Wild Grapes

by Elizabeth Aston

  “Do you think it matters how level it is?”

  “It says in the instructions, later on, when you’ve actually got the sides up, that if when the water is in, it isn’t level to within an inch, then you have to take everything down and start again.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” said Sybil darkly.

  “Did they give you any advice where you bought it?”

  “They said two people could put it up in about three or four hours.”

  “But no mention of this levelling business?”

  “Not a word. I would never have bought it if they’d come clean and explained about having to do all this shovelling work before you even get the pool out of its box.”

  “A lot of folks back in the States have these,” said Gina. “But they put them on concrete, or in their front yards, which are level anyway.”

  “Back in the States? Are you American? I thought I detected a very slight accent.”

  Gina could have kicked herself. “I am American originally,” she said. “I’ve been over here for years. At the moment, I’m, well, nobody here knows I’m American.”

  That earned her a very sharp look from Sybil.

  “They won’t know about it from me,” she said. “So don’t worry about it.”

  Thank you,” said Gina. Perhaps she owed it to her hostess to explain things a little more.

  “Definitely not,” said Sybil quickly and firmly. “From what you and Harry have said, it’s clearly a complicated business, and I want no part in it. I presume whatever it is you’re up to has no spiteful intent? You aren’t a journalist, sniffing out some scandal about people here? Not out to get the Cordovans? They’re old friends, as you know.”

  “No,” said Gina. “It’s a personal matter, it won’t harm anyone.”

  Was that true? If she were to get married, to Harry, would that count as harming him or his family? If they expected a piggy fortune, and there wasn’t one?

  “Oh, to hell with it all,” she said, sending Sybil’s expressive eyebrows flying up. “Let’s get back to this levelling business.”

  Sybil sighed as she looked at the round patch of ground they had measured out, using a piece of string held by a skewer in the centre. “What we need,” she announced, “is an expert.”

  Gina sat back on her heels, dusting the soil off her knees. “An architect,” she said. “Architects must know about level ground.”

  Sybil wasn’t convinced. “I think they don’t begin until someone else has done the levelling.”

  “No, no,” said Gina. “They must know how it should be done, even if they’ve never scrabbled about at ground level.”

  “In any case,” said Sybil, “there is no architect at hand.”

  “Oh, yes, there is,” said Gina, getting to her feet and stretching her cramped legs. “He lives at Oracle Cottage.”

  “Of course,” said Sybil. “The new people. I hardly know them.”

  “Then here’s your chance.”

  Byron was alone at Oracle Cottage. He peered down at them from his perch on the exposed loft beams. Nadia was over at the vineyard, he explained. “Probably yelling and screaming at poor Don,” he said rather hopelessly.

  “Do Don good to have someone telling him what,” said Sybil in forthright tones. “What’s your wife screaming about?”

  “She feels he ought to do something about the shop there.”

  “And so he should,” said Sybil. “I’ve been telling him that for years. His wine’s doing well and he likes his work, but he’s far too lazy. Thinks it’s too much effort to put himself out for commercial gain; he doesn’t realize how good it would be for the village. We don’t want to be inundated with tourists, but a few more passing through would be good for trade all round. And if he got the shop going, it would provide work for one or two women in the village. They need it.”

  Byron eyed Sybil with new respect. “There is that,” he said. “Well, Nadia’s very forceful once she’s made her mind up that something needs to be done, so we shall see.”

  A few bits of plaster detached themselves from the remains of the ceiling and landed beside Sybil. “Come down from there,” she said. “I’m getting a crick in my neck talking to you, and we need your expert advice.”

  He climbed down the ladder and landed beside them, shaking plaster out of his hair. “Sorry,” he said, as some powdery flakes flew over Gina.

  “Nasty things, old ceilings,” said Sybil.

  Gina was looking up at the cavity in the ceiling with awe. “Whatever is that made of?”

  “The laths are wood. The plaster is a right old hodge-podge. Animal hair to bind it together, reeds, old bits of shell from the lime they used...” He sneezed. “All incredibly dusty.”

  “Are you bringing the whole ceiling down?” asked Sybil.

  “I hope not,” said Byron. “I hadn’t intended to bring any of it down, but Nadia went through a woodwormy board upstairs last night. She ended up with one foot dangling through the ceiling here.”

  “I bet she was furious,” said Gina, thinking of Nadia’s temper.

  “She wasn’t very pleased,” said Byron, trying not to think about it.

  “How can you possibly live here?” asked Sybil, looking about at the derelict surroundings.

  “It’s a matter of camping in the one or two sound rooms while we do it up.”

  “We?”

  “Me, mostly. Nadia’s very good at decorating, though,” he added defensively.

  “No doubt, but it’s going to be some time before you get to the paintwork.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Byron optimistically. “Can I offer you some tea? Or a cold drink? There should be something in the kitchen.”

  “No,” said Sybil. “Thank you very much, but what we need is your help. If you would be so kind as to step over to my cottage and give us some advice, I will give you some excellent foreign beer. Cold beer.”

  “Let me just wash my hands and I’ll be with you,” Byron said with alacrity.

  “I admire your cottage every time I go by,” said Byron. “Who lives in the one next door? The pink one.”

  “No one,” said Sybil, pausing briefly to quell a small weed which had poked its nose up next to her convulvulus. “It’s rented out, holiday and short-term lets. Usually it’s full for the whole summer, but the people who were coming had to cancel. There’ll be some other people coming tomorrow; I put an ad in, and it was let very quickly.”

  “Is it yours, then?” asked Gina.

  “Yes. I bought the two of them together, years ago, when my husband was alive. We were going to knock them together, make a bigger house. But he died first, and I didn’t need the room. It’s a very useful extra income.”

  “I’m sorry about your husband,” said Byron. “Dying, I mean.”

  “Oh, it was a long time ago,” said Sybil cheerfully. “Into the back garden, the path goes round there.”

  Byron gazed in a puzzled way at the round brown patch. “What exactly are you trying to do?” he asked at last.

  “Put up one of those above-ground pools,” said Sybil. “Level the ground, it says in the instructions. But how?”

  Byron’s face cleared. “Oh, I thought perhaps you were planning a tower or a small observatory or something. A mistake, possibly, just here.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not. The problem is, how do you get ground level?”

  “That’s easy,” said Byron. “You need a peg, string, a piece of four-by-two and a long spirit level.”

  “There’s a skewer there, with a length of string,” Gina pointed out.

  “That won’t do,” said Byron, eyeing the lopsided arrangement. “I’ll nip back home and get what you’ll need. It has to be level, otherwise when you bolt the outside wall together, the holes don’t match up. Also, you can get wave trouble. Although,” he went on, looking doubtfully at Sybil, “I don’t suppose you’re planning on making waves.”

  “Good gracious, I’m not going in there,”
said Sybil. “It’s for my grandchildren.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. Well, in that case, unless they are unusually subdued, it’s best to have it level.”

  “You sound as though you speak from experience.”

  “I do indeed. My brother has one of these pools for his youngsters. The really tricky bit is getting the liner in.”

  “That’s good to know,” said Gina glumly. The thick blue plastic sheet in the box had a look of bad news about it.

  “Don’t worry,” said Byron. “It’s not so difficult when you know what you’re doing. I’ll be around to give you a hand when it gets tough.”

  “You go and get the spirit level, and I’ll open the beer,” said Sybil.

  Don helped himself to another chunk of the pâté. “Delicious,” he said. “Quite delicious. What else have you got here?”

  Nadia had brought a cloth with her, to clean the wobbly counter before spreading a damask cloth on it and laying out her goodies.

  “Mmm. What’s this?”

  “Wine cake.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Here’s a list,” said Nadia, slapping it on to the tablecloth. “A list of all the food I can make, all with local produce and your wine. You see?”

  Don ran his eye down the list. “Nadia, where did you learn to make all this?”

  “From my mother. We had a dacha in Russia. My father hunted, my uncle brought wine from nearby, from a friend, and we made this food.”

  “Could you make enough to sell?” asked Don, looking round at his shabby surroundings. “And where would you sell things? It’s all a bit basic here.”

  “You’ve room for a kitchen here,” said Nadia. “Then this part, you should do it up slightly old-fashioned. Polished wood. Dark, not pine. Shelves. Refrigeration, of course. Wine along here, food here. A freezer for ices and sorbets.”

  “And you want a job here?”

  “No. I’ll make the food and sell it to you. You sell it for more, at a profit. I’ll mind the shop when it’s slack time. For the rest, there’ll be local people who want work.”

  “It’ll have to be for next summer,” said Don.

  “Nonsense,” said Nadia. “This summer. Byron can come and do the shop for you. Only you have to pay him a proper rate.”

  “He’s an architect, not a joiner,” Don objected.

  “He does the design, a joiner makes it. He knows all about joiners. You use MDF, then it costs not much and looks good.”

  “And if I say no,” said Don, getting up and wiping his mouth on a large handkerchief.

  Nadia looked at him with her forceful, brooding eyes. “Then I spit on you, and curse you for being so complacent and for being satisfied with what is third-rate.” She cast a scornful eye around the shop. “No, fourth-rate. And anyone who comes here to buy wine, they’ll think your wine is fourth-rate, too.”

  Don would take no criticism of his wine. “No, no,” he said. “I sell very few single bottles. Buyers come down to the cellars, they buy in dozens.”

  “Maybe people will come to the shop and buy a bottle and some pâté or sausages or ices, and then they come back to buy a case.”

  “Maybe,” said Don.

  Nadia glared at him.

  Don smoothed his head and looked at Nadia. “You’d have to do it all,” he said. “If you can’t manage the financial side, book-keeping and so on, you’ll have to find someone who can. My accountant will keep a close eye on the figures. If they look good by the end of September, then we’ll keep going.”

  “They will,” said Nadia, with supreme confidence.

  “Then we’ll drink to it,” said Don, going out to the old fridge at the back.

  “Cheers,” said Nadia, drinking the cool wine with enthusiasm.

  “Na zdorovya,” said Don.

  “I go now and tell Byron,” said Nadia.

  “Get estimates,” said Don. “But Byron will know all about that.”

  “Of course he will,” said Nadia with pride. “Byron knows about everything.”

  “By the way,” said Don, as Nadia reached the door, “we usually do a good trade on the wine side at Christmas. Have you got any ideas for that? I don’t suppose you kept Christmas in Russia.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Nadia, but this time without rancour. “My family have always been Christian. And I know what English people like at Christmas, to give as presents and to eat themselves.”

  “Just as long as it isn’t pickled herrings,” said Don into his glass of wine.

  CHAPTER 13

  For some time Lori and her husband Gareth, when he could spare the time from his TV production company, had been eyeing three cottages in the centre of Heartwell. They formed a little terrace of their own, they had immense period charm, and no one seemed to live in them.

  “Curtains in the windows,” pointed out Lori, as she went to buy the few items she got each week to show she supported the village shop.

  “They aren’t up for sale, as far as one can tell,” said Gareth, unwrapping the dog’s lead which had wound itself round his legs. “Any more information from the people in the village?”

  “They’re hopelessly vague,” said Lori with a frown. “They must know who owns them, but they aren’t letting on.”

  “Why are you so keen on them?” asked Gareth’s sister, down for the weekend. She peered shamelessly in through one of the windows. “Nasty little hovels inside; the way some types live in the country is revolting.”

  Tara lived in Muswell Hill, and wrote wordy stories about Urban Life, which won prizes and were much reviewed if little read. “I’m going to the country this weekend,” she had announced to her latest lover.

  “Why?” he had asked.

  “To remind myself how unpleasant it is. The rural dream is a rebarbative dereliction of the modernization of culture.”

  Her lover rolled over in bed and went back to sleep, thinking drowsily that it would be a treat for him to have a monosyllabic weekend for a change.

  In fact, Tara found the country very soothing. The house was comfortable and stylish; she could patronize her sister-in-law on no particular grounds except that she was out of touch with London life, and, in the family circle, she could talk quite normally. Long, complicated sentences and unusual Latinate words dug up out of the thesaurus are quite tiring to the brain. Of course, if she met any strangers while in Heartwell, then she immediately became polysyllabic once more. Tara had her public to think of.

  Gareth explained about buying village property - he called it taking a stake in the community - and renting it out to holiday-makers. “The punters pay incredible prices,” he said.

  “Oh, well, if you’re only thinking of money,” said Tara superciliously.

  Lori rushed to acquit Gareth of anything so sordid. “It’s the best thing for villages like this,” she explained. “It improves the housing stock, otherwise these houses are just left to rot away.”

  Tara looked at the houses through narrowed eyes. “You might interest a decaying artist in them.”

  “A what?” said Lori, thinking she must have misheard.

  “Decaying artist; darling, you are out of touch, aren’t you? The only interesting art form at the moment deals with objects decaying and rotting away. It represents the eternal entropy of our lives to a state of degradation and dissolution.”

  “Cottages would be a change from some of the works I’ve seen,” said Gareth. “They smell.”

  “Art should involve all our senses.”

  Lori was always excited at the prospect of Tara coming to stay, and always wondered why, within an hour of her arrival, she wished her sister-in-law had stayed in London. Gareth, who spent his working life with people like Tara, seemed to take her in his stride. “It’s the artistic temperament,” he said with some pride.

  Deep inside Lori, a little voice said that it was no such thing, and that Tara was selfish, self-absorbed and spoiled.

  Tara was also greedy. This was something she couldn’t be in
London, because to enjoy hearty food would be considered uncool beyond bearing. Here, in the country, she could eat what she liked, and lots of it.

  “I’ll cook dinner for you tonight,” she said.

  Lori protested. She had it all arranged, food bought...

  Yes, thought Tara, smart food, to show that she hasn’t succumbed to country ways. “No, no, I don’t want you to go to all that trouble. I’ll cook tonight, put whatever you’ve got in the freezer.”

  “Sea bass,” said Lori a little sadly, for she had gone to a lot of trouble to acquire a fashionable fish.

  Wild boar, Tara was thinking. I remember there’s somewhere around here where they sell wild boar. If it’s been hung properly, ready to cook... Her mind drifted off to visions of succulent meat, potatoes cooked in olive oil and rosemary. And wine; red wine. Lori would offer sparkling mineral water and a white wine so dry it would rip the back of your throat off.

  Tara gave a self-satisfied smile, and came back to earth. “No, Lori, if you cook the sea bass I shan’t eat it. We could go out, but there isn’t anywhere decent around here, so I’ll cook.”

  Heartsbane had a pub and no shop, Heartwell a shop but no pub. Since the villages were barely a quarter of a mile apart, the residents of each village regarded themselves as honorary residents of the other village, and thus benefited from both establishments.

  Sybil and Gina walked to Heartwell quite early in the morning. Sybil liked to get her shopping done and out of the way; Gina knew there was no chance of bumping into her father at that time of day, even supposing he were to want to visit Heartwell. He was not a morning man.

  They had an amicable squabble about who was to pay in the shop, reaching a compromise by Gina insisting that she would pay for the chicken which was to be picked up at the farm on the way home.

  “I’m very well-off, you know,” observed Sybil as they went into the shop. “My books make a lot of money.”

  Phil the shopkeeper had served them in his grumbling way, telling Sybil about Godfrey Cowans at Raven Cottage.