A Vintage Summer

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘So you wouldn’t be my employer?’ I said, keeping pace with Godfrey who wasn’t as nimble as Roger. ‘I’m a bit baffled.’

  Godfrey took out a large handkerchief and patted his shiny head. ‘I’m sorry, my dear; it has all been a bit cloak and dagger, but all will become clear shortly. Trust me.’

  ‘But there is definitely a job?’ I narrowed my eyes, wondering if all this was a weird and wonderful wild-goose chase.

  Godfrey hesitated. ‘Roger and I believe so, yes. There’s certainly a need. But the situation is – shall we say – delicate.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, although I didn’t really. Maybe I hadn’t found a solution to my imminent homelessness after all.

  ‘So who does own this place?’ I stopped in my tracks as we reached the open doors of the winery, intent on getting to the bottom of the mystery.

  ‘Watch out for that pothole, dear girl!’ a familiar voice called from the far side of the concrete yard.

  ‘I know exactly where the pothole is,’ tutted a second voice. ‘And if you’re not careful I’ll tip you into it.’

  I whipped round to see the two old ladies I’d met at the doctors’ the day before: Betsy and Marjorie. Betsy as usual pushing the wheelchair and Marjorie shouting directions.

  ‘They do,’ said Godfrey, shaking his head fondly. ‘The two Mrs Butterworths.’

  Chapter 9

  ‘Morning, Pippa,’ said Betsy to me as she drew level, steering the wheelchair expertly through the winery doors.

  ‘Actually, it’s—’ I began, before I felt Godfrey tug on my arm.

  ‘Not yet,’ he murmured.

  Marjorie did a double take and then her eyes lit up. ‘Why hello, dear!’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised, Mar, Pippa spends more time here than you,’ Betsy said, heading towards a hosepipe which lay across the floor.

  ‘Taste this, Marjorie,’ said Roger hastily, thrusting a glass of cloudy-looking wine into her hand as if trying to change the subject.

  Unfortunately, Betsy hadn’t seen Roger coming and so didn’t slow down. She ran straight over the hosepipe causing the wine to slop down the front of Marjorie’s blouse. She was in a bright pink one today, covered with yellow palm trees. She brushed at the spillage good-naturedly and sucked the end of her finger. I hung back at the doorway, unsure what to do. Nobody had corrected Betsy and I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to pretend to be Pippa or not.

  ‘Ooh, yum scrum Betsy’s bum, apple pie and chewing gum,’ said Marjorie, smacking her lips and earning herself a poke in the back from Betsy.

  ‘Very funny. We’ll put that on the tasting notes, shall we?’ said Betsy drily.

  I laughed softly under my breath; these two were a hoot.

  ‘Don’t hover at the door, dear,’ said Betsy, shielding her eyes and squinting in my direction.

  She aimed the wheelchair towards a desk in the centre of the room which was overflowing with brochures, paperwork and rolls of self-adhesive labels, as well as a tray of wine glasses covered with a cloth. Godfrey did some subtle finger jabbing to indicate I should stand between two huge stainless-steel tanks.

  ‘What are we tasting, Roger?’ Betsy peered at the dribble left in the bottom of Marjorie’s glass.

  ‘The 2017 Pinot Meunier,’ he said. ‘Rather fruity, I think. From tank number ten.’

  ‘Whatever that means,’ said Betsy crossly. ‘I can just about find my way round this room, but I’m darned if I know which tank is which.’

  She turned Marjorie around to face us and sat herself down at the desk. I shrank back a little and Roger shot me a look of apology as Marjorie eyed me with pleasure but said nothing.

  ‘Well,’ Godfrey started to explain, ‘tanks one to six are the original ones that Ted put in first. They’re the little ones along the back.’

  He was pointing towards the far side of the room at a row of upright stainless-steel tanks with flat lids and various valves and taps at the front; these tanks were half the size of the ones next to me. The room seemed to be divided into three sections and although there were open doorways to the left and right of me, I couldn’t see what was beyond them.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know all that,’ said Betsy irritably. ‘I was here when he built the place, remember? What I mean is …’ She sighed helplessly. ‘Oh, never mind. Someone pass me a sample of the Meunier. Just a small one, please.’

  ‘And I’ll have a splash more too,’ Marjorie put in. ‘And when I say splash, Roger, let’s get it in the glass this time.’

  Godfrey passed a clean glass to Roger, who filled both of them from a small tap set into tank number ten, to the side of a large circular valve. Both ladies then sniffed and slurped the wine, squelching it rather disgustingly around their mouths before swallowing it.

  ‘Fruity, like you said.’

  ‘But not as soft as some.’

  ‘I like the gooseberry notes.’

  I listened avidly; it was like another language. Just as well wine tasting wasn’t part of the job remit. My descriptions were invariably on a sliding scale from delicious to absolutely rank.

  ‘What do you think, Pippa?’ Betsy looked up in my direction. ‘Ted used to say you had a good nose. Oh, you haven’t even got a glass. Come on, girl, stop dithering. I thought this was a tasting session.’

  Roger and Godfrey nodded at each other, as if to say, After you, no, after you. Roger finally surrendered.

  ‘We’re not really tasting today,’ he said solemnly.

  Betsy tutted. ‘But you said you had something to show us. Honestly, gentlemen. I could have been making some strawberry jam by now instead of wasting time in this black hole of Calcutta.’

  Marjorie rolled her eyes. ‘No way. Absolutely no way. Not jam.’

  Betsy drew herself up in her chair, her spine ramrod straight. ‘I have been making jam from my own strawberries since—’

  ‘Since you could read the tiny numbers on your jam thermometer, yes I know,’ said Marjorie affably. ‘Only now you can’t read them. Why don’t you make a fresh strawberry trifle instead? Something which will leave you with a smile on your face rather than third-degree burns.’

  ‘Here we go again.’ Betsy set her glass down precariously on a sloping pile of papers and Roger grabbed it before it fell. ‘Clipping my wings. I’d get more freedom in Holloway.’

  Marjorie began to chortle, which made Betsy growl with frustration. Both Godfrey and Roger ran fingers uncomfortably around their collars.

  ‘Without further ado,’ said Roger with false jollity, ‘there’s someone we’d like you to meet.’

  ‘Who? Where?’ Betsy demanded, glancing at the door.

  ‘Lottie Allbright has come to, er, visit,’ said Godfrey, beckoning me to come forward.

  I’d had two job interviews in my life: one for a Saturday job at the hairdresser’s, which entailed the head stylist handing me a broom and telling me to get on with it; and the other at the crematorium, which involved completing twenty-eight forms in triplicate, two interviews, a personality test and a day’s trial. Nothing had prepared me for this selection process, if indeed it was one. And yet I knew with certainty that this peculiar job, in this beautiful valley in Derbyshire, part of the most unusual team I’d ever come across, was, right now, the perfect move for me.

  A surge of energy propelled me out of the shadows and directly in front of Betsy where I imagined her limited eyesight would have a chance of making out my features.

  ‘Hello; we met yesterday at the doctors’. Pleased to meet you again.’ I held out my hand and she shook it.

  ‘You’re not Pippa?’ She looked puzzled. Her eyes were watery and she blinked them rapidly as if trying to clear her vision.

  ‘No. I’m sorry for the confusion.’

  ‘I thought you smelled different,’ said Betsy with a sniff. ‘Pippa usually smells of wet dog.’

  Pippa was someone I couldn’t wait to meet.

  ‘This is a nice surprise.’ Marjorie’s eyes twinkled and she r
eached across for my hand, squeezing it in a friendly manner. ‘Very nice.’

  ‘Well, very nice or not, I’m afraid Butterworth Wines has never catered for visitors, neither do we sell to the public.’

  ‘Nor to anyone at all presently,’ muttered Roger wryly. ‘Which is something else we need to talk about.’

  Betsy frowned. ‘If you gentlemen have nothing better to do than show a pretty young lady around, then be my guest, but you’ll excuse me, Miss Allbright, if I don’t come.’

  ‘Of course.’ I glowed at being called pretty before remembering that she was partially sighted and had already mistaken me twice for a sharp cheek-boned woman who smelled of dog.

  ‘She’s not here for a tour, Betsy,’ said Roger.

  ‘She’s applied for a job,’ Godfrey added.

  ‘No vacancies at present. Send in your CV and we’ll keep it on file,’ Betsy reeled off as if she had to repeat herself daily. She gave me a brisk smile and stood up to terminate our exchange.

  Godfrey clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. ‘Actually I, well, Roger and I, have advertised for someone to come and help us out,’ he said, stuttering slightly.

  Betsy sat down immediately. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.

  Marjorie poked me.

  ‘See that big metal monster?’ she said quietly, pointing at a huge horizontal machine with a funnel-shaped opening on the top. ‘That’s the wine press. Through that door is the wine store and through the other is where the bottling and labelling is done. Go and have a look around.’

  I got the message and wandered off to examine the press; they clearly needed a private talk with Betsy. The trouble was that this place was like an echo chamber and I could hear every word.

  ‘So is someone going to explain why you thought it fit to go behind my back and advertise for staff?’ Betsy’s voice wavered. ‘I might be a widow, but I’ve only lost a husband, not my own mind.’

  ‘Nobody’s suggesting you have, love,’ Marjorie soothed. ‘But Ted worked all hours in the vineyard and now Pippa is your only member of staff.’

  ‘And she’s only part time,’ Godfrey put in.

  ‘And with Ted gone, well, everyone’s at sixes and sevens,’ said Roger.

  ‘Everyone?’ Betsy’s voice lifted an octave. ‘You mean me.’

  ‘We mean all of us, dear girl,’ said Roger softly. I glanced over to see him crouching down near Betsy’s knees and taking her hand. Gone was the sergeant-major act, the impatient tutting. He obviously genuinely cared for her. My heart melted a little towards him. ‘The vineyard needs managing. Someone who can coordinate the workload and look after Ted’s precious vines. Take the pressure off you a bit. And us, we’ve all been doing more hours, but now it’s time for someone to take over.’

  ‘Has Jensen put you up to this?’ Betsy asked sharply.

  ‘Jensen doesn’t know a thing about it. It was my idea,’ said Marjorie. ‘I asked Godfrey to put an ad in this month’s parish magazine. We deliberately kept it off the internet in case, by chance, Jensen came across it. We wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘You certainly did that,’ Betsy scoffed. ‘Good grief. So tell me about my vacancy, then.’

  I went through into the wine store while the three of them outlined the job they thought needed doing, more or less repeating what I already knew from the advert. This part of the winery was much smaller than the main section but nonetheless took my breath away. I’d never seen so many bottles of sparkling wine in one place in my entire life. The walls were edged top to bottom with wine racks and every row was full. There was hardly any spare floor visible; the centre of the room was stacked with cardboard boxes loaded on to pallets and each box contained twelve bottles.

  There must have been thousands of pounds’ worth of stock in here, I thought. I wonder why none of it had been sold. I left the area and crossed the tank room again and into the third section. There were several machines in here, the largest had a conveyor belt, but what the other ones did was anybody’s guess. There were more pallets of bottles here too, this time brand-new empty ones. Although judging by the layer of dust on the top box, nothing had been bottled recently. I re-joined the others.

  ‘We all want you to stay in your own home where you’re comfortable,’ Marjorie was saying. ‘And I’ll visit as much as I can, but all the stairs in your house make it impossible for me to stay longer than one night.’

  ‘I know that, Mar.’ Betsy patted her hand. ‘I don’t know how I’d have coped without you this last month since Ted died.’

  ‘We’re all happy to carry on volunteering,’ said Godfrey. ‘Clare, Roger and myself. Pippa, of course, our youngster, is staff and does more hours; she’ll always be here. And I know Matt is happy to help too when the time comes for bottling. But none of us can be here full-time.’

  ‘Roger, you’re a born organizer,’ Betsy said, ‘you be the manager. I’ll pay you instead. There, sorted. No need to bring in strangers.’

  ‘I’m still a PE teacher, Betsy,’ Roger reminded her. ‘I have a job. Viticulture is simply my hobby.’

  ‘Still teaching? Good grief,’ she muttered incredulously.

  ‘I am only fifty-five,’ he said huffily.

  ‘It’s a hobby for all of us and we love it, which is why we volunteer here,’ said Godfrey. ‘Since Ted became ill, we’ve all done extra hours, willingly. But with the grapes starting to grow, we need someone to take charge. Ten acres is a big area to manage, especially for me with my dodgy hip, and without Ted we can’t cope. And perhaps – and this is in no way an insult – you can’t cope either. Lottie, or whoever we recruited,’ he added swiftly, ‘would be able to help with some household chores.’

  ‘Godfrey Hallam,’ said Betsy imperiously, ‘I am a strong capable woman.’

  ‘We know that,’ said Marjorie, ‘but you’ve also got macular degeneration. Without Ted, who’s going to read letters for you, or pay bills, or tell the difference between cheese sauce and custard?’

  ‘That happened once, when I had a cold and couldn’t smell it,’ Betsy snapped.

  ‘You’re going to have to accept help,’ said Roger firmly.

  ‘No.’ Betsy folded her arms and pressed her lips together, glaring at her three friends as if daring them to say another word.

  The team seemed to be no closer to convincing her that she needed a member of staff at all. I glanced at my watch. The interview hadn’t begun yet and I was beginning to doubt that there’d even be one. It had been too good to be true after all: an outdoor role with its own accommodation … Oh well, back to the drawing board. It was only day one of my job hunt. I let out a sigh, which had the unintentional effect of reminding everyone that I was still here.

  ‘Lottie,’ said Marjorie, smiling kindly at me. ‘You’ve been woefully neglected. Roger, pass the lass a chair and let her tell us a bit about herself.’

  Roger sprang up and found me a stool from underneath the desk.

  ‘Sorry about all this,’ he whispered under his breath as he set it down close to Marjorie’s wheelchair but a little way away from Betsy who had now turned away under the pretence of sifting through the papers on the desk, although by all accounts, it seemed unlikely that she could read much.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, taking a seat.

  ‘The parish magazine deliveries only started this morning,’ said Marjorie, stroking the mole on her chin absentmindedly. ‘You applied very promptly for a job which we’d advertised with an immediate start date.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, deciding not to mention that it was in fact my sister who’d stitched me up like a proverbial kipper.

  ‘Which would lead me to conclude that you’re in need of somewhere to live and work.’ She smiled encouragingly at me.

  ‘The sooner the better,’ I agreed.

  Betsy didn’t look up. ‘That’s all we need,’ she muttered. ‘Some desperado.’

  I considered mys
elf to be an optimistic person, someone who looks for the silver lining in every circumstance. I’d even carved a happy existence in a crematorium where I’d found myself surrounded by new grief on an hourly basis. But all of a sudden I felt something in me crumble. Over the last few days I’d been through a torrent of emotional and physical upheaval: the breakdown of Evie and Darren’s marriage, my own escape from Harvey, waving Dad off on his solo adventure, enduring a frightening encounter with my crazy ex and today accepting that my presence in my sister’s home threatened everything she held dear. And now, faced with these three kind people and Betsy’s cold shoulder, I saw my one last glimmer of hope flicker and die.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said, getting to my feet, a veil of tears rendering my sight as hazy as I imagined Betsy’s to be. ‘You don’t need me in your lives.’

  ‘Whoa, hold on,’ said Marjorie, her face a picture of concern. ‘Betsy didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Actually, she’s right,’ I said breathlessly. ‘I’m a walking disaster zone. I’ve run away from an abusive man, and goodness knows when he might turn up again. I’ve had to walk away from a perfectly good promotion. Even though gardening in a crematorium might not suit everyone, I enjoyed talking to people and comforting them and chatting and singing to their relatives, or their memorials at least. I can’t live with my sister Evie because she wants to start fostering and having me around – or rather the threat of a return visit from my ex – gets in her way. And my dad has sold his business and rented out the family home. So yes, Betsy is right: I am a desperado.’

  They were all staring at me now. I even had Betsy’s attention.

  ‘Roger, Godfrey, it was lovely to meet you. Goodbye, ladies.’ I swiped a stray tear on my cheek and trying to retain the tiniest shred of my remaining dignity I strode out of the doors.

  My trembling hands were making it hard to get the car key in the lock and I was still fumbling when above the thunderous sound of my heart, I heard a voice.

  ‘Wait.’

  It was Betsy.

  I stood in silence and waited, my throat so choked that I couldn’t have spoken if I’d tried. I was expecting an apology and I was ready to wave it away. It wasn’t her fault; I’d been foisted on her as a fait accompli. And not only that, she’d obviously been recently widowed, she was bound to be feeling a bit out of sorts. The apology didn’t come.