Wild Grapes

by Elizabeth Aston

  “I’m looking forward to sampling them,” said Don politely. “Byron was singing your praises, saying what an excellent cook you are.”

  “Ha, I have other skills as well, but those he doesn’t praise.”

  Don and Gina both started to speak.

  “You first,” said Don.

  “No, it was nothing,” said Gina. “Nadia, what about that arm?”

  “Let me see,” said Don. He looked at Nadia’s reddening arm. “I tell you what, I’ll run you up to the Hall and my aunt can have a look at it. I’m on my way there in any case, for dinner.” Another thought struck him. “Actually, I’ve got an idea. Byron, go and tidy yourself up a bit. Nadia, put on a frock. You can join us for dinner.”

  Nadia was outraged. “What manners! Here is this Gina, and you invite us and ignore her.”

  Don laughed. “Sorry, of course you don’t know who Gina is. She’s staying at the Hall, a cousin of ours.”

  Nadia stared at Gina, a long, hard, appraising look. “A cousin? Of yours? Of this oh-so English family? This is surprising.”

  Gina felt herself go red. “I’m a distant cousin,” she said.

  “A distant cousin with Russian blood,” said Nadia shrewdly.

  “Nadia, you’re embarrassing Gina,” said Byron. “I think Gina and Don probably know if they’re cousins or not. Don, it’s extremely thoughtful of you, but we can’t possibly intrude on your family for dinner.”

  “Of course you can,” said Don. “It’s an excellent idea, because our family gatherings always end in a quarrel. I don’t get involved; I’m not a quarrelsome person, but everyone else does. Best to have visitors, makes them think twice before they start shouting at each other.”

  He saw the doubt lingering on Byron’s face. “Are you on the phone yet?”

  Byron nodded. “The telephone people came this morning.”

  “Then I’ll give Hester a ring and tell her to expect us.”

  “Two extra for dinner,” Guy sang out as he came into the kitchen.

  “Two more? Who more? Why? How can I be expected to feed two more just like that?” Maria’s voice was loud with indignation.

  “Aw, give over, Maria,” said Esme, plonking a jar of Vegemite down on the kitchen table. “You know you always cook more than enough. What’s two more? Pass the bread, Guy.”

  “I don’t know how you can eat that stuff,” said Guy, wrinkling his nose as he cut Esme a neat chunk of bread.

  “It’s good for me,” said Esme, spreading Vegemite liberally on her bread. “Keeps me in good health.”

  “Well, you certainly look healthy,” said Guy with no particular enthusiasm.

  “Come on, then, sick it up,” said Esme. “Who’s coming tonight? Anyone worth knowing?”

  “The new couple from Heartsbane. An architect and his wife. She’s foreign, they say,” he added. Guy had his own impeccable sources and knew all about Byron and Nadia.

  Maria glanced across at Esme. “Sit, when you eat. You are a savage.”

  “No can do,” said Esme amicably. “My bum is giving me real gyp.”

  “Your bum is what?” Maria was horrified. “You have piles in my kitchen? This is intolerable!”

  Guy didn’t like low talk. “Esme has a sore behind, Maria, that’s all,” he said. “She got sunburnt this afternoon. She can’t sit down.”

  Maria’s horror turned to outrage. “And why is your behind exposed to the sun? I never heard of such a thing. It is like the monkeys in the zoo.”

  “Very like the monkeys in the zoo, if you ask me,” said Guy under his breath.

  “I want to hear no more of this,” said Maria, brandishing a spoon. “Esme, you have eaten enough. Back to work; all those pots must be washed and cleaned until they shine.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Imagine living here for the rest of your life. Gina felt a shiver down her spine as she looked at the ravishing view spread out before her.

  She leant further out of the bedroom window, breathing in the summer air and its scents, the quintessence of an English summer. Imagine being part of this family, this English tradition. Having your home here, among the narrow lanes and green fields with a silver river winding between them. It must be beautiful in winter, too; think of it glittering with hoar frost on a December morning.

  And I am becoming fond of Harry, Gina thought. Not madly in love with him, not in love at all, but so? He was prepared to settle for second best. And how many wild, overwhelming romances survived more than a very few years?

  Georgie had misled her; Georgie would, of course. Harry wasn’t looking for a quick hitch in the register office and then separate lives. Do I want to be married to an English bisexual? Gina asked herself.

  Lots of women were.

  According to her friends, all too many Englishmen who had suffered the rigours of the very English, very peculiar, all-boys public schools spent the rest of their lives in some degree of ambivalence as far as sex was concerned. Could you bear having Guy and others like him making sheep’s eyes at your husband? Was a husband like Victor any better?

  Better not to think about Victor; that was a thought which quickened your senses. Better not to think at all; thinking was too much of a strain on a summer’s evening. Live in the present; count your blessings, as Fergus was always saying. She was free of the fear of the Popplewell, she was staying in this astonishing house, she was getting used to the family, even beginning to like them. Life was calm; life was, all things considered, good.

  Beware the happy mood, an ancient philosopher might have said. On the table downstairs in the hall were magazines, newly arrived, not yet passed on to various members of the family and staff. Idly, Gina picked up Nicky’s copy of Gossip!

  She froze. There, right across the centre spread, was a picture of a hot party in New York, with Georgie in a vestigial black dress, winking at the camera. ‘Georgie takes the town by storm,’ read the caption. And in the block of text underneath, all in large letters for those subscribers who read with their tongues sticking out, was an account of the meteoric rise of young English journalist Georgie Heartwell.

  In a flash, Gina whipped the magazine away. Footsteps sounded; in desperation, she stuffed it under the cushion of the sofa which was placed between two doors.

  “Drinks on the terrace,” said Guy. He had a tray of glasses in his hand and was obviously waiting for Gina to go ahead of him. She went, wondering when she would have an opportunity to retrieve the magazine and shred it. You couldn’t trust an expert housekeeper like Hester not to make sure that the sofa cushions were regularly taken up and shaken. She might even do it every night.

  Dinner began badly, with Victor holding forth on the Home Office and the dregs of society they saw fit to let into the country while keeping out such useful souls as musicians, Hong Kong businessmen and, for some obscure reason, irrigation experts.

  Harry enlightened Gina in a whisper. “Pa has a big deal going in water, but they won’t let him employ the engineer he wants. He’s an American; the Home Office insist he can find a Brit who has the same qualifications.”

  “And foreigners who marry English men and women they don’t like - or in some cases, they don’t even know - simply to be able to live and work here. And arranged marriages. Mediaeval, no place for it in a modern society.”

  “It’s the custom in their countries.”

  “Then let them stay in their countries and have their customs there. I never heard it was part of our culture.”

  “We have no culture now, Pa,” said Harry, stoking the flames. “It’s a multicultural world we live in now.”

  This brought a minor explosion. “You may live where you choose, Harry. I’m not going to live in a cultural hodge-podge, with a bit of sitar music here, a bongo drum there, have a look at Chinese history, learn strange languages at school when you can’t even speak English. It’s an ignorant assumption that if something comes from a hotter part of the world, it must be wonderful, and we all have to treat it with r
everence.”

  “Calm down, Victor,” said Prim. “Harry is just being annoying.”

  Victor glowered across the table at his youngest son and then turned to the subject of foreigners from the erstwhile Iron Curtain countries. “Sensible move for a woman to trap a westerner, can’t blame them for wanting to get out from that system,” he said illogically. “Fool men not to realize what all those exotic-eyed women were up to; still, they learned the hard way, waking up to find themselves married to a temperamental Pole or a fiendish-tempered Russian.”

  “Pa,” said Don firmly. “That is enough.”

  Gina cast a quick look at Byron, who had a fixed expression on his face, and Nadia, who was muttering into her asparagus.

  “And now I’ve got this Popplewell buzzing around me,” complained Victor, tearing a roll with his strong fingers.

  Popplewell?

  Gina went cold.

  “Who’s Popplewell?” asked Harry.

  “Some freak from the Home Office, sniffing round one or two of my companies, making a fuss about work permits. I employ people who can do the work, I don’t care where they come from. If I say on the application that the work can’t be done by a national, then that’s the situation. I don’t need reptiles like this Popplewell lecturing me. And I won’t put up with it. Popplewell had better watch his step.”

  Gina swallowed hard. “Can your father take on the Home Office?” she asked Harry in a whisper.

  “No problem,” said Harry. “Squash ’em like flies once his blood is up. Not a man to cross, Pa.”

  “I can believe you,” said Gina.

  Victor had realized his faux pas on the subject of Russian wives, and was busy making matters much worse.

  “My apologies,” he was saying sincerely to Nadia. “Wouldn’t have said a word if I’d realized you were one of these escapees from communism. Well done, and your husband didn’t do too badly, did he; women like you don’t grow on trees. Think of all the dull, grey Englishwomen he might have married. Worked out all right, has it? You must have been here a while, perfect English, and of course that whole business there is finished now. You’re still married, aren’t you? And I dare say you still sleep together, lots of sex, that’s what keeps a marriage going.”

  “I think you’ve embarrassed our guests quite enough,” said Julia calmly. “I don’t consider the secrets of the marriage bed are a suitable topic for discussion at the dinner table.”

  “When you think what she talks about...” whispered Harry.

  “Have some more asparagus, Mrs Wintersett,” said Hester. “Grown in our own vegetable garden. Now, tell me what your plans are for Oracle Cottage.”

  Esme was clanking away at the sideboard, humming happily as she dished out a basil sorbet. Julia watched her with growing disapproval.

  “Esme, are your pants the wrong size? Why are you squirming like that?”

  Esme plonked a plate in front of Gina. “Made of leaves,” she informed her. “Seems strange to me, but Maria swears it’s okay.” She raised her voice. “No, Mrs C, I’m not wearing pants. In fact, I don’t usually wear a skirt, this is the only one I’ve got.”

  Victor eyed the large white canvas skirt and thought that it was just as well.

  “Then control yourself,” said Julia.

  “It’s just sunburn,” said Esme as she went the rounds with more plates. “On my bum, it’s very painful. Guy rubbed some cream in, but I don’t think it’s altogether worked.”

  “Come over here and I’ll look at it for you,” said Julia, laying down her napkin and getting up from the table.

  “No,” said Victor at once. “I do not want to see Esme’s bottom displayed while I’m trying to eat my dinner. This is not the zoo.”

  “You shouldn’t want to see my bottom at any time,” said Esme severely. “Not that I’d show it to any man anyway, but at your age, your mind should be on other things.”

  “At my age?” Victor was furious.

  “What about Guy, then?” Harry asked.

  “Aw, he doesn’t count as a man,” said Esme scornfully. “He isn’t anything.” She gathered up the empty bowl and hobbled out of the room. Julia resumed her seat, Victor dug his spoon into the sorbet.

  “Staff,” he said ominously.

  To turn his mind to other matters, Don asked his father how things had gone in Switzerland. This was a mistake. Victor told him in morose tones that things had not gone at all well. Victor’s mind was on Cucki’s exquisite breasts; Don was thinking about dairy products from cloven-hoofed creatures.

  “Oh, that,” said Victor, switching his mind from Swiss delights to money. “No, we’ll sort it out all right. That reminds me. Hester!” he bellowed down the table.

  “I’m talking, Victor,” said Hester.

  “Never mind that, if I don’t tell you now, I’ll be bound to forget it. I’ve asked a chap I met in Switzerland to stay. He’s going to be in England for a few days, so he’s coming at the weekend.”

  “Who is this man?” Julia asked suspiciously.

  “A painter. American. Well-thought-of, good work, I might buy a picture, although I gather they come expensive. Called Zandermann. Serge Zandermann.”

  The Cordovans never lingered en famille after dinner. Tonight, as usual, they dispersed as soon as the last mouthful of cheese had been eaten. Guy offered coffee in the drawing-room, but there were no takers. Victor and Julia were off for a heavy session in the bedroom. Prim had watering in mind and Aimee, as always, had an assignation.

  Tm going to wander along to the Bunch of Grapes with Byron and Nadia,” announced Don. “They’re looking a trifle shell-shocked. Coming, Gina? Harry?”

  Byron protested that they should be getting home, but Don took no notice. Harry announced that he and Gina were going to have a swim, and might join them later.

  “I’m not sure if I want to swim,” said Gina. “Not after a meal, and besides, my wits are befuddled, I’ve had too much wine. And I, too, am suffering from shock.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Harry soothingly.

  They were by now in the hall, and Gina felt under the cushions on the sofa. Still there, thank goodness.

  “What’s that?” asked Harry. “Oh, Nicky’s rag. I adore that one, I read it on the loo when she’s finished with it. What’s it doing hidden under the cushions?”

  “Does everyone else read it?” Gina asked anxiously.

  “Don’t think so,” said Harry. “Plenty going on in their own lives, they’ve no need to read the salacious details of publicity-hungry nobodies.”

  “Look,” said Gina dramatically.

  “Ah,” said Harry. “Now, that is unfortunate.” He pursed his lips as he read the text.

  “Anybody who looks at that is going to be suspicious,” said Gina. “Don’t tell me she doesn’t look more the Georgie your family knew than I do.”

  “What? Oh, I see what you mean. I feel you worry unnecessarily, you know. This isn’t a very good picture. A good thing it’s not properly labelled, they’ve spelt her name as though she were you, not herself. I tell you something, if Victor knew this number in the come-on dress was his coz, he’d be furious. Vulgar, our Georgie, as I told you.”

  “It’s not just that someone here might see it,” said Gina. “It’s Popplewell.”

  “Popplewell? Oh, the officious bureaucrat who’s got up Pa’s nose. What’s Popplewell to you?”

  “He’s the one who found out my visa was overdue, and hounded me.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s suspicious anyhow. I didn’t tell you, but he was the man following my friend in Bath the other day. He must have thought she would lead him to me.”

  “Got it,” said Harry. “Should he be a Gossip! reader, he’ll click on at once to the fact that this trollop in the piccie isn’t you.”

  “That’s not all,” said Gina. “You haven’t heard the worst.”

  “Worse than this Popplewell guy?” said Harry, amused by her increasingly doleful expressio
n.

  “Much,” she said tragically. “This painter who’s coming, Serge Zandermann . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s my father.”

  This final revelation was too much for Harry, who burst out laughing.

  Gina was affronted. “You don’t understand! And this afternoon I was feeling so happy - and so safe. Oh, do stop laughing. It isn’t funny.”

  “It’s extremely funny,” said Harry, making noble efforts to restrain his laughter. “What a tangled web, you have to agree.”

  “That’s all very well, but what do I do?”

  “I will have to work out a plan,” said Harry. “Meanwhile, here we are, a blissful evening, you can see the stars, bright as they are, through the glass roof. Put on your very fetching costume, and have a refreshing swim. No Popplewells or wandering fathers are lurking here, you’re perfectly safe.”

  From them, yes, but what about you, thought Gina; she wasn’t at all sure about the look in Harry’s eye.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked as she swam decorously past him.

  “Etchings,” he said blandly.

  Etchings? Gina didn’t like the sound of that. On the other hand, it was very warm, and she had had a lot of wine, and she did feel in need of comforting...

  Harry dried her in a most beguiling fashion before propelling her upstairs. “I live in the solar,” he said, guiding her towards a huge and historic-looking four-poster bed.

  “Why aren’t your parents in this room?”

  “It’s a long time since it was the principal bedroom. They have a big room, complete with bathroom, in the tower. Over there,” he said, gesturing to one corner of the room, “is a tiny chamber, with two squints. When we are not otherwise occupied, I’ll show them to you.”

  “Uh,” said Gina.

  Harry kissed her, politely, but, thought Gina, quite interestingly.