Wild Grapes

by Elizabeth Aston

  Gina looked at Georgie. Yes, there was a similarity, but it was a similarity of colouring and physique, not of personality or style. Side by side they looked very different. Georgie gleamed with good health, she had plentiful curves and an air of opulence. Gina looked like a heroine from a black-and-white French film, with her emphatic bones, vulnerable smile and dark, bruised eyes.

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Georgie cheerfully. “Infants don’t have personality and style, at least not so that fairly distant relations would remember. And don’t worry about my family tipping up for the wedding and spilling the beans. I’m an orphan, no brothers, no sisters, just one set of grandparents who live on an island off the coast of Scotland, and who never, ever, leave it. We might have to fudge a few photos if the need arises.”

  “Wouldn’t you mind your grandparents thinking you were married when you aren’t?”

  “No,” said Georgie. “I plan to live abroad, you see.”

  “It’s all very interesting,” said Gina politely, “but I think it’s a completely crazy idea, and the answer is no, of course it is. You didn’t seriously expect me to even think of it for a moment, did you?”

  “Stranger things have happened,” said Georgie. “Who knows how you’ll feel after a few more days of Mr Popplewell dogging your feet?” She got up. “Give me a ring when you’ve realized that it’s the best thing you can do. Lovely England, lovely Alwyn Aumbry, how can you give it all up?”

  She handed Gina a card and vanished. Gina sat and looked at the curiously old-fashioned card with its engraved copperplate. Georgiana Hartwell, it read. That gave Gina a jolt. Oh well, she thought, I should have guessed Georgie has to be short for something, and why not Georgiana? She probably loathes the name as much as I do.

  She didn’t tell anyone about the conversation when she got back to the house in the early hours of the morning. In fact, when she looked back on it as she lay sleepless in bed, it had a surreal quality; she hardly believed it had ever taken place.

  Just as surreal was Mr Popplewell. Gina assumed that he would have gone back to London. Surely Home Office officials lived and worked in London? This one was apparently in no hurry to get back to London.

  “On out-of-office expenses, I should think,” said Fergus as they fled from a favourite pub where they had found Mr Popplewell grinning mirthlessly at them over a glass of non-alcoholic beer. He had appeared in Bodley; fortunately the Librarian had woken up for once and ejected him as forcefully as his sixty-three years and mild disposition would allow. Gina had spotted his over-tall figure walking across Magdalen Bridge, and darting behind the heaped-up fruit and vegetables in the covered market.

  Just as unsettling were the notes and messages from Georgie which appeared on the doormat or in a book she had left on the library table or were handed to her by the college porter.

  “Billets-doux,” he said with a leer. “Ever so many notes, of course I shouldn’t take them in, it’s not my job, you aren’t a member of this college, are you, my duck? But I was young once, had my assignations...”

  And that I don’t believe, Gina said to herself crossly, as she walked round the cloisters to Alwyn’s staircase. Another note from Georgie, this time proposing a meeting. “I’ll call round at your place tonight, hot news!”

  Gina at once decided to be elsewhere;, but she was no match for Georgie who turned up at tea-time, complete with a letter from Harry Cordovan, full of enthusiasm for Georgie’s plan.

  “Send the wench down with all possible dispatch,” he had written in a careless scrawl. “Does she drive, or do you need train times?”

  “Please leave me alone,” said Gina furiously. “My life is difficult as it is, without you nagging away at me.”

  “But I can resolve all your difficulties,” said Georgie coaxingly.

  Fergus came into the kitchen carrying a pile of books under his arm. He looked thoughtfully at Georgie, who smiled delightfully back at him. “I’m so concerned about Gina, she looks as though she’s been abandoned at the orphanage. We must help her sort out these problems with the Immigration people, don’t you agree?”

  “All her friends are doing what they can,” said Fergus repressively. Gina was pleased, in some dim recess of her mind, that he didn’t seem impressed with Georgie’s charms.

  “Gina, I’m going to put in a few hours at the library. Can you leave a key out under the boot scraper? I can’t find mine.”

  Georgie left soon after Fergus, in a whirl of people she had to see, things to do. “I’ll leave Harry’s letter. I know you’ll come round, it really is the only sensible thing to do.”

  Gina was too worried and harassed to wonder why Georgie had been so persistent. No one could want to help a cousin as much as she seemed to. Besides, people who knew Georgie had warned Gina how self-centred her new acquaintance was.

  “There must be something in it for her,” one friend said with foreboding. “Something, moreover, that is present and tangible. I never heard of Georgie Hartwell lifting a finger to help anyone else unless there was some advantage to her.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Four more days,” said Zoe, in gloomy tones.

  “Yes, and two of those are the weekend,” said Gina.

  “Doesn’t look too good,” said Fergus, who was thoughtfully eating a large piece of toast generously spread with Cooper’s best.

  Gina picked up her cup of coffee. Bitter, she thought. I don’t want it, I don’t feel like eating or drinking anything.

  Zoe was having none of that. “What good will starving do you? If you don’t eat, you’ll end up depressed. And you’re not going to wake up feeling pleased with life because you’ve lost a few pounds; you’ve none to spare. Besides, you need to eat properly; to eat lots, in fact, then you’d look less haunted. And you’d look better in Jessica’s dresses.”

  “I won’t need to look better in Jessica’s dresses; I won’t be wearing them.”

  “Nothing in the post?”

  “No, nothing in the post,” said Gina. “And I won’t be able to eat Cooper’s marmalade when I go back to America,” she said, almost in tears.

  Fergus put his arm round her and gave her a squeeze. “We’re not beaten yet,” he said in his kindly way. “My father is still doing what he can, and hasn’t Alwyn come up with anything?”

  “A return ticket,” said Gina, reaching for a tissue. “He says he can’t raise anyone who could help, they’re all away on House of Commons jollies, or, in the case of officials, not answering calls. Things are tense at the moment, apparently, government likely to fall, everybody watching their backs.”

  “You should understand all about that,” said Zoe. “Just like Tudor politics.”

  “Not half so interesting or subtle, actually,” said Gina. “The upshot is, nothing doing. Hence the air ticket.”

  “When for?”

  “It’s open, but I’ll have to book a flight for Monday. Popplewell will be on the doorstep by then, ready for the kill.”

  “He was in the garden yesterday,” said Zoe casually, as she helped herself to toast.

  “What, in our garden?” said Fergus, reddening as generations of landowners rose in him. “You should have rung the police, got him for trespass.”

  “He was peering in a downstairs window, so I threw one of Jessica’s old skates at him.”

  “Did you hit him?”

  “Unfortunately not, but he scarpered pretty quickly.”

  “It’s a nuisance for you, all this,” said Gina apologetically. “It’s gotten beyond a joke. You’ll be glad when I’ve left.”

  They didn’t bother to answer that one, but simply looked at her in silence.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, lifting her hand in defeat. “Thanks, anyway.”

  She got up from the table. “I’ll be back sometime this afternoon. To pack.”

  Til give you a hand,” said Zoe. “I can take the afternoon off.”

  “Won’t the University Chest crumble without you?” Fergus a
lways teased Zoe about her work.

  Zoe had what was, for Oxford, a fairly demanding administrative job with the body which handled the University’s financial affairs, but she didn’t kid herself. “We aren’t what Gina would call a hot-shot outfit, as you very well know,” she said. “And friends are friends.”

  Gina set off down the High, keeping a wary eye out for Mr Popplewell. Not wary enough; he cornered her in Blackwells.

  “I understand you have bought your ticket,” he said. “We would like you to make a reservation, a ticket isn’t quite enough to convince us that you mean to depart.”

  “I’m going to go, isn’t that enough for you?” hissed Gina.

  Mr Popplewell didn’t lower his voice, but since it was in any case a soft voice, further rendered unintelligible by his lisp, he didn’t attract the attention of other customers. Much to Gina’s relief; she didn’t want the whole world to know she was being deported.

  “You’re harassing me,” she spat at him.

  “No, Miss Heartwell, I’m simply doing my duty. If everyone abused our rules of entry and residence in the way you have, then where would we all be?”

  I know where I wish you were, thought Gina. Bulgaria, or some unpleasant commune in China. Someplace where all the inhabitants were Popplewells, bureaucratic, relentless, humourless.

  “I’m going, okay? Now, for God’s sake, leave me alone.” He made no move. “If you don’t go, I’ll summon the manager and tell him you’re molesting me.”

  He moved. Not far, because Gina could see him lurking outside on the pavement. No problem. Gina turned into the Eng. Lit. section and dived through the staff door, glad that one of her many friends had once worked in the shop and had showed her all the back ways in and out.

  Free of the Popplewell, she made her way towards an Italian restaurant in North Oxford, there to meet an informant.

  “I’m broke,” Hugh had cheerfully told her. “But if you buy me lunch, I’ll tell you what I know about Georgie Hartwell, and I know quite a lot.”

  Gina was broke, too, but she had borrowed the money from Alwyn, promising she’d send him repayment from the States.

  He waved her suggestion aside. “No hurry, you can pay me back in the autumn.”

  “I won’t be here,” said Gina.

  “Yes, you will,” said Alwyn. “You’ve got a return ticket. Go straight to the Embassy or Consulate when you get back to America, and apply for a work permit. I’ll do what’s necessary here; given time, there are a lot of strings I can pull. I’m not letting you go, it would interrupt my work greatly, and it’s far too important for that.”

  “I’d like to come back, of course.”

  “No question,” he said, slightly impatient now. “It would be a serious setback to begin with another research assistant at this point. You’re used to my way of working, I haven’t got time to start again with someone else. No, no, you have a nice holiday, come back for October. I’m going off for a few weeks myself, in any case,” he added in a throwaway manner. “With Angela.” Bloody Angela, thought Gina.

  “I’m going to have an enormous pizza,” said Hugh. “How rich are you feeling? Can I order lots of extras on top?”

  Gina laughed. “I’ve borrowed some money, so go ahead. I don’t mind what you order, as long as you give me the low-down on Georgie.”

  “Great. In that case we’ll have a bottle of wine.”

  Gina absent-mindedly ordered an American Hot. Then she waited while the waitress dumped a jug of iced water down in front of them.

  “Well?” she said.

  Hugh poured himself a glass of water and looked furtively round the restaurant. It was early, and they were the only people eating there. “That’s why I chose this place,” he explained. “A bit off the beaten track, you see. Georgie would never come here, and I can’t see any of her snouts trudging out this far.”

  “Snouts?”

  “Georgie’s a journalist,” Hugh reminded her. “At least, that’s her buzz of the moment. It might not last, things usually don’t, not with Georgie. Still this phase has gone on a lot longer than usual, so you never know.”

  “Start at the beginning,” said Gina. “How do you know Georgie?”

  “My sister and she were at school together,” said Hugh. “She came up to Oxford the same year as me, I got to know her a bit, parties and so on. Then she moved into a flat with one of my college friends, so I got to know her a bit better. About that time she got very heavily into student politics. The hard stuff, demos, chucking bottles at policemen, that kind of thing. It finally became too much for her college, and she was flung out. No degree, but that doesn’t matter too much when you’re going to inherit the Hartwell millions.”

  “Hartwell millions? What millions?”

  “Don’t you know anything about her? Her family started and still own Hartwell’s Hams. Come on, you must have heard of them. Of course, it isn’t just hams any more. Her great-grandfather was a butcher with ideas. Next generation, chains of shops, then all kinds of food processing, factories, exports, speciality lines. The family didn’t go from clogs to clogs in three generations, either. They made a packet, held on to it, and went out to make some more. Georgie’s parents died when she was quite small; I believe a canning plant in Argentina blew up when they were visiting it - anyway, the long and the short of it is that when granny and grandpa pop off, she rakes it all in. And she gets quite a handy payout in any case when she’s twenty-five; a lot of family trusts mature.”

  “How do you know all this?” said Gina, astonished. She didn’t know half so much about most of her friends.

  “I made it my business to find out. I always fancied marrying an heiress,” said Hugh disarmingly. “Giant pizzas every day of one’s life, do you see?”

  “Possibly,” said Gina. “Is it easy to acquire an heiress?”

  “It’s not necessarily difficult,” said Hugh. “And Georgie rather fancies me. However, one has to draw the line somewhere, and I’m afraid my line stops this side of Georgie. She’s poison, you take it from me.”

  “Oh,” was all Gina could say.

  “Why do you want to know, in any case?” asked Hugh.

  I’d have asked that right at the beginning, thought Gina. “She’s come up with a ... Well, a kind of business proposition.”

  “Don’t touch it,” said Hugh instantly. He leant back as the waitress plonked a huge pizza in front of him, and another one in front of Gina. “Any business proposition will be one hundred per cent to Georgie’s advantage and zilch to you, you take it from me.” He twisted in his chair, an elegant affair, not designed for the long, loose limbs which Hugh had wound round them. “Where’s that wine?” he said.

  “Careful with that chair, young man,” said the waitress as she banged the bottle down triumphantly on the table. “We’ll charge you if you break it.”

  “Fascist,” said Hugh, glaring at her departing back. “Now, where were we?”

  Gina was thinking hard as she retrieved the key from its place under the boot scraper and let herself into an empty house. Fergus was obviously spending a full day in the library, and no Zoe, either; she couldn’t have left work as early as she had planned.

  Gina felt the need of company as she climbed on a chair to haul down her big suitcase from on top of the vast Victorian wardrobe which dominated her room. She put it on the bed, opened it halfheartedly and blew at a wandering spider. Indignant at being disturbed, it zoomed behind the bedstead. Wish I could just scuttle away and hide, thought Gina.

  She was trying to make herself believe that this was it, that she was actually packing to go. And to go where? Home? She didn’t have a home in the States any more. But then, she told herself, lots of people her age didn’t have homes. Why should she, a well-educated, capable, single woman be so reluctant to return to her own country? She’d have to get a job, well, of course she’d have to earn her own living. What did she expect? The trouble is, she told herself as she pulled an armful of clothes out of
a drawer, that I will admit to being well-educated and single, but no way do I feel capable.

  How ironic, she thought, that she could work anywhere in the States as of right, but would have great difficulty, whatever Alwyn said, in prising a work permit out of the Brits. Whereas Georgie could live and work anywhere in England - or Europe, if it came to that, but couldn’t even get an entry visa to the States, let alone be able to work there.

  “She can’t believe it,” Hugh told her. “With her money and contacts, she’s rarely thwarted. Now she’s got this chance of a job on a New York mag - a friend has offered it to her, of course - and the Yanks, sorry, I was forgetting, the Americans, will have none of her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Student record,” said Hugh. “In her salad days she flew out to America and joined in a few of your home-grown rumbles, as if the ones here weren’t enough. A police record here, on FBI files over there... No, it won’t wash. She can be Hartwell’s Hams fifty times over, they still aren’t keen to have her.”

  And they wouldn’t want me if they knew how I feel about going there right now, thought Gina, discarding a pile of undies which had seen better days.

  “Hey,” said Zoe, bursting into the room, a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other. “If you’re chucking out that slip, I’ll have it. It’s much better than my long one, which is in pieces.”

  Gina shrugged. “I shan’t need it,” she said. “Help yourself. The rest of them are a bit tatty, though.”

  “Mmm,” said Zoe. “Nothing wrong with this at all. Are you sure you don’t want it?”

  “I’m not going to be wearing long dresses, not any more. No more parties, no more dances.”

  Zoe cleared a space on the chest of drawers and put the bottle and glasses down. She looked at her friend, distressed by the sadness in her face. “You’ve got shadows under your eyes,” she said finally. “You aren’t sleeping properly.”