Wild Grapes

by Elizabeth Aston

  Wild Grapes

  Elizabeth Aston

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  Copyright

  Mountjoy Series

  Also by Elizabeth Edmondson

  PROLOGUE

  Children not obligatory. 12.40 from Oxford. You’ll be met. Gina read the postcard once more, and flipped it over again. An improbable smiling pig leered at her from within a heart-shaped frame. Beneath it, in flowing letters, it read, Hartwell Hams are the heart of a meal.

  She looked out of the window at the scenery rolling by. The train flashed through a station, rattled over some points and settled back into its steady rhythm. Gina put the card back in her bag. It wasn’t going to help her, however many times she read it. She leant back into her seat, trying not to get her feet entangled with those of the tall ungainly woman sitting opposite, with her mouth in a firm line and her big feet planted firmly under the table in size eight brown leather sandals.

  A don, thought Gina. Unquestionably a don. Is that what will happen to me? Will I become taller and even thinner and develop a wan on my cheek, and wear straight grey hair in a bun?

  A man went past, brushing aggressively and heedlessly against the table, catching the pile of papers at the corner. Not noticing, he went on his way; Gina rose to her feet to help the woman gather up the pages.

  She received a tight smile in thanks.

  “The pages aren’t numbered,” she ventured. “Won’t it be a problem?”

  “I never number them until I’ve finished,” the woman said. “I know how they go.”

  She saw the puzzled look on Gina’s face. “I wrote it, you see. It’s my manuscript. Of course, I number it before I send it to the publisher.

  They wouldn’t know what to do with it otherwise, they’re all half-witted, those copy editors.”

  “You’re an author, then,” Gina said weakly.

  “Yes,” said tight-lips, returning to her manuscript.

  Gina gazed out of the window. A don, possibly, but in that case an unusual don. A don who wrote erotic novels in her spare time, judging by the few paragraphs which had caught her eye as she picked up the pages.

  The train began to slow down. People stood up, pulling their bags down from the luggage rack, looking round for a bin in which to deposit sandwich wrappings and plastic cups.

  Nothing is what it seems, thought Gina, as the train slid into the station. She gazed idly out of the window, and took in the station name just as the guard called out, “Heartley Junction. Change here for all stations to Heartsfield.”

  Gina hastily crammed the card into her shoulder bag, dragged down her other bag from the rack and hurled herself through the compartment. Doors were already slamming shut as she jumped down on to the platform.

  A whistle blew, the train began to move. Gina stood on the platform, a bag in each hand, watching the windows flick by. As the train accelerated, she saw the woman who had been opposite her, her hand raised in salute, a distinctly wicked smile on her face.

  How very peculiar.

  The other passengers were making their way to the ‘Way Out’ sign. Gina looked about, wondering where the train to Heartsease left from. A man in uniform came up to her.

  “Heartsfield train?”

  “Yes.”

  “Platform three, across the bridge. Due in fifteen minutes.”

  Gina heaved her bag on to her shoulder and walked down to the end of the platform where a latticed bridge crossed the two main lines. She looked down on to the gleaming rails and then down on the other side. The line there ran parallel to the main lines for about a hundred yards and then curved off into the distance.

  There was nobody else on the platform. In fact, there didn’t seem to be anybody else on the station. The man who had given her directions had vanished; presumably he was up above in the old signal box which was now labelled ‘Ticket Office’, with a large arrow pointing up the narrow steps.

  It was hot, with the intense, powerful heat that can overwhelm the English countryside on a still June day. Gina felt sticky in her long linen skin. It was, she knew, crumpled and probably sagging behind as well. She sat down on the only bench, her bags beside her. Beyond, fields shimmered in the sun. Gina brushed a trickle of sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand, and, from force of habit, scanned the station once more, just to make sure that Mr Popplewell wasn’t lurking behind the litter bin.

  Two weeks ago, I didn’t know Mr Popplewell even existed, Gina thought gloomily. Now I jump when I hear footsteps in case his lanky frame is suddenly going to appear, or the phone rings and it’s his high-pitched, lisping voice on the other end.

  CHAPTER 1

  “Americans in Oxford are lost souls come home to roost,” said a very English voice.

  “Hi,” said Gina, as the lights changed, and the stream of traffic surged forward. She pulled herself back into the saddle and joined the wavering line of bicycles heading for the city centre. The other cyclist had been quicker off the mark and she could see his boyish figure some yards in front, before he peeled off to the left with a cheery wave of his hand.

  Gina sniffed the fume-laden air uncomplainingly; there was still, just, a breath of freshness in it, wafted from the river and Christchurch meadows in the hustle and bustle of the morning city. Am I a lost soul? she thought. Could be, it’s true that Americans get a little crazy when they come here. Either that or they get cynical and leave as fast as they can. Maybe I’d be a lost soul wherever I was. New York has more lost souls than Oxford, I’ll bet.

  Gina slid to a halt outside the post office and hauled her bike on to the pavement. She looped the chain round a handy drainpipe where another bicycle was already propped. A familiar and unlocked bike.

  Zoe was inside, queuing patiently and reading a book.

  “What are you doing here?” said Gina, joining in at the end of the line. “You were still in bed when I left the house.”

  “Yes, but you took the scenic route; I came straight here.”

  “You’ve forgotten to lock your bike again.”

  Zoe was about to deny this strongly, then found her lock tucked into her jacket pocket. “Keep my place,” she said, thrusting her book into Gina’s hands and darting out.

  “Still there,” she said, when she came back two minutes later. “I can’t afford to lose another bike, it’s so tiresome having to walk everywhere.”

  “It’s habit, locking them up.”

  “And they get taken just the same.”

  “True,” said Gina.

  “And there’s no point wishing one could afford a car, because it’s just as likely to get stolen, and moreover, you’d be completely stationary most of the time. Time to get out of the city, I think, we should live in the country.” Zoe gave a dramatic sigh.

  “I’ve come for a passport form,” said Gina as the queue shuffled forward. “For Alwyn. Do you think I need to stand in line, or would they have them out somewhere?”

  “They have shelves of passport forms over there,” said the woman behind them. “Never the one that you want, mind you.”
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br />   “I’ll have a look,” said Gina. She was back in a minute, empty-handed.

  “No luck?”

  “No. New passports only; Alwyn wants a renewal. So I’ll have to wait. Why is it so busy in here this morning?”

  “Pension day,” said the woman behind them. “Worst day of the week. Don’t go to Marks, either. Out of here, straight off there, cluttering up the aisles looking for a nice piece of cake. They’re a menace.”

  “Are you in early tonight?” Gina asked Zoe as they reached the counter.

  “No,” said Zoe, tucking her stamps into her purse. “Cinema, with Tim.”

  “See you much later, then,” said Gina as the clerk with a stiff little moustache and a suspicious expression reluctantly handed over the form for Alwyn.

  Gina didn’t care to think about passports. It reminded her that although her passport was in good order, her visa wasn’t.

  Illegal alien, she told herself as she folded the form carefully away in her bag. Like from Mars. Only nobody’s noticed, and luckily you don’t turn green or grow antennae when you’re one of the illegals. Just keep your head down, and nobody will notice.

  She pushed thoughts of passports and visas to the back of her mind and went on her way; pick up something for lunch at the market, call in at the dry cleaners for Alwyn’s suit, then off to Jude’s to begin the day’s work.

  Gina loved all the Oxford colleges, but Jude’s was where she had done her postgraduate work, and where she now worked for Dr Aumbry, fellow of the college and a highly regarded historian. It was covered with scaffolding just at present, which rendered it rather unappealing from an aesthetic point of view, but Gina knew and loved all the gargoyles presently undergoing cosmetic surgery under the flapping plastic. Rumour had it that they were caricatures of past fellows of the college, and that whenever they were restored, the masons added a new set of features in honour of the existing incumbents.

  “Hideous lot they were in that case,” Fergus had remarked flippantly one day. “Mind you, the present ones are just as bad. Mouldering away in an Oxford college does nothing for your looks.”

  The men working high above her head sent down some appreciative whistles and comments as she turned into the arched entrance. A female student, scurrying past, informed Gina that she was going to bring it up at the next meeting; it was outrageous that the college didn’t insist on workmen who had been obliged to conform to the NWNH code as set out by the women’s inter-collegiate group.

  “NWNH?” said Gina wonderingly to herself as she wheeled her bike round to the sheds.

  “No whistles, no hassles,” explained a tall girl who was likewise stowing her bike away. “Verbal rape, don’t you see?”

  Zoe and Fergus thought that funny, too, when she told them about it later that evening. They were sitting companionably around the table, eating hot buttered toast; they usually wound up in the kitchen to discuss the day’s news while having a last morsel before bed.

  “Anything else happen today?” said Zoe, carefully scraping the last of the chocolate and hazelnut spread out of the jar with her knife. “I have nothing at all to report; I had my usual totally tedious day at work, and then Tim took me to a film which was so dull I fell asleep almost at once.”

  “I did a long day’s work on my equally tedious doctorate,” said Fergus, yawning from behind a lurid tabloid as he reached out for the last piece of toast. He paused, looked at Gina, and offered it to her.

  “Your need is greater than mine,” he said, smothering a yawn. “You’re far too thin.”

  “That’s okay,” said Gina. “You go ahead.”

  “What about you?” Zoe’ asked. “How are the Tudors?”

  “Just fine,” said Gina, wiping the crumbs from the table and taking Zoe’s plate and knife over to the sink to wash. “I wish I’d lived then, I’m sure people were much more vibrant and lively in those days.”

  “Risky times,” said Fergus. “Any day might be your last, it must have given an extra buzz to life. Still, I know what you mean, I’m sure we all live smaller, meaner lives these days.”

  “Think of the smells,” said Zoe, licking the chocolatey spoon before Gina removed it from her grasp. “And talking of smells, is Jessica going to be in there for ever? I don’t know where she got that shower gel from, but my word, it’s strong.”

  For reasons best known to the builder of the house, the bathroom had originally been part of the kitchen. In fact, when Fergus’s father had bought the house for him at the start of his time at Oxford, the bath itself had been in the kitchen, with a slab arrangement on top acting as an extra work surface.

  “That won’t do,” Fergus’s father had said.

  Fergus had rather thought it would; the idea of a bath in the kitchen amused him. “Have a bath and fry your eggs at the same time.”

  Fergus’s father took no notice, but summoned a builder recommended by a neighbour.

  “Didn’t know any of these houses still had a bath in the kitchen. Course, in the old days they all did. Heat the water on the stove on a Saturday night, and the whole family would take a bath. Pretty filthy water by the time you got down to the nippers. No trouble about this, sir. I can extend that area at the back where the basin and the necessary is, if you take my meaning, and we can fit a bath in there.”

  “With a shower?” asked Fergus hopefully.

  “Why, we can manage a shower if that’s what you want. And if your dad’s prepared to pay for it,” he added, shooting Fergus’s father a quick glance from under his bushy eyebrows.

  Much to Fergus’s surprise, his father had been prepared to pay for it. A man of substantial means, he was nonetheless not one to throw his money about. A Scottish wife of frugal habits didn’t encourage him to spend, but, as he told Fergus, when a job’s to be done, you may as well get it done properly. “You’ll need to have everything shipshape here, you’ll want to be sharing with other men from your college. And even girls, and they won’t want to live in a dump.”

  “Girls?”

  “All you students share with girls, nothing to it, no particular friendships. It’ll be strange, after an all-boys school, and it wouldn’t have done in my day, but times change. Good idea if you ask me, if it’s just you and your chums, the place will be a pigsty.”

  “You mean we get girls in to clean up for us?”

  “You do not,” said his father amicably. “You get girls in and they’ll make you clean up. No point in living like a bunch of slobs.”

  Gina banged on the door, and got a sudsy comment in reply. “I think she’s dyeing her hair,” she said.

  “What colour this time?” said Fergus, interested. “I liked that purple shade.”

  “Oh, no,” said Zoe. “I’m dying to go to the loo, and I want to go to bed. Being bored is so exhausting. Honestly, I do wish something exciting would happen, to make all our lives change.”

  “Don’t wish that for me,” said Gina, wiping up the last of the dishes and stacking them away. “I love what I’m doing, I love being in Oxford, I want to live in England for ever, and I want my life to go on just as it is. And it’s going to.”

  “Famous last words,” said Fergus, folding up his paper and easing his long frame up from his chair. “Goodnight, everyone.”

  “Goodnight,” said Zoe, yawning. “I’m sure you’re right, though, Gina; everything will just go on exactly as it is, day after day after day. What a ghastly thought.”

  “Someone enquiring for you, miss,” the Jude’s porter said cheerfully as she picked up Alwyn’s post early the next morning.

  “For me? What kind of a someone?” she asked cautiously. It was unusual for people to leave messages for her at the college.

  “A young man,” the porter said. “Not one of ours, I don’t think. He looked official. He’s over there.”

  And over there he was, all thin, nasty, six-foot-two of him. He stooped over her as he held out a lifeless hand. “Miss Heartwell? I’m from the Home Office.”

  Zo
e didn’t believe her when she told them.

  “The Home Office writes, they don’t send officious young men to track you down.”

  “Well, they did. Oh, he had a letter as well, but he said they had had considerable difficulty tracing me, and it was part of his job to make quite sure that I understood that I was now in the country illegally and must depart within twenty-four hours.”

  “Twenty-four hours! Gina, that’s impossible. What are you going to do?”

  Gina shrugged, fighting tears, putting on a calm face. This is a panic-free zone, she told herself.

  “Does Alwyn know?”

  “I went straight to him and told him. He wasn’t very pleased, deep in something as usual. And I suppose I was a bit incoherent. Anyway, he loped out, and had a word with Mr Popplewell, who was hanging about, talking to the swans I suppose. Then he came back and started making all kinds of phone calls.”

  “Any use?”

  Gina shook her head. “Not really. Two weeks instead of twenty-four hours. But out. I can reapply when I’m back in the States, but apparently because my visa expired and I stayed on illegally, they won’t be very keen to let me back in.”

  “Alwyn will miss you. He’s never had a research assistant as good as you, he said so to Miss Crowe; she told me when I met her in the High this morning.”

  At any other time, that would have pleased Gina hugely. Now it just seemed one more bitter rub.

  “I don’t want to go back to America,” she said.

  “Why not? You’ve got family there, haven’t you?”

  “Only my father. I hardly ever see him, and I don’t think he’d put out the flags if I showed up at his studio.”

  “Your parents are divorced, aren’t they.”

  It wasn’t a question. Gina’s housemates knew little about her family, since Gina rarely spoke about her private life, but Zoe knew that her parents had separated when she was little. Friends of Fergus’s had split up some months before, and Gina had shown a rare anger, abusing them for going their separate ways. “They’ve got kids. Don’t they know what divorce does to kids?”