In Vino Veritas

by J M Gregson

  At length he said abruptly, ‘I don’t want to open this. I know it’s silly and I wouldn’t confess it to anyone else, but as long as I don’t open it I can’t have failed, can I?’

  ‘You haven’t failed, you great lummox.’

  It was a long time since Eleanor Hook had left her native north, but she retained the occasional colourful dialect word. There was a bump on the ceiling and the sound of childish admonishment from above. She said, ‘The lads will be down any second. Better to get it over without that sort of audience, don’t you think?’

  ‘You know how to produce the ultimate threat,’ said her husband glumly. Bert picked up the paperknife, slit the envelope decisively, and carefully drew out the single sheet within it.

  Eleanor could divine nothing from his weather-beaten, impassive features. Only she knew how much effort he had put into his studies over the last six years. She was probably the one person to whom he would have admitted how much this meant to him, but marriage meant that these things did not have to be spoken. He stared for a long time at the notepaper with the Open University crest at the top of it. Then he looked at his wife and felt the smile creeping over his face. He handed her the paper. Eleanor read as unemotionally as she could: ‘Herbert James Hook is awarded the degree of Bachelor of Arts, with second class honours, division one.’

  She paused for just a moment, to let the joy flood into her own face, then threw her arms round Bert. The kiss had relaxed into a hug and she was murmuring words of congratulation into his ear when a voice from the doorway said, ‘They’re at it again, Jack!’ and the two of them sprang automatically apart.

  A noise as of approaching thunder from the stairs announced the precipitate arrival of their elder son, who studied the tableau before him, shook his head sadly, then announced to thirteen-year-old Luke, ‘You’d think they could control themselves, at their age and at this time in the morning.’

  ‘And in front of innocent children at an impressionable age, too,’ said Luke with the despairing shake of his head which he had spent some time developing in front of his bedroom mirror.

  ‘There’s nothing innocent about you two,’ said Bert Hook sadly. ‘And you’re about as impressionable as Genghis Khan. Sit down and eat your breakfast.’

  They hastened to obey. ‘God knows what it’s doing to us, being exposed to shenanigans like this at this time in the morning,’ said Jack.

  ‘You wouldn’t recognize a shenanigan if it got up and bit you,’ said his father with feeling. ‘Do you want toast?’

  ‘Two slices, please, if you two can tear yourselves away from each other.’

  ‘That’s enough of that,’ said his mother, with all the sternness she could muster.

  ‘That’s what we thought,’ said Jack, with a benign smile at no one in particular.

  ‘Your father has some news for you,’ said Eleanor seriously.

  They caught a hint of her seriousness, and looked up expectantly from their cereals at Bert, who drew in a deep breath and said, ‘I’ve got my degree – the one I’ve been studying for over the last few years.’

  Luke’s thirteen-year-old eyes widened. ‘Who’s a clever boy, then?’ he said with his head on one side.

  Like many a boy of his age, he did not quite know how to react when confronted with some serious issue in his parents’ lives. It was left to his fifteen-year-old brother to say simply, ‘Well done, Dad!’ Jack got up and came round the table and shook his father’s hand, awkwardly but firmly. It was at once touching and slightly ridiculous, like a parody of adult congratulation, and it became more so when Luke followed him and solemnly repeated the exercise.

  Eleanor, who was suddenly very much moved by the sight of the trio, said stoutly, ‘That’s a very good degree, you know. And he’s done it part time, whilst making sure we’re all safe in our homes. I hope you realize now that your father is a man of many talents.’

  ‘We know that, Mum,’ said Luke. ‘Billy Singh, our opening bat, has the top average in the whole league, and Dad bowled him middle stump in the nets last summer, didn’t he, Jack?’

  ‘Yes. Got him out twice in five balls. Billy says Dad should never have retired. Should still be playing for Herefordshire, he says.’

  Eleanor smiled. ‘Well, even a man of Dad’s amazing talents has to give up some time. And he might never have had time to get this magnificent degree if he’d gone on playing cricket.’

  Luke obviously thought such academic distinction a poor consolation for eschewing triumphs on the sports field, but he did his best to look impressed. The boys demolished large bowls of cereal and two slices of toast in swift succession.

  It was not until Jack was alone in the hall with his mother that he said, looking determinedly at the carpet, ‘He’s a bit special, our dad, isn’t he, Mum?’

  On the day after the meeting at Abbey Vineyards, Vanda North cornered Martin Beaumont in his office.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Martin looked at her coolly as she sat opposite him on the other side of his desk. The table which had been brought in for the meeting on the previous day had been removed immediately after it. With the lack of ornaments and the single picture of the Malvern Hills on the wall, the room had resumed its normal rather bleak spaciousness. He looked at Vanda’s short, expertly cut dark-gold hair, then down at her slim, small-breasted figure and the long legs in the fawn linen trousers. She had always been striking rather than pretty, but she was still a handsome woman at forty-six, he decided.

  When a woman had been your mistress, you were surely entitled to have an opinion on such matters.

  He wasn’t good at assessing other people’s reactions to his words and attitudes. That was probably just as well, for Ms North was wondering for her part why she had ever been enticed into his bed. She was well aware by now that sexual attraction often paid little heed to matters of character, but now she couldn’t even see the physical attraction which had once driven her to this man.

  Beaumont was ten years older than her, and he wasn’t ageing well. The face which she had seen as handsome was now florid, developing jowls and the suggestion of a double chin beneath them. No man could successfully combat thinning hair, but as he drew the ever-scarcer strands which were left obstinately across his pate, he risked looking ridiculous. Well-cut suits could disguise an insistent embonpoint only up to a certain point, a point which her critical eye insisted had now been passed.

  He was a powerful man; she had no delusions about that. And she had long ago accepted the old saw that power was the greatest aphrodisiac. You wanted to investigate men who had power. You wanted to discover how they had acquired it and how they thought of the people whose lives they controlled. It gave them an extra and highly important dimension. It was very easy to persuade yourself that men who exercised power had greater intelligence and greater depth to their personalities than was in fact the case.

  With the benefit of hindsight and that pitiless objectivity with which one examines past sexual mistakes, she saw now that she had invested Martin Beaumont with this kind of mystique. There was really nothing very complex or intriguing about either his power or the way he exercised it. He was a man on the make, with a sharp eye for the main chance, and there wasn’t a lot more to it than that. He had acquired a certain amount of money early in life – she had never found out exactly how – and he had used cunning and ruthlessness to make a lot more. There was no reason to see him as more incisive or more gifted than he was, but she had tended to do that.

  Like many a disillusioned ex-lover, Vanda went too far in her reactions. Martin Beaumont had in fact inherited a certain amount of money as a young man, but he had been shrewd and capable in his use of it. Moreover, he had had both a vision and the courage and the determination to pursue it. When he had conceived the idea of a vineyard in Gloucestershire, it had been both an original and a high-risk notion. He had to produce figures to convince his bankers that it was a commercial proposition, rather than an enthu
siast’s indulgence, a hobby which would eventually ruin him.

  Martin had worked very hard in the early years, had ploughed back every penny of the meagre profits into developing the business. Gradually, he had acquired and developed more and more land for viniculture. A sceptical public in what was essentially a rural area had gradually accepted that the vineyard was here to stay. Indeed, the more enlightened locals had eventually conceded that, with all the problems of both arable and livestock farming in the area and the yearly evidence of global warming, there might just be a future for Abbey Vineyards.

  The outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease and its sombre consequences in the early years of the new century had reinforced that view. What most had seen as a gimmick might just have a future. As the monstrous piles of burning cattle carcasses clouded the skies with their dark smoke and darker smells, viniculture seemed not only possible but desirable, even glamorous. Discreet advertising helped to reinforce the impression that Abbey Vineyards was a more innocent use of the land than dairy farming, or even the sheep farming which was suffering intense competition from overseas.

  Vanda North had put all the money she had into Abbey Vineyards ten years earlier, when she had been more besotted with Beaumont than she had realized at the time. It should have been a good investment – perhaps would have been, if she had taken more care over the terms on which she had entered the concern, instead of letting Martin draw up the junior partnership deal. She realized now that she needed some income, that what might be a promising deal on the face of it did not suit her needs. Income was ploughed back each year into new developments, and she was committed for an indefinite period. She had no right to sell her holding without the approval of the senior partner, and Martin was never going to give it.

  She was determined to assert herself, but she was uncharacteristically uncertain about how to do that. As if he read her mind and saw her dilemma, Martin Beaumont said suddenly, ‘We need to go on expanding.’

  This assertion, the very opposite of what she wanted to hear, freed her tongue at last. ‘On the contrary, all the signs are that we need a period of retrenchment. No firm can afford to ignore this recession. No one is going to be immune to its effects.’

  ‘You heard the feeling of the meeting yesterday. We are not a typical industry. You need to realize that what is going to be a difficult time for others may well be a time of opportunity for us.’

  ‘No, I didn’t hear the feeling of the meeting. What I did hear was you asserting these things, in the face of what other people were saying about the need for caution.’

  She could see him pausing to control himself before he spoke. What had seemed an impressive ruthlessness in the early days of their association now struck her as an autocratic cruelty. ‘I repeat what I said. We need to expand.’

  ‘That is flying in the face of the facts.’

  ‘On the contrary, it is perfectly logical, Vanda. For a start, if others around us suffer, the price of land will come down. We should take advantage of that.’

  She felt her anger rising, her hands beginning to tremble. The very things she had been determined to avoid when she came in here were beginning to happen. ‘You can do whatever you like. I want out.’

  He smiled, unaware how obnoxious that made him seem to her. ‘Not possible, I’m afraid, Vanda. The terms of our agreement prevent that. The terms you signed up to quite willingly.’

  ‘You took advantage of me. You know I didn’t read any of it very carefully at the time.’

  ‘Forgive me if this sounds ungallant, Vanda, but you weren’t some young ingénue ten years ago. You were a mature woman of thirty-six who knew exactly what she was doing.’

  ‘If you’re saying I was a fool, at least that’s one thing we can agree on. I was a fool to trust you.’

  ‘I’m sorry you should feel that. I was putting you into an excellent investment.’

  ‘On terms which prevented me from realizing it for twenty-five years, unless one of us died in the meantime.’

  ‘Perfectly normal practice, when one is developing a new business. Partners have to commit themselves. If those terms didn’t suit you, you shouldn’t have signed up to them.’

  She wanted to step forward and slap him hard across his smug face. ‘I’ve never been a proper partner. I want my money out. It’s all I’ve got and I need it.’

  ‘Not possible, I’m afraid. It’s tied up in a developing business. It will be an excellent investment, in the long run.’

  Vanda felt now that she had always known this would be the outcome. She had put herself through a humiliation which was pointless. How could she ever have found this man desirable? ‘You know as well as I do that you gave me all sorts of assurances that I could have my money out whenever I wanted, given a couple of months’ notice.’

  ‘I don’t remember any such promises. I’m afraid that verbal agreements have no standing unless both parties agree on what was said.’ He was enjoying the familiar feeling of exercising power over another being’s future, of knowing that he held all the cards in this particular game. ‘It wasn’t a large sum you invested, but I’m afraid it’s impossible to return it at this moment, much as I should like to.’

  ‘And that’s your last word?’

  ‘I’m afraid it has to be.’

  ‘I shall take legal advice on this.’

  ‘You’ll be wasting your money if you do. I’m sorry, but there it is.’ He didn’t look at all sorry as she flung back her chair and left his office.

  Vanda North’s hands were shaking as she gripped the wheel of her car. She had to force herself to concentrate on the simple business of driving as she turned out of the car park and on to the B road outside. She caught a glimpse of Beaumont’s face at the window of his office as she went. He still had that supercilious smile he had worn for most of their exchanges. She put a mile between herself and the vineyards, then drove into the parking lay-by she had been aiming for and stopped.

  Her face was in her hands for what seemed to her a long time. As far as she could see, there was no solution to this. Well, only one. And that surely wasn’t possible, was it?

  Jason Knight was used to working under pressure. It is a necessary skill for any chef in charge of a busy kitchen.

  This was a different sort of pressure and he wasn’t coping anything like as well. Playing golf against the club champion in the third round of the singles knockout competition was proving more testing of his temperament than he had expected. It was ridiculous to take the random bounces and rolls of a small white golf ball quite so seriously, he told himself, but the thought did not help him.

  Jason was thirty-eight and in his golfing prime, in his opinion. He had played the game intermittently since he was a boy, and regularly since he had come to this area and joined the Ross-on-Wye Golf Club. He had a handicap of eight, which he considered generous, whereas his opponent played off scratch. Jason was receiving eight shots in this match. When discussing his chances with other members beforehand, he had discounted his chances against the young man with what he hoped was a becoming modesty. Privately, he had thought his progress to the next round highly probable.

  Now, after eleven holes, he was one down and five of his shots were gone – squandered, for the most part, in his view. On the short twelfth, he was standing over a putt three feet above the hole for a half. It should have been a doddle, with his normal calm putting technique. He stood over the ball for what was probably a little too long, jerked his putter convulsively at it, and watched it shoot over the right edge of the hole.

  Two down.

  ‘Bad luck!’ said his opponent sympathetically, before he moved away gratefully towards the thirteenth tee. Both of them knew that it was bad play rather than bad luck, but the polite golfing fiction was observed.

  The thirteenth at Ross is a shortish but very tight par four, where any errant tee shot will leave you baulked by trees from a second shot to the green. Most good players take a fairway wood or even an iron from the tee,
to place the ball safely on the fairway; Jason was delighted to see his opponent reaching for his driver. The arrogance of youth, he thought happily, and stood silently waiting for the appropriate punishment to befall this tall and gifted young man.

  Sometimes talent subdues justice. The young Titan hit the ball long and very straight indeed, and it seemed to Jason to go on bouncing for a disagreeably long time. It came to rest over three hundred yards from them, and it looked to Jason to be no more than fifteen yards from the green. ‘Good shot, Tom!’ he said through clenched teeth.

  His own much more puny effort was also straight and he managed to put a six-iron second into the middle of the green. Tom in turn chipped his short shot on to the green and watched it run perhaps six feet past the hole. There followed an illustration of what some enthusiasts call ‘the glorious unpredictability of golf’, and what its victims call something much more vulgar.

  Jason Knight holed his curling putt of perhaps twenty-two feet up a sharp slope, then watched his opponent’s six-footer lip the hole and stay out, to give him the hole. ‘Bad luck, Tom! No justice!’ said Jason, trying and failing to keep the elation out of his voice.

  Buoyed by this unexpected success, he holed another decent putt to win the difficult fourteenth, where he had a shot. He managed to halve the next two short but tricky par fours, where Tom Bowles was unlucky not to make at least one birdie. He received his last shot on the long, difficult seventeenth, where he could not reach the green in two but managed to hole his tricky curling putt for a four and the win. For the first time in the afternoon, he was ahead. A half at the eighteenth would give him the match.