Wild Grapes

by Elizabeth Aston

  “The food’s good here,” said Fergus, purloining a menu. “Let’s go outside. I’m sorry Gina isn’t here in Oxford. She’s away.”

  “I guessed she might be. I had a phone call from my ex - Gina’s mother- in Italy. She was worried about Gina, hadn’t heard, thought she might have overrun her visa, was Gina back in the States. She’s stupid, not keeping in touch with her mother. That woman always did fuss. A postcard is all it takes.”

  Fergus wondered how much to tell Serge.

  “Yes, Gina’s visa did expire. I think she’s gone to stay with friends, and then she’ll go back to the States.”

  “So you don’t think she’s gone back already? I was worried, thought she might turn up in New York, find the place shut up, have nowhere to go.”

  “No, I’m sure she’s with friends, although I can’t tell you where. She just slipped away, not wanting to draw attention to herself, you understand.”

  “I sure do,” said Serge, draining his beer. “Your immigration officials are kind of relentless, so I hear.”

  “Can I get you another one?” Fergus got to his feet. “And have you decided what you want to eat?”

  “I have,” said Serge. “And this is on me. I want you to bring me right up to date on what Gina’s been up to. Nothing personal, a girl’s got her own life to lead, I don’t want to pry. But I don’t even know why she’s in Oxford, what she’s studying, anything. She never writes, and I don’t either, so we’ve lost touch. Which is a pity, because I like her, and I have an idea that now she’s older, we’d find we had a lot in common. I didn’t treat her mother very well, there’s no secret about that; but just because I screwed up there is no reason why Gina and I shouldn’t get along fine.”

  Byron had set up one room of his dilapidated cottage as a temporary workshop. While Nadia hurled herself into a frenzy of organization and cleaning, he sat up late, first drawing up plans for the new vineyard shop, and then helping Josh Slubs cut and shape the MDF.

  “A bit slow, my Josh,” said Mrs Slubs complacently. “Never did catch on to what was happening at school, but I dare say they teachers didn’t try very hard.”

  That was a slur on some very dedicated teachers who had driven themselves to the verge of nervous breakdowns trying to make the slightest impression on Josh’s mental torpor. A world-weary head finally put them out of their misery by advising them to give him up as a hopeless case. “Put him down for woodwork classes whenever you can, it’s the only thing he’s good at.”

  “No point lamenting and carrying on because he haven’t got no brains. He may be dim, but he’s got a wonderful way with wood,” was Mrs Slubs’s view.

  He had, although it was Byron’s opinion that Josh’s total lack of familiarity with the written word would be a drawback even in carpentry. “He can’t follow the simplest instruction,” he told Gina when she stopped to peer in at the window on her way to visit Sybil.

  “Maybe not, but he cuts a neat line,” said Gina, leaning on the window-sill and watching as Josh sliced through a panel as though it were butter. “Isn’t this going to look a bit tatty? Why not use proper wood?”

  “Don’t you start,” said Byron. “You’ll be full of admiration once I’ve had a go at it. This stuff’s great, you can do anything you want with it. It’s going to look terrific.”

  “When’s Nadia planning to open?”

  “Almost at once. Don says it’s going to take time, perhaps open for the autumn ... Or think of next year. Nadia isn’t having any of that, she’s determined to prove him wrong. Get going immediately, sell what you can make, then build up a bigger selection as you go.”

  “I hope it works.”

  “So do I,” said Byron in heartfelt tones. “Apart from anything, it’d be good if Nadia can earn a bit. Times are hard.”

  “I know the feeling,” said Gina, pulling her bike round.

  “Are you going to Sybil’s, by any chance?” asked Byron.

  “Yup.”

  “Tell her I’ll be round later. She said to drop in for one of those amazing beers, and I’m going to need to by the time I’m through with this lot.”

  Gina found Zoe comfortably installed on Sybil’s sofa, Sybil’s cat curled up on her knee, a beer in her hand, and cricket on the television.

  “Come in,” said Zoe. “I can’t get up, or Heracles here will run his claws into my legs. Sybil’s just finishing a chapter. Get yourself a beer, it’s in the fridge.”

  Gina did as she was told, envying Zoe for the relaxed way she fell into things. You’d think she’d known Sybil for years, Gina thought crossly. And Fergus was as bad.

  “At least he’s gone back to Oxford,” said Gina, not admitting for a moment that she rather wished he hadn’t.

  “Talking of Fergus,” said Zoe, keeping her eyes disconcertingly fixed on the TV screen, “he rang up from Oxford. Big news.”

  “If you’re going to tell me, then turn the TV off,” said Gina. “It’s very difficult to talk to someone who’s watching cricket.”

  Zoe pointed the remote control at the box. “You’re just jealous because you don’t understand one bit of what’s going on.”

  “Spit it out,” said Gina.

  “Right. First and foremost, Jessica’s done a bunk.”

  “Done a bunk?”

  “Yeah, gone to what she calls ‘Tarhitti’, apparently. Fergus reckons that unless she’s with someone she’ll be at Heathrow for ever, waiting for Tarhitti to come up on the board.”

  “What about the house? Did she pay her rent?”

  “Oh, yes. All paid up front. Jessica wouldn’t abscond. That’s the good news. The bad news is that she’s sent all her clothes to Oxfam, so no more Jessicas for us to wear.”

  Gina pulled a face. “Damn. I was reckoning on borrowing a frock for this ball they’re having at the Hall.”

  “The good news is that Fergus has found some new tenants.”

  “Tenants? In the plural? Zoe, there isn’t room.”

  “Yes, four guys from America. They want the whole house for the rest of the summer.”

  “That’s impossible. What about Fergus?”

  “Didn’t I say? Fergus is coming back here.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, that’s also good news. But more bad news: Fergus is having to stack all his and my stuff with yours into what was your room. To leave three rooms free. Two of these men are an item, so they want to share a room anyhow. Fat rent, Fergus says.”

  “What’s Fergus going to do? What about his doctorate?”

  “I’ve said he can stay at Kingfisher Cottage for the rest of the summer if he wants. He’s bringing his books and his computer, no sweat.”

  “Well,” said Gina. She felt that with the departure of Fergus, however temporarily, from the house in Oxford, her one link with a familiar and secure world had been severed.

  “More news,” said Zoe, taking an unladylike swig of beer from the bottle. “Your dad turned up.”

  “What? Where? When?”

  “Why? And How?” added Zoe flippantly. “Find the answer to these, and the crime is solved. In Oxford, looking for you. Apparently your ma hasn’t heard from you, and nor has he, so he came on a look-see mission. To check you hadn’t shipped out to Buenos Aires on a white-slaver, I expect.”

  “How did he know where to find me?”

  “He must have your address. Presumably he has his wits about him, why shouldn’t he track you down?”

  “I suppose it’s logical,” said Gina doubtfully. A horrid thought struck her. “God, Fergus didn’t tell him I was down here...”

  “... playing impostors?” Zoe finished for her. “No, he’s not that thick. He said you were staying with friends, and when he heard from you, he’d pass the message on for you to contact your pa. He’s only in Oxford for a couple of days, then he’s going to be in London.”

  Gina sat down abruptly on the nearest chair. “I don’t need this,” she complained. “Months go by, and all is calm and peaceful,
then, suddenly, everyone’s after me.”

  “Nice to be wanted,” said Zoe, flicking the set back on. “Oh, look, a wicket’s fallen and I missed it.”

  Sybil put her head round the door. “I thought I heard non-cricketing voices,” she said. “Hello, Gina. Did Zoe get you a beer?”

  “Thank you, yes,” said Gina.

  Sybil vanished, and then reappeared with a beer of her own, which she tipped deftly into a tall glass. “I’ve earned this,” she said, sinking into an armchair.

  “Have you finished your chapter?”

  Sybil nodded. “One runs out of puff, you know. Always thinking up a new angle - literally, of course, at my end of the market. There are limits to the number of permutations possible, the vocabulary tends to be banal, and at the end of the day one is describing a fairly limited physical act. And it all has to end in gusts of orgasmic ecstasy, total satisfaction guaranteed, how unlike real life. Oh well, it pays the bills.”

  Gina was fascinated. “Do you enjoy writing it?”

  Sybil laughed. “Does it turn me on? It might have once, it certainly doesn’t now. It’s a knack, you know, writing books to be read with one hand.”

  “How did you get into it?”

  “A chum of mine who was in publishing knew I was strapped for cash after my husband died. No fun trying to raise and educate three children on a teacher’s salary. This firm wanted some books with a classical theme, so I obliged. People always imagine,” she went on, “that the Romans, for example, indulged in endless orgies and perversions. They didn’t, of course. It was a very prudish society. Love-making was restricted to the hours of darkness - did you know that? Of course you didn’t, they never teach you anything at these schools. Only newly-weds could have a go in the daytime, and that only the day after the wedding. And the ladies always kept their bosoms covered.”

  “Really?” said Zoe.

  “Fact,” said Sybil. “Not in my books, of course. In my sort of tosh you do a roaring trade in stiff nipples. The readers expect it.”

  Gina found this very funny, and so did Zoe’, who had turned the sound off the better to hear.

  “How do you think up your plots?” she asked, awed.

  “All the same, really,” said Sybil. “In my case, one starts with a heroine. She meets the villain, who has a huge prick, nasty habits and repeatedly has his wicked way with said heroine. Several other men here and there, final climactic scene with hero who is even better hung than villain. Lots of exotic settings, pillars, eunuchs, slaves, what-have-you. Never fails.”

  “Wow,” said Gina, full of admiration. “What a way to make a living.”

  It had been agreeable sitting there, laughing with Zoe and Sybil, thought Gina as she leant out over her window-sill. The moon was waxing, and spreading a thin, clear light over the remote and silent countryside.

  The silence was rudely broken by a series of deep hoots from the tree just across from Gina’s window. She could see the owl, the size of a cat, white, with huge eyes. The owls worried Gina. Their hoots were eerie and unsettling. Then, why were there so many owls? All in one place; it didn’t seem natural. She drew back from the open window, let the curtains fall back across it.

  Gina lay down on the bed, on top of the covers, thinking. Of course, she should have left Sybil’s cottage the minute she started the interrogation.

  On what excuse?

  Feeble, any excuse would have done. No rule of politesse obliged you to sit around in the company while someone turned you inside out.

  It had started when Gina inadvertently told Sybil what she had seen on that wet and windy night.

  Sybil found it funny. “So that’s why you arrived back in such a state? Why didn’t you say what you’d seen?”

  “I was terrified,” said Gina indignantly.

  “What, of a few men creeping round in the dark and unloading boxes? It’s only contraband.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Gina. “Smuggling.”

  “Supplies from abroad,” said Sybil. “They bring it ashore in one of the coves, and store it in the cottages. It’s still cheaper than going across and buying it at the superstore in Boulogne, the stuff they bring in, at any rate.”

  “And people buy it?”

  “Good heavens, yes. It’s been going on for a couple of hundred years, probably longer.”

  Gina wasn’t too sure about this particular English tradition. “Those types the other night looked as though they meant business.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Good thing they didn’t see me.”

  Sybil pursed her lips. “A very good thing. Have a beer.”

  Gina took the glass of beer, and sat back in the comfortable armchair, thinking what an odd place Heartset was turning out to be. None of this was in the guidebooks.

  Sybil sat in her armchair, relaxed, smiling and friendly. And began to ask questions.

  Zoe was quite happy to answer Sybil’s searching enquiries. And Sybil seemed quite content with her explanations about the job and the holiday, and the uncertainty of her future plans.

  Why was Zoe being so open about her life? Gina wondered. Even telling her about giving Tim the push.

  Sybil had approved of that. “Quite right,” she had said. “Best to be off with the old.” Then she turned her guns on to Gina.

  “Research? Is that a living? Is it satisfying work? Can you do it all your life? Always working for someone else? Usually a man? He publishes, gets the glory, the promotion... How unsatisfying. Oh, you plan to have an academic career yourself? Articles in learned journals, tenure... Tenure? In this day and age, how improbable.”

  Clink of glass as she downed her beer. A temporary respite.

  How very unadventurous. Did she want to spend all her life in one university or another? Wasn’t it an enclosed and stifling world? Had she read any psychology? Did she understand about searching for security in academe?

  Then she had started on Alwyn. This man you work for, does he pay you well? Does he acknowledge your contribution? Are you in love with him, how very schoolgirlish. And of course he makes the most of your devotion, naturally. He’s no doubt exploited a stream of eager young women over the years.

  And she wasn’t thinking of marriage as an alternative, was she? Surely no one of Gina’s temperament could imagine that would solve her problems?

  What about travel? Novelty? Didn’t she want to live in other countries, try new things, have a few adventures, exciting escapades?

  Little does she know, thought Gina grimly.

  “One pays a high price for not living the life one should be living,” Sybil had finished warningly. “The life unlived poisons not only your existence, but that of those around you.”

  “Oh, hell,” Gina said wearily. “This is all I need.”

  “Have another beer,” said Sybil considerately. “Or perhaps you need something a little stronger.”

  “One extra for lunch,” announced Guy as he backed into the kitchen through the swing doors bearing a silver teapot carefully in both hands.

  Esme was twisting round to inspect her lower back, which was in an advanced state of peeling. “Who’s coming?” she said, shifting her gum to the other side of her mouth with a strange slurp.

  Guy gave her a very cool look. “Serge Zandermann, the American painter. Victor’s just been on the phone to him, about that painting he wants to buy.”

  Hester appeared from the pantry. “Is he staying the night, Guy? Or didn’t Victor say?”

  “No, he isn’t,” Guy replied, happy to be in the know. “Coming mid-morning, staying to lunch, then off to London. Catching a plane to New York this evening.”

  “Lucky man, getting away from this country,” said Esme.

  “Nothing keeping you, dear,” said Guy in unkind,tones.

  “I planned to be here for a year, and that’s how long I’m staying,” said Esme with perfect good humour. “Hester, do you want me to hose down the terrace and get some bleach on to it? Get
rid of those slimy bits; otherwise those guests are going to be sliding around a lot livelier than they’d planned.”

  “It is rather mossy,” said Hester, considering. “Do you mind? Jarvis should do it really, but...”

  “Naw,” said Esme, hitching her trousers back up and pulling her T-shirt down. “He’s got his knickers in a knot as it is, all those plants and flowers for the dance. Besides, I’d rather be out there putting a bit of muscle into it than standing around in here torturing veggies into funny shapes.”

  Esme had her own views on Aimee’s ball. “What a to-do, this ball business; you should have a big barbi and be done with it. All this fancy stuff, who needs it?” she said, disappearing into the yard before Guy could utter the rebuke which was on his lips. Crashings and hangings indicated that she had located the big hose and was getting herself noisily ready for just the kind of physical work she liked best.

  “Really,” said Guy, casting his eyes up to heaven.

  Maria set to her lunch preparations with extra vim and vigour, intent on providing a meal fit for an international traveller. One, moreover, who would be condemned to an aeroplane dinner that night. Such food ranked only a notch above the local hamburger bar in Maria’s book.

  “He’s a very important painter,” Guy informed her. “He’s in International Who’s Who. Any number of exhibitions. Of course he’s a figurative painter, which isn’t so fashionable, but he must make a good living.”

  Guy had attended classes in Heartsbury on art appreciation, and so spoke with authority. Maria frowned, and made Spanish chirruping noises. For such an artist, she must indeed provide something special. Had she been wearing sleeeves, she would have rolled them up; as she was wearing a white T-shirt, she merely tightened the ties on her large apron and headed for the fridge.

  Esme’s radio in the scullery poured forth happy tunes from Offenbach, the sun streamed in through the window and bees droned happily in the shrubs outside.