‘Someone looks like the cat who got the cream,’ said Marjorie, looking up from her bowl of trifle as I joined them.
‘I have had one or two ideas,’ I said, sitting in the chair which Jensen pulled out for me. ‘How would you feel about a party?’
‘A party?’ Betsy gasped.
I could have kicked myself for my choice of words. It was insensitive of me to suggest something so frivolous so soon after losing her husband.
‘I mean an open day,’ I said quickly. ‘We could offer tours, tastings and perhaps give some bottling demos in the winery. The main aim would be sales, of course, and we could have special offers on bulk purchase of our wines. It would be a great way of generating some instant cash flow.’
Jensen and Betsy said nothing, just stared. I began to doubt myself; perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea after all.
‘Have some pudding, Lottie. Trifle or just strawberries?’ said Marjorie, her hand hovering over the two serving dishes.
I chose strawberries without cream; they were home-grown and looked refreshing and luscious. I bit into one and tried to guess what the others were thinking. After another few seconds of silence I felt obliged to fill it.
‘Ted has a big mailing list with lots of wine societies on it. And there have been loads of messages and emails from people wanting to buy from us. This would give us a chance to reduce stocks and save ourselves the hassle of arranging deliveries in one fell swoop. And,’ I looked directly at Jensen, ‘if the vineyard were to come up for sale in the next year or so, an event like this will help raise the business’s profile.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s a thought.’
‘A party would cheer me up no end,’ said Betsy, her eyes sparkling. ‘And if it will help get us out of a financial hole, even better. I think it’s a splendid idea.’
‘Agreed,’ said Marjorie, looking rather pink-cheeked. She drained her glass and lifted it up. ‘I’ll be in charge of the bar.’
‘We could get one of those gazebos and put it just down there in the space between the wall and the start of the vines. Matt’s good at that sort of thing,’ said Betsy, pointing southwards towards the vineyard.
‘I’m so glad.’ I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I couldn’t see any reference to previous events so I wasn’t sure if it was something you’d consider.’
‘There weren’t any,’ said Marjorie. ‘He was a private man, was Ted.’
‘Wine societies were always making enquiries to visit but Ted never wanted the public here,’ Betsy explained. ‘In his words, he didn’t want to turn the place into a circus. Occasionally wine merchants were allowed in, strictly by appointment, but apart from that, all his sales were done by phone or email.’
‘But needs must,’ said Jensen. ‘And whatever happens in the future, tackling the high stock levels is a priority. I’m all for it.’
‘Excellent,’ I said, ‘because I thought you could head it up, as a Butterworth.’
He opened his mouth as if to argue but his grandmother got in there first.
‘Oh yes, Ted would have loved you to be involved. He always hoped one day you’d take an interest in the wine business and take over from him.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ A shadow passed across Jensen’s face and I guessed he was still feeling guilty about not helping Ted out when he’d asked.
‘He didn’t mind, of course, it was only a dream,’ she reassured him. ‘And he was very proud of your career.’
‘Then of course I’ll be there,’ he said, squeezing Betsy’s hand. ‘Lottie and I can discuss dates and details later. But there’s still something we need to sort out: how are we going to finish off Granddad’s wine without his expertise? According to Matt and Clare, the 2017 needs blending and bottling and the 2016 vintage is ready for its dosage.’
‘I think I might have a solution to that,’ I said cautiously.
Jensen grinned at me. ‘Don’t tell me; you googled it and worked out how to do it yourself.’
‘Sort of,’ I said, pulling the old photograph from my pocket. ‘How about asking for help? From Sidney Buxton?’
‘I remember him.’ Jensen took the picture from my hand to examine. ‘It’s Granddad’s old school friend!’
‘Sidney Buxton,’ Marjorie chuckled. ‘Now there’s a blast from the past. Married a French girl and together they took over her father’s vineyard just outside Reims. Why didn’t we think of him before?’
Betsy frowned. ‘He was a regular visitor at one time, and helped Ted no end when he was setting up the vineyard. I’ve not heard from him for a while, although I think he and Ted kept in touch by email.’
‘We invited him to the funeral but he didn’t come,’ said Jensen. ‘I phoned the number in Granddad’s address book myself and left a message on a French answerphone.’
‘He wrote me a lovely condolence card,’ said Betsy, ‘and sent his apologies for not attending.’
‘If Ted were to trust anyone to blend his wines, it would be Sidney,’ said Marjorie. ‘He makes wonderful champagne.’
‘It’s a fabulous idea, Lottie.’ Betsy clapped her hands together. ‘Let’s see if he can spare us some of his expertise. I knew it was a good idea taking you on. Jensen, aren’t we lucky?’
‘It certainly looks that way.’ He smiled and it lit up his whole face and the warm glow it gave me touched my heart.
My happiness lasted all day and it was Jensen’s face I saw as I drifted off to sleep that night. There were lots of things to be happy about with my new job, and Jensen Butterworth was definitely one of them.
Chapter 15
After sorting out a date with Jensen for the last Saturday in July (he had a packed diary – business meetings all over the place – but, I’d noted, by reading over his shoulder, no mention of a girlfriend anywhere), the plans for the inaugural Butterworth Wines open day took shape with surprising speed.
For the next month, the team pulled together, throwing themselves into the preparations. We’d settled on ten pounds a ticket, which I thought was excellent value for a glass of award-winning sparkling wine and a full day’s entertainment.
In the run-up to the event, Marjorie had been pressed into office duty, going through emails and collating all the orders that had been missed. We had already made a dent in the stock of 2015 vintage that had been sitting in the wine store gathering dust. I gave the job of phoning around some of Ted’s wine society contacts to Betsy. I’d written a list of names and numbers in black marker pen so she could read it and she spent many hours in conversation with wine lovers all across the country, laying it on thick about how unique the open day was going to be. Heart-warmingly, she received many compliments about Ted’s wines from well-wishers who were thrilled to hear that the vineyard was opening to the public for the first time.
Matt had been beyond excited about the event, offering us the use of several marquees and a pop-up bar, complete with a couple of barmen to man it, a fact that had thrilled Marjorie no end. He’d even set up a free prize draw on the bar of the Golden Arrow – first prize being a bottle of Butterworth’s finest – using the promotion to advertise the open day.
We’d also managed to decipher from Ted’s notebook some details about the dosage he had used for the last two years and after a bit of experimentation, Matt and Clare decided they felt brave enough to do a trial with the 2016 vintage so that our open day visitors would get to see our production line in action. It would be another year before this batch of sparkling wine would be ready for sale, but we’d be taking pre-orders and hopefully avoid a repeat of the stock build-up situation that we were currently in.
Roger, Godfrey and Pippa had spent every spare hour with me in the vineyard. The vines were rampant at the moment now summer was in full swing; leaves were green and lush and new shoots seemed to appear overnight, stretching across the rows to try to join tendrils with the vines opposite. It was a constant battle to keep them in check. The grapes were still in tight green bunches but so far we
hadn’t lost any to bad weather or disease. We’d had only the teensiest bit of mildew and that had been in the lower area nearest the stream which ran along the bottom of the property. Thanks to a quick response from Roger, we’d nipped the rot in the bud by treating the affected vines with bicarbonate of soda.
The trio weren’t just vineyard focused; they’d each got their marketing talents too. Godfrey had exploited all his old newspaper contacts, sending out a press invitation along with the promise of a free bottle of fizz to any journalist who turned up. Pippa had printed the event details on bookmarks and put one inside every book that was checked out at the library. Roger had come up trumps too. At his school’s Sports Day, he’d grabbed the loud hailer from the head teacher and told all the parents to come along. What’s more, he’d persuaded a group of boys from the first-eleven cricket team to act as car-park stewards for us on the day.
Only Jensen hadn’t been involved with our preparations, although to give him his due, he had spoken to the bank on Betsy’s behalf and arranged for a temporary extension on the overdraft. And, as he explained to me on the phone one day, his company was involved in the biggest pitch in its history and he couldn’t get away but he promised to be with us on the day.
And now it was the evening before the Butterworth Wines open day. The sky was blue and cloudless and the sun to the west was beginning to sink, bathing the tops of the vines in honeyed light. The volunteers had gone home exhausted and excited for tomorrow and Betsy was inside watching the television at full volume. She said it helped to have it up loud: it compensated a little bit for not being able to see much of it.
I did one last circuit, taking in all the little details that would make tomorrow memorable for everyone – not just for our visitors but for the Butterworths too. The barrels Matt had borrowed from the brewery to act as little tables; the colourful bunting we’d strung across the courtyard, borrowed from the library; the huge pots of fuchsias and geraniums I’d planted up and dotted everywhere; the trays and trays of polished glasses on loan from Matt’s pub – it all looked so inviting. Even the Portaloos we’d hired were posh ones decorated to look like a row of pastel-painted beach huts.
We’d achieved so much as a team, I thought with a rush of pride, in just a few short weeks. The site was almost unrecognizable from the unloved and untidy place it had been when I’d arrived. The vineyard was immaculate and the winery was pristine and worthy of a visit from royalty. Back at the cottage, I caught sight of myself in the mirror – my flushed cheeks and the twinkle in my eyes – and I realized I’d achieved something for myself too. Gone were the circles under my eyes and the worry lines on my forehead and the tremor in my stomach at the sound of Harvey’s key in the door. Butterworth Wines was far more than just a job for me; it was my home, my haven and my happy place. I felt part of something incredibly special and tomorrow, if the open day went well, maybe Jensen would fall under its spell too …
The open day officially began at noon and our three young car-park attendants were under strict instructions to keep the gates closed until then. At eleven forty-five, I gathered everyone else together on Betsy’s terrace. I’d had some smart black polo shirts made for the day with the Butterworth Wines logo emblazoned on the chest and we’d all paired it with either shorts or jeans. Matt had had to roll the sleeves up on his because his biceps were too big. Clare and I had opted for a size larger than normal, she wanted to wear hers over leggings, I was just feeling bloated at the moment and wanted comfort. Godfrey’s strained a little over his stomach whereas Pippa and Roger, who were both slim and athletic, looked perfectly at home in theirs. We were an assorted bunch, I thought fondly, but already they felt like family and they’d worked so hard these last few weeks. Ted must have been quite special to have engendered such loyalty.
‘Is everyone happy with their roles for today?’ I asked.
Marjorie was overseeing the bar while Betsy would remain ensconced near the refreshments on the terrace to talk to people and Jensen would be a floating pair of hands, acting as host and fielding business enquiries as needed.
‘Absolutely,’ said Roger, rocking on his heels. ‘Can’t wait to get cracking.’
Clare raised her hand. ‘If anyone with an outside job has had enough of the sun, feel free to ask me to swap later.’
‘I might,’ said Godfrey, dabbing his pink forehead with a hanky. ‘And if you spot a journalist, please point them in my direction.’
Pippa tugged her cap down lower over her face. ‘Definitely. I don’t want to talk to the press. I don’t want to talk to anyone, really. My plan is to keep as low a profile as possible.’
I reassured her that she wouldn’t be expected to give tours, but just to be on hand to help as needed. It was a shame she was so shy; she was such a lovely girl and more knowledgeable about the vineyard than the rest of us put together. Still, there was no way I was going to force her to do anything she was uncomfortable with.
‘I’ve put a thousand bottles of 2016 Blanc de Blanc through the gyropallet,’ said Matt. ‘So they’re riddled and ready to go.’
This was the big cage machine which joggled the bottles gently until they were upside down and all the dead yeast formed a plug at the bottle neck, ready to pop out.
‘Great.’ I gave him the thumbs-up. ‘And you’re confident you can do the dégorgement and dosage in front of an audience?’
‘Sure.’ He folded his arms across his broad chest and grinned. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’
I shuddered. ‘Don’t tempt fate. We don’t want any equipment malfunctions today.’
He and Clare exchanged amused looks; a valve on a tank had failed a few days ago resulting in Clare getting an impromptu hosing down with several gallons of the Cuvée.
‘And I’m going to follow on from Matt’s demo with the labelling machine,’ Clare put in. ‘Putting the foil caps over the corks and attaching bottle labels.’
‘I’ve put a cool box with bottles of water for us at the top of the vineyard and another just inside the winery.’ Pippa glanced at my bare head. ‘It’s hot and exposed out there, Lottie; make sure you find a hat.’
‘Good thinking,’ I said, making a mental note to borrow something from Betsy.
I was going to be giving tours of the vineyard and talking through a year in the life of a vine. I had some flashcards in the pocket of my shorts with some statistics on in case I forgot; I’d never been very good with numbers.
‘Has everyone got sunscreen?’ I continued. ‘Roger, Godfrey, you should be mostly under cover, but even so.’
The two men were handling sales and wine tastings between them in an open-sided marquee next to the bar.
‘Slip, slap, slop,’ agreed Roger heartily, taking a tube of suncream from his pocket and offering it round.
‘It’s going to get even hotter later,’ I said, shielding my eyes and taking in the view from the terrace, to the bushy green vines and to the verdant valley below, ‘but I think the good weather will mean we get more visitors; people like being outdoors in the sunshine.’
‘Ted’s smiling down on us today,’ said Godfrey softly. Pippa patted his shoulder affectionately.
‘I couldn’t sleep last night, I was so excited,’ Clare admitted, wafting her face with one of our open day leaflets.
‘Nature sounds,’ Godfrey advised. ‘I fall asleep to the sound of running water. Works a treat.’
‘Wouldn’t work for me with my bladder,’ Clare laughed.
‘Wine is a diuretic, you know,’ Matt teased. ‘That’ll be your problem.’
‘Oi, you. I don’t drink that much!’ Clare jabbed him with her elbow. ‘I have hot milk, honey and a sprinkling of grated nutmeg in bed, I’ll have you know. Ian brings it up with him after the news.’
‘Nutmeg is supposed to be like Viagra for women,’ said Pippa.
Clare smiled serenely. ‘It is.’
There was a beat of silence while we all stared at her in surprise.
‘You
go, girl,’ said Matt with a snort.
‘Hello, everyone, sorry to keep you waiting,’ said Betsy, appearing in the doorway on Jensen’s arm.
‘Not at all,’ I said, smiling at them both.
I felt my heart speed up at the sight of Jensen. I’d tried to stay awake so that I could casually bump into him in the courtyard when he arrived last night. But I must have dozed off on the sofa because when I woke up his car was there and there were no lights on in the house. ‘Thanks for joining us today,’ I said, catching his eye.
‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ he replied. We grinned at each other. We both knew that wasn’t entirely true but I was too happy to see him to point that out.
He helped his grandmother down the step and out on to the terrace. Even in jeans and a company polo shirt, he was the epitome of sartorial elegance, I thought, doing up the button on my shirt, which kept popping open. Perhaps I should have gone for an even bigger size.
The kitchen door opened and Marjorie appeared with a bottle of sparkling wine wedged between her knees. She pushed herself down the ramp and handed the bottle to Matt. ‘Do the honours, please.’
‘I was late because I was looking for my brooch,’ said Betsy. ‘Ted gave it to me when we opened the vineyard all those years ago.’ She stroked the brooch that was pinned to her dress. It was a cluster of tiny red stones in the shape of a bunch of grapes, the delicate stems and leaves made of gold.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, taking her hand and tucking it through my arm.
I’d become very attached to the old lady over the last few weeks; I’d never known my own grandparents and listening to Betsy’s stories, reading recipes books aloud to her or helping her find her way to pick flowers and herbs from her garden had felt like spending time with family and not like work at all.
‘He looked after me well, my husband,’ Betsy acknowledged with a sad smile.
‘Your husband looked after all of us, in different ways,’ said Roger gruffly.
A Vintage Summer Page 16
