Wild Grapes

by Elizabeth Aston

  Don cast his eyes up to the ceiling in despair.

  “Just taking a holiday,” said Fergus. “She’s between jobs.”

  “And when are you returning to Oxford?” said Julia.

  “I was planning to go back today, but I... well, thought I might go and collect my books and come back for a few days.”

  “It’s lovely weather,” said Don helpfully.

  “Yes, that’s it,” said Fergus gratefully. “Because the weather’s so good.”

  “Then you must stay here at the Hall,” said Julia.

  “Don’t bully him,” said Don.

  “I think Zoe would be glad of someone to share expenses,” said Fergus. He quite liked his aunt, and would normally be perfectly happy to stay at the Hall, but not with Gina floating around pretending to be someone else. Fergus had an idea it could all get very sticky, and Fergus was very keen on avoiding stickiness whenever possible. On the other hand, he wanted to keep an eye on Gina; she had managed to get herself into a real heap of trouble. Whatever else, she’d need a reliable friend. Such as me, he told himself. And he could

  keep a watching brief on her from the cottage without getting involved.

  Little did he know.

  “Do that,” said Don, “and then you can come and see how we do things among the vines. We can crack a few bottles, show you what we’re producing.”

  “Excellent,” said Fergus.

  “Of course I’m not going to say you can’t have the room,” said Zoe. “I just want to know why.”

  “I feel like a holiday,” said Fergus.

  “Charlotte won’t like it,” warned Zoe.

  Charlotte was of a suspicious and jealous disposition.

  “Charlotte won’t know, because I’m not going to tell her.”

  “Charlotte will find out,” said Zoe instantly and with certainty. “She always does.”

  “Too bad,” said Fergus defiantly.

  “You’re worried about Gina,” said Zoe shrewdly.

  “I am not,” said Fergus with unnecessary vehemence. “I’m sure she’s more than capable of getting herself out of her own messes. Doesn’t seem to have any trouble getting into them. Why the hell she didn’t tell me ... Oh, never mind. I need a holiday, that’s all.”

  Zoe didn’t press him. “When will you be back?” she asked.

  Fergus thought for a moment. “Tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Between three and four.” Fergus had a precise mind.

  “Bring some food,” said Zoe, her thoughts running on practical lines.

  “I will,” said Fergus. “And if you’re going to be out, leave the key with Sybil.”

  “Charlotte ought to know about Sybil,” said Zoe wickedly. “I think Sybil’s the real reason you want to come back.”

  “Sybil,” said Fergus, “is a charming woman, and very good company. Charlotte would like her.”

  Charlotte wouldn’t, Zoe said to herself as she searched through her rumpled possessions for the swimsuit she knew she’d brought. Charlotte has no sense of humour, as you’ll notice one of these days, Fergus McEttrick.

  Gareth mentioned to Lori that he had met Harry. “At a club,” he said, without being precise about which club, or what kind it was. Lori might not be convinced it was all research.

  “Rather offhand,” he said. “Wish I could get a camera into that house, fly on the wall, today’s gentry; just as appalling and out of touch as they’ve always been.”

  “When anyone sets out to show how awful they are, the viewers all end up thinking they’re wonderful.”

  “True,” said Gareth. “People are so stunned by the way they live, the house, the furniture, the objects, that they don’t notice what prats the inhabitants are.”

  “They all want to win the National Lottery and live like that themselves.”

  Gareth gave an Islington shudder and turned to the sports pages of the paper. “Oh, I met a youngster who works at the Hall. Called Guy. Bit poncy, but I’ve got a feeling about him. He might just mesh with Sigi. See if you can find out anything about him.”

  “Is he keen?” said Lori, who was packing up boxes of extra tuck for her daughters.

  “Pretends not, but wave a contract under his nose, and he’ll soon jump. Apparently wants to open his own hotel one of these days. In which case, he can’t afford to turn an offer like this down - always supposing I do finally decide to use him. He’d become a household name, really valuable publicity, this kind of thing. Quite apart from the money.”

  “What about the historian you needed?”

  “Nothing yet, although I’ve got one or two names. The trouble is, most of these academics are dry, no pep. They don’t love the camera, and it shows. Never mind, I’m sure we’ll turn one up.”

  “It’ll make a change from your usual programmes,” said Lori,

  wondering whether to be a wonderful wife and make a cold soup and something artful for dinner, or whether to nip into Heartsbury and buy everything at Sainsbury’s. A new book and the hammock in the garden beckoned; Sainsbury’s won. Home cooking could wait, Lori decided.

  “Got to keep up,” said Gareth. “It’s all too easy to fall behind in this game.”

  “I’ve got one or two errands,” Lori said, dropping a kiss on Gareth’s head as she went by. “Shan’t be long.”

  Gareth, who secretly saw himself as a seven-foot black basketball star, was buried in the depths of the American sports reports. “Mmm,” he said, reaching out for his beer as the front door clicked shut.

  “These television people,” said Guy, holding up the glass he was polishing to make sure that not the slightest smear marred its shining surface. “They think they can buy anyone. I tell you, Maria, that man made me feel like a tart on the streets, the way he was eyeing me over.”

  “You shouldn’t go to such places, then you wouldn’t meet men like this. Go where there are pretty girls, have a good time, no TV men there.”

  “He was surprised when I didn’t fawn all over him,” said Guy. “One could tell.”

  Esme came slip-slop into the kitchen just as Maria was pouring a thick, creamy and alcoholic mixture into little pots to set.

  “Ayi! Now see what you have made me do. I look at your face, and I can see you are in agony, what has happened?”

  Esme shifted her piece of gum into her other cheek. “What?” she said, lifting off her earphones, letting out a cacophony of scraping and tinny noises.

  “I ask you, why do you have such a look of pain?”

  “Oh, it’s this opera. World premiere, on the radio. It’s terrible, I don’t think they’ll be putting this one on again.”

  “Then why do you listen?”

  Esme spread a thick piece of bread with butter and balanced a thick piece of very strong cheese on top. “With opera, you never know. You’ve got to listen. This jerk who wrote this, he might be the new Puccini.”

  Guy moved the earphones further away. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “No, well, you’re right there. I’ll switch it off, put on a bit of old Richard W to take away the taste. How about Venusberg, Guy, you feeling amorous?”

  Guy raised his nose in the air and went back to his glasses. Maria told Esme that her tastes in food were those of a savage and went back to her bowls.

  Esme spat her gum deftly into the bin, settled the earphones back in her ears, turned the volume up and sat chomping, surrounded by blissful noise and completely oblivious of the raised shoulders and long-suffering looks being exchanged by Guy and Maria.

  Victor came purposefully into the dining-room, sat himself at the head of the table, spread a thick white napkin across his knees and signalled to Guy to pour some wine into his glass.

  He was in an excellent temper; he had had a promising conversation with Fraulein Voesli on the phone and felt sure that, when he saw her again, she would be in a more amenable mood than last week.

  “Full of snap, crackle and pop,” Harry whispered to Gina as he passed her the rolls. “He must
have been on to his yodelling floozy, look how pleased he is with himself.”

  Gina felt a stab of envy for the floozy, quickly repressed. Her life was quite complicated enough as it was.

  Victor’s eye fell on Nicky, gazing disconsolately into her artichoke at the further end of the table.

  “Ah,” he said. “The ball, Nicky. I have one or two extra names to give you.”

  Nicky looked alarmed.

  “Did you send a card to Fergus, Nicky?” put in Julia. “If not, please do so. I have his address in Oxford.”

  “I don’t think he was on the list,” said Nicky, who knew quite well he hadn’t been. “There’s going to be a problem about where to put everyone, we’re running out of beds.”

  “I assume our friends and neighbours are doing their bit,” said Victor.

  “I believe Fergus has a friend he can stay with in Heartsbane,” observed Julia in a slightly disapproving tone. “Since he was there at the weekend.”

  “Will he bring that depressing girlfriend with him?” said Harry, making mischief.

  Julia frowned. “Do you mean Charlotte Abyss? A thoroughly nice girl, I understand they’re informally engaged.”

  “More fool Fergus,” said Harry boldly.

  “That’s enough,” said Victor. “You can ridicule Fergus’s taste, but I don’t see you finding yourself any kind of wife, let alone anyone suitable.”

  “I might surprise you all,” said Harry.

  Aimee lifted her eyes from her fragrant plateful of chicken in a tarragon sauce and gave him a long and thoughtful look. “Not if you’ve any sense, you won’t,” she said in a low voice.

  “What was that?” said Victor. “What did you say, Aimee? Speak up, I can’t stand people muttering at each other.”

  “Nothing, Pa,” said Aimee with one of her sweetest smiles. “I was just complimenting Harry on his shirt. Armani, did you notice?”

  Victor’s expression grew darker. “Armani. Designer rubbish, time you grew up, Harry, stopped wasting your money on showy trash, started behaving like an adult instead of a feckless teenager.”

  That rankled. “I don’t think feckless teenagers run successful businesses,” he said hotly.

  Victor snorted. “Mere fashion, tastes change, you’ll be left high and dry.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Communications are the big thing, now and for a long way into the future.”

  “Nonsense,” said Victor. “People aren’t going to pay for empty space for ever, you know. Free airwaves, that’s what’ll happen, and then where will you be?”

  “While people have to communicate, and messages have to be sent, I’ll scrape a living, Pa.”

  Victor glared at him, and then looked round to see who else he could have a go at. He caught Hester’s eye and she shook her head very slightly at him.

  “Oh, very well,” he said. “Of course, I can’t expect my family to marry and have children as other people manage to. And those pigs are as bad, you’d think by the pair of balls on him that that boar would be good for anything. Not a bit of it, no interest, no piglets.”

  “Perhaps he’s a gay pig,” said Harry unwisely.

  The last vestiges of Victor’s good mood evaporated. Gina winced as a thunderous tirade burst about Harry’s head.

  Prim looked up from the catalogue she was studying. “Victor,” she said sharply. “That’s enough.”

  Victor took no notice. Prim sighed, filled her glass with water, got up from the table, walked to the head of it, and tipped the contents of the crystal glass over Victor’s head.

  “What did you do that for?” he demanded when he had got his breath back. He mopped his face with his napkin and handed it to a disapproving Guy. “Get me another one, will you? Prim, I’ll...”

  “No,” said Julia. “Prim, that was extreme but, Victor, you mustn’t shout like that at the table. You’ll give everyone indigestion.”

  “Bugger indigestion,” said Victor furiously.

  “Try some of this wine,” said Don soothingly. “Mustn’t get yourself worked up, it isn’t good for you at your age.”

  “My age! How dare you. Let me tell you, when I was your age, I was married and had children. What have you got? A bunch of crazy women for holidays and two or three devoted followers for the rest of the week. Immoral and foolhardy.”

  Nicky gave a kind of wail and shot Victor a heartfelt look from big blue eyes which were swimming with tears.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” said Victor. “I’d forgotten you were involved in this, Nicky.” He rallied. “But I mean it, there’s no future for you with this son of mine, get back to your husband and your children, you’re lucky to have them, and your parents are lucky to have grandchildren.”

  Nicky sniffed and took a liberal gulp of wine.

  “Not like that,” said Don, scandalized.

  “Oh, piss off,” said Nicky.

  “Aren’t family mealtimes fun?” said Harry in bright tones. “Pass the pepper, please, Gina, it’s nestling by your glass.”

  Nicky had remembered something else. “Since,” she said in a voice which, although quavering, held a note of venom, “since Don wants that Tara from Heartwell to come to the ball, I’ll send an invitation to her brother and his wife. The ones at Heartwell House, Victor, if you remember. They’ll be good for a dinner party and beds for at least six guests, I would imagine.”

  Victor started to rumble once more. “That’s that extraordinary woman who tried to hassle me over the state of the roads. Over my dead body does she come into my house.”

  Guy gave a little clicking noise of approval as he cleared the plates away. Then the door opened with a thump and a curse, and Esme came cheerfully in bearing a tray with Maria’s little pots aboard.

  “Hear you lot for miles,” she commented, putting the tray down on the sideboard.with a bang which set all the lids to the pots rattling. “Pud’s up, go-something sweet into you, that’ll quieten you down.”

  Guy, scandalised, shooed her from the room and she slopped off down the passage, singing snatches of Valkyrie warwhoops as she went.

  “That seems very sensible, Nicky dear,” said Julia in magisterial tones. “We may not like them personally, but it can do no harm to be neighbourly. There will be no need to pursue the acquaintance beyond the odd formal occasion.”

  “Attagirl,” said Harry. “Freeze them out, Julia, that’s the way.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The house in Oxford was silent and empty. Where was Jessica? thought Fergus, as he let himself in through the front door. She had said she’d be there while he was away. He bent down to collect the little pile of post from the mat, tossed half of it straight into the bin, and wandered into the kitchen. A large note in Jessica’s illiterate scrawl was attached to the fridge door.

  “Dear Fergus,” it said.

  “Gone to Tarhitti with frend. Ive asked Mum to colect dresses and things. Wont be back for year. Sory about room, there are some people looking for house - ask at Wellinton Colege.

  Lots of love, Jessica.

  XXX

  PS Charlote rang. She sounds cross. I didnt say where you’ld gone.”

  “Bugger,” said Fergus.

  He went back into the hall, paused for a moment and then headed up the stairs. It seemed even more silent and deserted up there; ridiculous, thought Fergus, who had often been alone in the house. How was this any different from a wet November day with Jessica out doing what Jessica did, Zoe at work, himself here with his computer, and Gina with Alwyn at Jude’s?

  He went across to Gina’s room. It appeared empty, although he knew that some of her things were still here. Stowed away under the bed and in the cupboard in case the Popplewell should attempt a snoop. Fergus frowned at the thought of Popplewell. He didn’t like people being hounded out of the country. Especially not a person he knew. And was fond of, as he was of Gina. It wasn’t going to be the same here without her.

  He banged the door shut behind him, and went back
downstairs. Where had Zoe left the telephone directory? He found it, finally, behind the bread bin, and looked up the number for Wellington College.

  “Not just rooms, sir,” the porter said. “They’d prefer a whole house. There are four of them, Americans. Here for the whole summer. Yes, sir, I’ll do that. Give you an hour or two? Yes, that’s quite clear, if there’s no reply, try the Golden Fleece. Thank you, Mr McEttrick. Always glad to help.”

  “Bet you are, you old fraud,” said Fergus as he put the phone down. Anything for a tip, probably charge the poor saps commission on top. Never mind, that was their lookout.

  As Fergus was shutting the front door behind him, a man turned in through the gate. Fergus looked surprised; the porter could hardly have passed on the message already.

  “Are you looking for someone?” he said.

  The man looked him over with a pair of very dark eyes, made darker and more glowing by his deeply tanned and olive skin. “Yes. I believe Gina Heartwell lives here?”

  Fergus stiffened with suspicion. True, the man had an American accent, and was therefore unlikely to be an accomplice of Popplewell. Moreover, he didn’t have an air of officialdom about him; Fergus would have put him down as a writer, or perhaps a musician. Still, perhaps the US immigration service took on people like this, to lull their victims.

  “Can I ask why you want her?”

  The man looked amused. “Since you ask, young man,” he said, “I’m her father.”

  Serge made approving noises as Fergus led the way into the long bar inside the Golden Fleece. Tables set in little stalls ran down one wall, copper pans hung from the heavy central beam, glasses and bottles twinkled and beamed from the other side of the wide mahogany counter.

  “I just love your English pubs,” said Serge. “It’s the first place I head for when I’m in England.”

  “I’m going to have something to eat,” said Fergus. “I’m on my own, I can’t be bothered to cook.”

  “Suits me,” said Serge, “I’m staying in a hotel outside the city. It’s got some kind of a fancy restaurant, so I was planning on eating out in any case.”