’s spring. A few weeks ago, the sap rose up from the roots and tears appeared on the exposed wood of the vines where they’d been pruned. Now, with the brighter days and warmer temperatures, the vine buds have swollen and burst out of their protective husks, producing new shoots. Budburst has arrived. Everywhere you look, there are tiny fluffy leaves unfurling on the vines, bringing life and colour to the hill at Home Farm, giving us an idea as to the critical dates of flowering and harvest.
But there is a huge potential problem – something that every vineyard owner dreads. Right now the vines are at their most vulnerable. Eve’s always said, ‘Beware the blackthorn winter’ – when the hedgerows are awash with (confusingly) white blackthorn blossom in springtime, the ground can still be whitened with frost, and a late frost can devastate the vines. She calls it the ‘witch-tree’, and she should know. Not that I’m calling her a witch; she just understands the country ways. Though she has been known to weave a few protection spells and use incantations in time of need.
We are on frost watch as a result, Des and Melina studying the weather forecasts daily, having installed sensors in the vineyard that will alert them if the temperature heads towards the danger zone so they can head out to cover the vines. Melina knows the country ways too, like Eve, plus she has Babcia’s magic tricks up her sleeve. She’s already planted rose bushes at the end of the rows of vines to act as a warning against mildew, because roses show it on their leaves before vines so we can counter-attack with sulphur spray if need be. But more importantly, she has weapons to fight off the dreaded Ice Saints – as rural folk call them – if they attack next month. Th
ere are a couple of days when frost is a real possibility. And frost at budburst can herald disaster.
Budburst is also an opportunity for vineyards to offer up their new wines to try, and although we haven’t reached that stage just yet, we’re saved by a visit from Ruth, bringing with her a few cases of our collaborative bottles.
Eve, Des, Melina and I set to work with her around the kitchen table.
‘Well?’ Ruth asks after we’ve all had a taste, because all we’ve said so far is mmm and wowzer and gosh. ‘Could you be more specific?’
‘The wine is immediately recognizable as being from the local terroir,’ Des says, not a hint of pretentiousness, just worldly wisdom.
‘Eve?’ Ruth turns to my mother, a questioning look on her eager face.
‘It smells of the earth,’ she responds, eyes closed, meditatively. ‘With an underlying mineral taste of stones.’
‘Good,’ Ruth says. ‘I can taste that too.’
‘It is also grassy,’ Melina says. ‘Maybe woodsmoke.’
Ruth claps her hands, excited. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I get that too, Melina.’
‘And zingy,’ I add in triumph. ‘With an apple blossom finish.’
I’m quite proud of my comment, but then I lose confidence and wonder if I’m blagging it. ‘I could be wildly wrong,’ I say, looking uncertainly at Ruth.
‘There’s no such thing as right and wrong, Chrissie,’ she reassures me.
I want to point out my parents’ attempts in previous years, when everyone was right that it was wrong. But this is too confusing.
We’ve drunk (not spat out) quite a bit now.
Des has reached the point of quoting from literature he can only remember when he’s been oiled. ‘“Pour out the wine without restraint or stay”,’ he says in his Richard Burton voice. ‘“Pour not by cups, but by the bellyful”.’ He hiccups, before adding: ‘“Epi-thal-amion”...’ He struggles somewhat with the word, but then who wouldn’t? ‘... 250, by Edmund Spenser,’ he finishes, proud to have remembered his source.
Then it’s Ruth’s turn. Her glasses have gone skew-whiff and flecks of orange lipstick mark her front teeth. ‘“There is not the hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to be. Our foggy climate wants help.” Jane Austen.’
We chink glasses, very pleased with ourselves.
Now it’s Eve. ‘“A good wife who can find it?”’ Whoops of laughter and bawdy comments. ‘“She considers a field and buys it; with the fruit of her hands she plants a vineyard.” Proverbs 31.’
‘Very good, my love.’ Des gives my mother a whopper of a kiss on her lips. ‘What about you, Melina? Do you have a Polish quote about wine?’
Of course she does. Melina has a Polish proverb for every occasion.
‘“Więcej ludzi utonęło w kieliszku niż w morzu”,’ she says. ‘Wine has drowned more than the sea.’
This stops the laughter for a moment but I soon get them going again, even if unintentionally, singing the French champagne line from ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’. ‘Ricky Martin,’ I clarify.
Once they’ve recovered themselves and my blushes have faded a little, Melina says, straight-faced as ever, ‘Stupid song. Champagne is always French.’
Babcia would be proud of her granddaughter’s wisdom, that I know for sure.
BY THE TIME Ruth’s son, who dropped her off earlier, arrives to pick her up, we are all, apart from the girls, sloshed. It turns out that the wine is good. In fact it is very, very good.
I love my life and everyone in it, I think. Even Nathan... How it felt to be in his arms, smooching to ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’ at youth club...
I snap out of my daydreaming, remembering the events of the shoot. But he was remorseful – he’d just been frightened for Scarlet and, since then, he really has tried his best to make amends, promising never to have a shoot on his estate again. And he and Ruby seem finally to be forging some kind of relationship that isn’t based on what presents he can bestow on her. He’s even made progress with Scarlet, paying her to do the social media for the estate and being genuinely appreciative and encouraging of her work.
Meanwhile, Ruby and Barney have been initiated into the Chud Valley Stompers and have had their first gig at a silver wedding anniversary party in the British Legion in Chudston, to great critical acclaim and a shish kebab from Ali Baba’s takeaway – which suggests Ruby’s vegetarianism has definitely been put on hold.
And then there’s Tomasz and his great love for Melina. He visits every evening for supper, welcomed warmly into the bosom of Home Farm – just like Nathan, all those years ago, when we were growing up.
I pause at this realization. Maybe it’s true what they say? That everyone comes into your life for a reason. Though I still need to find one for Ingrid...
And just as I am contemplating the meaning of all this big stuff, my phone goes. It is Rob, calling from Addis Ababa.
‘How are you?’ I ask him, panicking. ‘Are you sure you’re well enough to be cycling through Ethiopia?’
‘I’m OK,’ he says.
And I can’t make out if he actually is OK or is simply putting on a brave face.
‘We’re just going to take it slow and do our best. Though we’ve had a few moments...’ he confesses. ‘The riding’s been a challenge and it’s going to get harder. We somehow got through the lava rock desert back in Kenya, and the herds of cattle and camels. Jeez, talk about a hint of what was to come! But we made it through – even saw ostriches at the Rift Lakes National Park.’
‘And where are you now?’
‘The Sheraton. We just had a buffet breakfast that was as close to heaven as I’ll ever get. Honestly, Chrissie, this city is amazing – it’s surrounded by forests of eucalyptus trees.’
He talks excitedly. Next they will cycle through the Central Ethiopian Plateau and then the Blue Nile Gorge, which he says is supposed to both terrify and amaze. Then on to the Ethiopian Highlands, Lake Tana, the source of the Blue Nile, and then the most difficult trek up to Gondar where there are ancient castles. Then they’ll cross the border and head north through the bread basket of Sudan to Khartoum.
I feel a little excitement on his behalf but it’s so hard to picture him there. Even when I’ve googled and trawled the Internet for information, it’s still too weird to think of him cycling every day. Just cycling. And us here in Devon, getting on with life, with school and work, family and friends. I’ve never felt further apart from my husband than I do right now.
‘And how are things with you?’ he asks.
I note the worry in his voice and the relief when I tell him all has been well since the shooting incident.
‘Have you been reading my blog posts?’ he asks, keen for us to know what he’s going through.
I just have time to reassure him that we check for updates every day, before he loses his connection and so any questions we might have remain unasked and unanswered. There was no mention of me coming to Cairo from either of us.
It is a triumph of human nature, to do what he is doing, but what about the people he’s left behind in order to follow his dream? I’m finding it harder and harder to square the circle in my head.
THIS IS AN important weekend. Declan and Mark have finally come down to visit for a few days. They arrived full of the woes of London and the traffic on the A303, but have gone off this morning with Ruby, Scarlet and Luther for a hike that doesn’t involve animal rights. It’s a joy to see them again. A joy to know that things are working out so well for them. There’s talk of Declan moving in with Mark very soon. They’re spending all their time together as it is, but I know this is a big step for my old friend. And a good one.
We’re also on high alert about the prospect of a late frost – the coming of the Ice Saints Melina warned us about. She calls these days the zimni ogrodnicy – the cold gardeners. The buds are at risk, so we have to do everything humanly possible to stop the frost getting to them.
In days gone by, farmers
and winegrowers burned wet wood, green twigs and soil, the smoke rising to form a thick fog over the valleys. This was supposed to help protect any new growth and blossoms from the frost. Fire and ice don’t like each other.
‘In your country you are more likely to have snow at Easter than Christmas,’ Melina tells me as she and I walk together up and down the rows of vines. ‘Your gardeners and farmers wait till mid-May has passed before planting seedlings. But we cannot do this for vines. They bloom when they bloom and we have to protect them. So we do what they do in old days. We burn green wood and it will hang in valley and keep away frost.’
I can’t fault her logic.
From the top of the vineyard, the valley is spread out before us and the river sparkles in the morning sun. I’m awestruck at this sight. This is our terroir. These are all the ingredients that will make our wine specific to this very location.
‘They use bougies up the road in the winery,’ I tell her, wondering if this might be easier for us.
She gives me a blank stare.
‘They’re paraffin candles which give off enough heat to create air movement so frost pockets can’t form, hopefully.’
‘I know how this works. I am not idiot. But we do not need bougies. I saved vineyard stems from pruning. They are in cow shed. So we use them for fuel. We light stems in bins. Tomasz has gave us bins.’
‘Oh, has he? That’s nice. Very creative.’
‘He takes from Nathan. Nathan does not have the one clue of rubbish he keeps. But some rubbish is very good. We recycle. It’s better, no?’
‘Yes. Much better.’ I have no idea if it’s better or not but I’m happy to go along with Melina. She tends to be right about most things and I trust her implicitly. As do Eve and Des.
We head back down the hill towards the milking parlour so that Melina can show me the stems that we’ll use tonight if the forecast is right with its prediction of sub-zero temperatures.
The West Country Winery Page 23
