Cordelia bullied Wal into helping her down from the buggy and settled herself on one of the benches. She was soon in conversation with another elderly woman who looked far too frail to be standing in the hot sun all day.
Sophie began to feel isolated. She knew no one and it had been many years since her last vintage back at Jacaranda so she wasn’t sure what was expected of her. Standing slightly off to one side, she watched the crowd shift and re-form before her, the chatter high, the electricity in the air almost tangible.
One of the younger men brought out a mouth organ and began to play a hornpipe. He was soon joined by someone with a penny whistle and the onlookers shifted again into a natural circle and clapped in time as two of the girls did an impromptu dance. Sophie laughed, sharing the fun. What a wonderful way to begin vintage.
The music died and people rammed on hats against the sun’s glare and began to move towards the terraces, each carrying a long basket and special secateurs. There was no mechanical picking on Coolabah, for it damaged between ten and thirty percent of the vines over a ten-year period and fewer grapes could be grown.
‘Follow me,’ said Beatty. ‘I’ll show you what to do. There’s no mystery to it.’
Sophie watched as she cut a cluster of ripe black grapes from the vine and laid it in the basket. ‘You won’t get much done as it’s your first time, but I’d rather you took care not to get sunstroke so rest if you get tired. Forecast’s for up to 46 degrees today.’ Beatty handed her the secateurs and strode off.
Sophie tugged down the sleeves of her cotton shirt to protect her arms from the sun and rammed the soft felt hat more firmly on her head. She was already sweating and prickly with heat and yet it was only just past seven in the morning. Cupping a cluster of black grapes that were silvery with bloom, she snipped and moved on to the next.
The chatter and snatches of song went on around her as she concentrated on her task. The sun beat down with hammer blows to her head and neck, sweat evaporating as the mercury rose. Jay worked in the terrace above her. Now and again they glanced across and grinned at one another. Sophie eased her back and wiped the sweat from her face as she took a breather and looked around. It was a glorious sight, this land of black soil and dark green vines, the hills mauve and grey, the sky so blue and wide it seemed to encompass their lilliput lives and put things into proper perspective.
The raucous belch of a klaxon heralded tucker break, and Sophie was amazed to see the vast hampers Beatty was unloading from the back of the ute. There was cold chicken and ham, cold mutton, fresh bread and home-made pickles. Tomatoes and cucumbers nestled in boxes of lettuce and there were crates and crates of water and light beer to quench the thirst.
Jay brought a basket to Sophie’s terrace and they sat on the warm earth between the two rows of vines. She tipped back a bottle and drank thirstily. It didn’t seem as if she’d ever quench the dryness.
‘Go easy, Sophie. You’ll make yourself sick. Here, take these and keep them by you for when you need them. You’ll get through several pints of water before the day’s through, but it’s better to do it gradually.’
She smiled up at him. ‘I’m glad we can be friends,’ she said through a mouthful of delicious cold mutton and pickle. ‘And I’m glad I’ve had the chance to work at the sharp end of a vineyard again.’
‘This place isn’t typical by any means,’ he warned thoughtfully. ‘Dad’s got a good reputation amongst the pickers because he’s a fair employer and pays good wages as well as providing food and comfortable accommodation. You should see the state of some of the places these people have to move on to when they leave here. No better than hovels, with no running water or anything.’
Sophie finished the mutton sandwich and took another drink from the bottle. ‘I’m surprised he makes a profit after feeding everyone so well,’ she remarked as she took an orange and began to peel it.
‘Other vintners think he’s eccentric but it pays off in the end. We’re never short of pickers and these are the best in the business,’ he said, looking out towards the others who were finishing their lunches. ‘Some of these men and women first came as children, now they bring their own. It’s a family thing, I reckon.’ His dark eyes looked across at her, holding her gaze.
Sophie wrapped the last of her orange in a paper napkin and tucked it into the breast pocket of her shirt for later. ‘Better get on,’ she said with a brittle laugh. ‘I’m already miles behind everyone else.’
The afternoon sped by as the heat simmered, the flies buzzed and the smell of warm, ripe grapes filled the still air. The chattering never ceased, neither did the singing nor the dirty jokes that flew between the terraces. But Sophie was worn out, with a headache lurking behind her eyes she couldn’t shift.
As the sky began to lose its colour and the sun slowly sank behind the hills on that first day of vintage, she wearily climbed back into the utility with Beatty and John Jay and headed for the homestead. She ached in places she didn’t know she had and the sun had burned a triangle of skin where her shirt peeked open. There was no way she had enough energy to join the pickers for their barbecue that night.
She almost fell asleep under the shower and had to force herself to remain upright long enough to climb into bed. She was asleep and dreaming of vines and grapes before the others left to join the pickers for their night’s celebration.
The week sped past. As Sophie became more used to standing in the sun all day, she began to enjoy it more and take a greater part in the story-telling and singing. Jay made a point of bringing the tucker basket to her and as they shared the cold provisions they began to mend the rift between them.
Yet neither of them mentioned the reason for their breakup and Sophie wondered if perhaps it was better to put it behind them and look forward. She had learned a salutary lesson from those letters – rifts were the death knell to families and relationships if they weren’t quickly mended, and now she and Jay were being given a second chance.
It was their final day. The vines had been stripped, the last basket emptied into the back of the lorries that would carry the grapes to the winery. Sophie took off her hat and wiped away the sweat. Her hair was plastered to her head. She unpinned it and shook it loose.
‘I’m glad you never had it cut,’ said Jay softly. ‘It’s so beautiful, even when it’s tangled and sweaty.’
She turned to face him. Their growing intimacy had made her less scratchy with him. ‘Flattery will get you nowhere,’ she teased. ‘I’m off for a shower and shut-eye before the party tonight. I’m knackered.’
He took her hand, stopping her from walking away. ‘There’s something you should do first,’ he said mysteriously. ‘Follow me.’
She held back. ‘What are you up to, Jay?’ she said warily.
He smiled that slow sensuous smile that still made her insides go weak. ‘Nothing crook, I promise.’
She eyed him thoughtfully, decided she was being overcautious and smiled. ‘As long as it involves something cool,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m frazzled with heat.’
‘Good on ya,’ he said, pushing his hat back from his forehead. ‘Come on.’
They walked over to one of the utes and climbed in. Minutes later they were eating the dust of the last of the grape lorries. Jay drove into the cobbled courtyard that formed a square between the processing plant, the bottle plant and the visitors’ reception area. ‘Come on. I’ll guarantee it’s cool in here.’
Sophie got down from the ute, gave up on trying to brush the dirt from her clothes and sweating face and followed him into the cool shade of the winery’s reception area. Their boot heels echoed on the stone floor and up into the cathedral arch of the roof. As she breathed in the perfume of wine and oak barrels, she felt the tension of the past week fall away.
‘You’ve been on Coolabah for nearly three weeks. I reckon it’s time you saw the nuts and bolts of the place.’
She heard the soft accusation in his voice and silently admitted he was right. ‘I always
seemed to be doing something else,’ she stammered. ‘It wasn’t deliberate.’
His eyes were shadowed by the brim of his Akubra as he looked down at her. Then without comment he strode across the reception area and headed for a heavy oak door. ‘We’re closed to visitors so we won’t be disturbed,’ he said as he unlocked the door and stepped inside. ‘Mind how you go,’ he warned. ‘It gets slippery.’
Sophie followed him into the long dark tunnel that seemed to wind its way down into the earth. The walls were cold to the touch, the ceiling low with only an intermittent light to show the way on the broad stone steps. She turned the corner and stood in awe at the sight before her.
‘Beauty, ain’t it?’ he said proudly as he lit the candles on top of a battered table.
‘Too right,’ she breathed as she looked around the vast cavern that had been hacked into the core of the earth. The ceiling was high, the floor and walls of stone, and the enormous wooden vats were the height and breadth of an English terrace house. But it was the smell of fermenting wine that took her back to her childhood, and the gurgling witches’ brew that simmered in those titanic vats with reignited a thrill she’d thought long forgotten. ‘It takes me back,’ she whispered. ‘Reminds me why we do it.’
He took her hand. ‘Follow me.’
Sophie felt the electric shock of his touch. As she followed him down another long tunnel and into the gloom of the racking cellars, she kept her gaze fixed to the floor. She was afraid of what he would read in her eyes. Afraid he would break the spell by doing something rash.
He let go of her hand and didn’t touch her again as he pointed out the different vintages and explained how they were made and stored and matured. His enthusiasm for his work made his eyes shine. As he marched her through one long tunnel into another, it was almost as if she’d been forgotten.
Sophie bit her lip. She’d wanted him to kiss her, wanted to feel his arms around her, and yet at the same time she knew things had to be taken slowly if something was to develop between them again. Theirs was a fragile relationship which had been damaged once already – a relationship forged when they were still very young. Now they were mature, with different lives and differing priorities, it would be silly to risk everything for a moment’s madness they might both regret.
John carefully extracted a bottle of vintage Champagne from the rack and, after twisting off the wire, eased the cork out. Pouring it into two glasses, he held one out to Sophie. ‘Here’s to the future,’ he said softly. ‘To Jacaranda and Coolabah and all who slave in them.’
Sophie sipped the cool dry Champagne and let the bubbles burst on her tongue. It was an excellent vintage.
His fingers gently lifted her chin, forcing her to look up into his eyes. ‘Penny for ’em,’ he murmured.
‘Old currency, mate,’ she joked, the Aussie twang reasserting itself. ‘Reckon I’m just tired and overwhelmed by everything.’
He was standing close – too close – and she moved away. She’d seen her own reflection in those brown eyes and knew he wanted more than friendship. But could she trust him again? Could she let by-gones be by-gones and risk getting hurt? The questions went round in her head. Although she knew she would have to find an answer, time was running out. They were leaving in two days.
*
The sun had sunk behind the hills, the soft night cast velvet shadows across the land as the extended family followed John Jay and Beatty to the winery. Each of them carried a lantern, and the soft chatter and laughter and the quick footsteps made Sophie wonder if these people ever got tired. The lack of sleep combined with her week of back-breaking toil under the sun had been shattering for her, the weariness not helped by Jay’s obvious need for answers.
The winery chilled her now the heat was gone from the sun. As she entered the long tunnel for the second time that day she shivered and drew her sweater across her shoulders. There were too many ghosts here. Too many reminders of what was between them both and had remained unsaid. Perhaps it was better to leave things as they were, she thought as she followed the others into the vaulted cellar where the sour, tingling smell of fermentation filled the air. Jay would never leave this place and she was a city girl with a high-flying career. It wasn’t meant to be.
John Jay stood beside the giant vats, several bottles of a previous vintage already open on the table behind him. He waited for his wife to pour each of them a glass then lifted his in a toast. ‘I drink to Coolabah Creek,’ he said, voice echoing in the arches of the great cavern. ‘To Rose and John and Isobel, and to all the generations that followed. May we find peace and prosperity from now on.’
Sophie joined in the hearty response and sipped the dry, full-bodied Cabernet Sauvignon. It was as good as, if not better than, the wine from Jacaranda – but perhaps it was merely the atmosphere and her heightened awareness that made it appear so.
Cordelia licked her lips and held out her glass. ‘It’s good for the blood,’ she declared as Beatty raised an eyebrow. With her glass full once more, she raised it and called for silence. ‘Here’s to a bloody good party.’
They laughed and finished their wine, then headed for the pickers’ accommodation where there was a whole pig roasting on a spit, and as much wine and beer and rum as they could drink. Like the pioneers of Jacob’s Creek, Coolabah Crossing knew how to celebrate vintage, and Sophie thought they did it in style.
The harmonica and penny whistle were joined by a guitar, a violin and someone who could play the spoons. An Irish woman brought out her tambour, and the ancient piano was hauled out of the recreation room and enthusiastically pounded by Wal. No one seemed to mind that half the keys didn’t play and it hadn’t been tuned for years.
John Jay and Beatty led the dancing and Sophie was whirled around with more nerve than verve by men young and old who stomped on her feet, held her too tightly, or had no sense of direction. She was soon breathless and sweating, but the pickers seemed tireless and she caught their enthusiasm and danced until her feet hurt and her ribs ached.
Seizing her chance, she slipped away from the boisterous circle of dancers and found a quiet cool spot in a corner where she could sip an ice-cold stubbie and take a breather. She watched the colourful swirl of checked shirts, heard the shuffle and stomp of flat-heeled boots and the enthusiastic yells as they danced reels and tried out the steps to the latest line dances.
Yet she was all too aware of Jay, clasping the waist of a young and very attractive redhead. He swung her up in the air and planted a kiss on her cheek then passed her on to the next in line. His glance told Sophie that he knew she was watching and she looked away quickly. There was no point in letting him know how much that quiet moment of Champagne and cool darkness had affected her. No point in trying to repair what was broken. Their lives were so different, their expectations and ambitions poles apart. She would be gone after tomorrow, back to Melbourne. It was for the best.
*
Daisy had done everything she could to prepare for the board meeting. The weeks had seemed to fly past but they had given her a chance to recoup the energy and enthusiasm she’d once had for Jacaranda and made her realise how much she could offer the family corporation.
There were now less that forty-eight hours to the meeting and she and Kate were accompanying Charles home from hospital. The by-pass surgery had gone well. Although he would need care over the next few months, Charles had insisted upon coming home.
‘Hate the damn’ places,’ he grumbled as they approached the house. ‘Reminds me of boarding school with all those rules and regulations. D’you know, they even stopped me smoking my cigars?’
Daisy laughed. ‘Of course they did,’ she said. ‘You have to give them up if you want to come good.’
He grimaced as the car turned into the driveway. ‘Gonna be a fair drag if you ask me,’ he grumbled. ‘What’s a man supposed to do without a drop of whisky or a glass of wine with his dinner and a cigar to follow?’
‘Eat less, give up smoking and only take
a little wine now and then,’ said Kate drily. ‘Best of luck, Charles, You’re going to need it.’
‘I’m retiring after the meeting,’ he said wearily. ‘Whichever way things turn out, I’ve had it with the whole bloody shooting match. If it weren’t for Jock, I’d have given up a long time ago.’ He turned to Daisy. ‘What about you?’
‘I’ve got plans for Jacaranda’s future,’ she said enigmatically. ‘But you’ll have to wait until the meeting before I tell you anything more.’
‘Thought you hated the place? What’s changed your mind?’
‘A sense of my own worth,’ she said with quiet pride.
*
Jane paced the floor of the silent apartment. Newspaper cuttings and scrapbooks lay strewn across the carpet, photographs and letters scattered over the coffee table. Her past was catching up with her – the need for the truth to be revealed growing more urgent as the meeting drew nearer.
She stopped pacing and looked out of the vast picture window to the city that sprawled beneath her. So many lives, she thought. Little lives that went on regardless of the pain and suffering around them. Little beings who played out their dramas within the walls and streets of this rambling, rowdy city without a care for others. It was how she’d led her life in her youth, when she’d had her looks and her fame. Now her sins were coming home to roost and she didn’t know how she would face up to them.
With a sigh she sat down again, her fingers running over the black and white publicity shots of her taken so many years ago. She could see why Jock had fallen in love with her, understood his need to have a beautiful woman on his arm and in his bed. It was all a part of his gigantic ego – and if she was being truly honest a part of hers too. It had done her career no end of good for her to have a rich and powerful man as a lover, and because she’d loved him deeply, she’d hardly given a thought to Cordelia and her children.
Until she’d needed them. Until Jock knocked over that glass of whisky and threw the money at her. She’d stared at that spilled drink as he told her to get out of his life. Watched the notes become wet and dark as he forbade her to return if she didn’t do what he wanted.
Jacaranda Vines Page 36
