A Vintage Summer

by Cathy Bramley

  Sidney lifted his panama hat politely. ‘Pleasure’s all mine, dear girl. Only sorry I can’t stay longer. I’ve been put out to pasture in our vineyard now by the young folk, it’s been exciting to work on your wines. And good to feel useful again.’

  His cardiac consultant had phoned two days ago and issued instructions for him to return to France immediately while he was still alive. He’d booked his flight reluctantly and Jensen was driving him to the airport later this evening.

  ‘Talking of exciting,’ said Godfrey, rustling papers in front of him, ‘I’ve got an update on our press coverage.’

  ‘Hold your horses, we’ll come to that shortly,’ said Roger, tapping the agenda.

  ‘And I want to tell everyone about the 2016 and 2017 wines Sidney has helped us develop,’ Matt added, indicating the two bottles on the table. ‘We could be in with a shot at winning awards with this lot, eh Clare?’

  ‘Abso-bloody-lutely we could,’ said Clare fervently. She took a lacy square of rose pink and ivory wool out of her bag. ‘Excuse me if I carry on with my crocheting; I’m on a deadline and the blanket committee I’m on will go bananas if I don’t hurry up.’

  I suppressed a smile; I didn’t know how Clare kept on top of all her social commitments. The blanket committee was a new one on me, but last week, she’d been involved in hosting a group of Latvian teenagers who were over here for a language summer school.

  ‘Did that wine society come back to us about the bulk purchase of the Blanc de Blanc?’ Godfrey asked me. ‘They were very keen at our open day.’

  I opened my mouth to answer but Roger jumped in first.

  ‘Order!’ he boomed, raking a hand through his fine gingery hair. ‘Sales figures are item four. Really, I must insist.’

  Marjorie had completely sorted out the backlog of orders, many of them dating from the months leading up to Ted’s death, and we were on top of deliveries for the time being. But it wasn’t a long-term solution. The trouble was that there just weren’t enough hours in the day and none of us particularly liked working indoors.

  Jensen put a calming hand on Roger’s arm.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, pulling a business card out of his pocket, ‘but before I forget, I have the details of a virtual sales office for you, Lottie. They’ll collate phone and online orders, make sales calls to existing customers and send a daily summary through to you. It would solve the admin issue for the rest of this year at least.’

  And then what? The 2017 vintage would be ready to sell. And the tanks would be full of the 2018 harvest, waiting to be blended and bottled. What was going to happen next year? I wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.

  ‘I’ll call them,’ I said simply, taking the card from him.

  Pippa put her hand up. ‘If there’s time, can we discuss a possible wine tasting at the library? My boss wondered if I could set one up. She’s heard a few of our members talking about it and thought it might be a nice way to be a bit more interactive with readers.’

  ‘Definitely!’ I said, delighted.

  Pippa beamed proudly as the rest of the group nodded their praise.

  ‘Veraison is coming on beautifully,’ said Sidney, twirling the end of his moustache. ‘I don’t think your harvest will be much behind ours in Reims this year.’

  Veraison was the onset of ripening, when the grapes turned from green to black. It was still amazing to me that our black grape varieties – Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier – produced white wine rather than red, because only the juice was used, not the skins. Unless, Sidney told me, the juice had too much contact with the grape skins, in which case we’d end up with rosé. Or in future, if we wanted to, we could leave the skins in the juice and make our own red wine. Except, I reminded myself with a pang of sadness, there wasn’t a future for Butterworth Wines, was there?

  ‘Our Classic Cuvée isn’t far behind yours either.’ Matt rocked back on his chair, arms folded smugly. ‘You wait until you try it, Jensen.’

  ‘Fingers crossed we don’t get the wet weather we had last year.’ Clare shuddered. ‘Remember the rush we had to get the grapes in before the rain came down? And picking by hand is back-breaking work; I was exhausted. And my nails were ruined.’

  She waggled her fingers. Today’s manicure was dark purple with a glittery top coat. It would be, wouldn’t it, I thought enviously, noting her purple linen dress and silvery espadrilles.

  ‘Worth it, though.’ Pippa pressed her finger into the last scone crumbs on her plate. ‘We’ll need to organize extra teams of pickers well in advance this year to handle the bumper crop Ted predicted.’

  ‘Perhaps Jensen will help with the harvest this year?’ Sidney regarded him intensely. ‘Your granddad would have loved that.’

  Jensen leaned forward and topped up his water. ‘Um, I’ll have to check my work commitments nearer the time. I might be away a lot by autumn.’

  ‘I can’t wait to get picking,’ I said, trying not to show my disappointment at Jensen’s lack of enthusiasm. I’d watched umpteen YouTube videos about harvesting grapes and the thought of bringing in our own harvest filled me with joy.

  Sidney topped up my tea. ‘Your job will be to direct operations from the winery and oversee the fruit going into the press.’

  Jensen met my eye. ‘Not bending down snipping thousands of bunches of grapes.’

  I flashed him a look to shut him up. ‘No way, I want to roll up my sleeves and join in at the sharp end!’

  I grabbed a scone and sliced it in two, hoping the others wouldn’t put one and one together and make three. Betsy had had to tell Sidney because I’d had dinner with them a few times over the past fortnight and he kept trying to ply me with alcohol. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone else yet. Not until I knew how far gone I was. It was partly because I still needed to get used to the idea myself, but also, on a sadder note, because I was only too aware of Evie’s experience. She had miscarried her baby at twelve weeks and if my pregnancy ended as brutally as hers, the fewer pitying expressions I’d have to face, the better.

  ‘Sidney’s right, Lottie,’ said Roger. ‘There’s a lot to do at harvest: delivering empty crates to the vines, collecting full crates of grapes, checking the quality … The list is endless. We need someone to keep track of everything.’

  ‘That was what Ted used to do,’ Pippa said quietly.

  Everyone fell silent for a moment.

  ‘Look, sorry for jumping the gun, but I’ve got to show you these before I burst,’ said Godfrey, passing printouts of blog posts and online reviews and a lovely article in the Derbyshire Bugle around the group. Roger made a grunting noise but I was grateful to Godfrey for stepping in just as the mood had started to dip. ‘And there’s another thing in the offing too, I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘That’s it!’ muttered Roger hotly, jabbing a finger at the agenda. ‘I want everyone to read through the agenda before speaking another word.’

  I did as I was told. It had several points on it: vineyard yield, status of 2016 and 2017 wines, sales update, marketing activity, future events.

  Matt scanned the page before casting it aside. ‘Great, well, we seemed to have covered most of this, so without further ado, let’s start with the 2017. Grab the glasses, Pippa.’

  Roger folded his arms and looked away sulkily.

  ‘Ooh goody.’ Clare stuffed her blanket back in her wool bag. ‘Spittoons at the ready for the drivers amongst us!’

  Matt poured the team a small glass of option six, the blend we’d all agreed on. ‘Now, this has got more Pinot Meunier in than last year, and slightly less Pinot Noir. Drink up, Jensen. What do you think, would Ted approve …?’

  As Matt began to tell everyone what Sidney had taught him and guided us all through the different options they’d considered, Sidney leaned over to me.

  ‘I’d like one more walk through the vineyard before I go, would you join me?’ he whispered.

  I grinned at the lovable old man who had been
so generous with his time and expert knowledge, not to mention he’d managed to put a smile on Betsy’s face thanks to the constant trips down memory lane over the last two weeks. ‘With pleasure.’

  We took a detour via the shed for a pair of secateurs and took the side gate through the wall to the vineyard.

  ‘This was Ted’s favourite spot,’ said Sidney, waiting while I secured the gate behind us.

  ‘Mine too.’

  We were standing on the highest point of the vineyard, under the dappled shade of the line of conifers. These trees shielded the western side of the vines from the harsh winds that whistled through Derbyshire in early spring, protecting them from losing their precious buds, and today provided Sidney and me with a welcome respite from the fierce mid-summer sun. The sky was cornflower blue with just a few gossamer clouds on the horizon. The valley had never looked so beautiful: myriad greens in the fields and foliage and crops below, a flock of sheep way out to the east, and in the distance, a smudge of cottages and the curve of the river as it carved its way through the countryside.

  ‘See that pink rose?’ Sidney turned back and pointed to the house where a climbing rose smothered the back wall right up to the bedroom windows.

  I nodded. It had lovely coral blooms with yellow centres. I’d admired it so much that Betsy had taken to putting fresh bunches of them on the doorstep of The Stables for me every couple of days; it smelled amazing.

  ‘It’s called “Summer Wine”. Ted bought it just after he’d planted the first batch of vines a decade or so ago.’

  I laughed. ‘Wine really was everything to him, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Everything. Well, that and his family. It’s a shame he was never able to combine the two, like I’ve done.’ He sighed wistfully and gave himself a shake. ‘He’d be so happy that his good work is being carried on in his absence.’

  ‘For the time being at least,’ I said.

  He frowned. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. It’s heart-breaking to think that the vineyard might fall out of Butterworth hands.’

  ‘You can’t blame Betsy and Marjorie for wanting an easier life, though,’ I said reluctantly. ‘And the only other Butterworth I’ve met is Jensen and he seems to love his job in London.’

  We headed to the Chardonnay rows; there was a clump of vines which weren’t thriving as well as the others and I wanted his advice before he left. He told me to thin out the foliage as much as possible and apply a little fertilizer to encourage growth and then we moved on to the next row.

  Sidney had helped us so much in the last two weeks; I was going to miss our early-morning walks amongst the vines and the little lessons he’d been giving me in the winery about all the various flavours and enhancements that could be added to our wines to lift them from ordinary to extraordinary. Trawling through Ted’s never-ending collection of reference books had given me lots of knowledge, but it was no substitute for the hands-on experience of an expert like his old friend.

  ‘It was Betsy who found this place, you know,’ said Sidney, as we took our snippers to a particularly voracious vine that had sent springy new shoots out to the row opposite. ‘It came up at auction. He and I had scoured the South Downs in the hope of finding something on the same seam of chalk which runs from England under the Channel to the Champagne region where my vineyard is. Ted was adamant that would give him the best shot of recreating a sparkling wine to match champagne. Betsy had other ideas.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ I said with a laugh.

  Sidney plucked a few leaves away from the bunches of ripening grapes, taking a moment to explain how removing some greenery would let the sun get to the fruit to ripen it, but still keep enough foliage to allow for photosynthesis to feed the plant. Then he continued, ‘Her daughter, Samantha, and Jensen had not long moved back to the area after leaving Jensen’s father. Betsy didn’t think it was the right time to move away, she wanted her and Ted to be hands-on grandparents and heaven knows, Jensen needed a decent male role model in his life.’

  My ears pricked up; I didn’t know much about Jensen’s parents but it hadn’t escaped my notice that Jensen was a Butterworth and obviously hadn’t taken his father’s surname.

  Just like you, I said to the new life inside me. My baby would be an Allbright, Harvey Nesbitt was going to have nothing to do with it. With him or her, I meant. My heart gave a jolt, remembering Jensen’s words in the hospital. You’ll have to tell him; he has a right to know … But not yet, I wasn’t ready to face him. Not without my family to back me up, and who knew when that was going to happen. I tuned back into Sidney’s story, feeling decidedly uneasy …

  ‘Ted knew when he was beaten; if Betsy didn’t have her heart on a move to the south coast it would never happen. So Ted and Betsy came out here and met with the couple who were on their knees from trying to breed pigs and grow garlic and desperate to sell.

  ‘Ted took one look at the mud bath and almost walked away but Betsy pitched it to him just right.’ Sidney shook his head, laughing at the memory. ‘She told him to think how proud he would be of producing top quality wines here in Derbyshire where he’d been born and bred. So he had the soil tested to see if it had the nutrients it needed. All it was lacking was phosphorous.’

  ‘And that is easy enough to remedy,’ I said, thinking back to the fertilizers we’d used at the crematorium.

  He nodded. ‘That’s right. And so Butterworth Wines was born. Caused quite a stir in the wine world at the time; there were hardly any vineyards this far north.’

  ‘There aren’t many now,’ I said, having done my research. ‘A million new vines were planted in England last year, but only a tiny percentage of those were north of London.’

  Sidney looked impressed. ‘What else do you know?’

  ‘Nowhere near as much as you.’ I shrugged. ‘But I know that some of the top champagne houses have cottoned on to just how similar the terroir is here and have been buying up land, so not only have land prices shot up, but the reputation of English sparkling wine is at an all-time high. We’re winning awards all over the world, and countries like America are waking up to how good our products are too. It’s an exciting time to be making wine in England.’

  Sidney chuckled. ‘You love this job, don’t you?’

  ‘Very much.’ I took a deep breath, inhaling the delicate scent of the vines and wondering, not for the first time, how on earth this job had managed to find me just when I needed it, as if some mysterious force had had a hand in it. ‘I keep having to remind myself not to get too attached. That it won’t last.’

  Sidney’s smile dropped. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  We were in the centre of the vineyard now, in the wide path that separated the upper and lower slope. Sidney headed for a wooden bench, took off his hat and fanned his face. I lowered myself next to him and stretched out my legs.

  ‘Betsy can’t carry on here indefinitely and my job is only until the end of autumn. And even if it wasn’t, I’ll be taking some time off work when the baby is born. It’s very sad, though, thinking that Butterworth Wines is nearing the end of its life.’

  ‘Very sad.’ He shook his head, tutting softly. ‘When my wife, Sylvie, died, life was able to go on as before. Her family have owned vineyards for over a hundred years. She has a brother and a sister, between us we have six children and, so far, eight grandchildren. Even if half of them had no interest in wine, there are enough of the new generation to continue our wine story for decades to come. Ted and I were the same age; it’s sobering when your health is under threat, you realize you’re not immortal after all. There’s a lot to be said for having your family close when times are difficult.’

  ‘There is.’ I had a sudden overwhelming need to talk to my own family. I resolved to try Evie again later and wished more than anything that I could just pick up the phone and talk to my dad. He was in Germany now. I’d only communicated by text with him for two weeks, worried that I’d mention the baby as soon as I heard his voice and
until I could guarantee that I wouldn’t burst into tears over the mess I’d got myself into, I didn’t dare speak to him.

  Sidney must have noticed something in my tone because he patted my hand.

  I forced a smile. ‘Is Jensen’s mum not around?’

  No one ever mentioned her, and I was aware I was being nosy, but if anyone was going to tell me it would be Sidney.

  He pulled a face. ‘Samantha? Yes and no. She’s happily married and living abroad. She won’t move back now.’

  ‘Which just leaves Jensen,’ I said softly. My heart sank. It was obvious he had no interest in taking over the family business, he’d just been promoted and his work meant a lot to him.

  The old man nodded. ‘Ted once told me that he hoped Jensen would take over here when he got too old. From what Betsy has said, Ted’s illness took hold very quickly. I expect he didn’t want to burden his grandson with the responsibility of the business when his career was taking off. And then time ran out and he never got the chance to talk to Jensen about it.’

  ‘Time ran out for my mum too.’ I swallowed. Even after more than ten years it was hard to talk to people outside the family about it. There were so many things she’d missed out on. She would have loved to have been at Evie’s wedding and I knew she’d always hoped one day to be a grandmother. ‘It makes me want to live life to the full in her honour.’

  Sidney looked at me speculatively. ‘I’ve been thinking about the future too. Do you think you and Jensen could give it a go? You seem to complement each other well.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ I looked down at my fingers, stained green with sap off the vines, my short nails caked in mud from pulling up weeds. So different to his clean office-boy hands. We were chalk and cheese. ‘Actually, he did invite me to dinner but that was before we found out I was pregnant. He hasn’t repeated the offer since, which is hardly surprising. And besides, he likes London, I hate it. So that’s that.’

  His lips twitched. ‘I meant give Butterworth Wines a go. As business partners.’ He lifted his hands. ‘But romantic partners would make his grandmother and his great-aunt very happy.’