Wild Grapes

by Elizabeth Aston

  Sybil laughed. Nobody could take offence at Zoe, with her easygoing brand of feminism and her light-hearted cynicism.

  “You’re an impertinent girl,” she said.

  “Have an apple,” offered Zoe. “My idea of heaven: a good book; several good books, in fact; sun; a bowl of crisp and tangy apples... Nothing better.”

  Fergus called out of the kitchen window. “After I’ve eaten, I’m going down to look at the vineyard,” he said. “Want to come, lazybones?”

  “No,” replied Zoe. “But I tell you what, buy something delicious if Nadia’s got any goodies on sale. For tonight. And then we can drift along to the pub for a drink, see who’s around.”

  “Okay,” said Fergus, much more amicable now he had consumed a large wedge of cheese sandwiched in a hunk of thick brown bread. “Will you join us, Sybil?”

  “If I’ve finished my quota,” said Sybil.

  “Art first, drinks after?” said Fergus.

  “You wait until you have to earn a living,” said Sybil severely.

  “All too imminent,” said Fergus with a dramatic sigh. “Offices, long hours, getting and spending...”

  Zoe adjusted the cushions and settled herself even more comfortably. “That’s another world,” she said. “And why worry? Look how things always work out differently from the way you’d expected.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Don was hard at work among his vines. Pausing from his rigorous snipping for a moment, he saw a tall figure walking along the footpath towards the vineyard. He squinted, recognized the aquiline profile and waved a hand in greeting to Fergus.

  “Pruning?” said Fergus with interest. “At this time of year?”

  “Just cutting back the growth, don’t want too much leaf. There’s a lot this year, what with a wet May and now all this sun.”

  He slung the clippers into the trailer attached to the tractor which was drawn up at the end of the row. “Want to see round?” he asked.

  “Love to,” said Fergus at once. “But not if you’re working. Another time would be fine, I’m going to be at Heartsbane for a while.”

  “No, now is good.” He stuffed the tractor keys in his pocket and guided Fergus between the vines. “What acreage does your father farm now?”

  “About five thousand.”

  “Arable?”

  “Mostly, but he has a prize herd of Limousins as well. That’s his hobby, breeding. He has a good manager, and of course, these days with set-aside...”

  Don laughed. “Don’t mention that word to Prim. Sets her off like nobody’s business, thinks it’s an offence against nature not to use good land for growing something.”

  “My pa’s got a fine crop of poppies. Myself, I like to see meadows. They were just pictures in a book for me until now.”

  “Yes, well, as I said, Prim doesn’t see it like that. Cultivation, growth, harvests, that’s her scene. Meadows may be pretty, but they aren’t productive.”

  Don led Fergus up and down the lines of vines, holding forth on varieties, cropping, blending, yields. They were an incongruous pair, Don quite short, a little plump, and tanned a golden brown; Fergus tall and rangy and dark. Fergus looked as though he’d spent his days in the library, Don looked every inch a man who spent his time in the open air. Fergus envied him.

  “These lines of willows every so many rows. Wind-breaks?”

  “That’s right. We need them here, look at those trees over there, you can see how the wind blows this side of the hills.”

  Fergus inspected the bottling plant, empty now.

  “We finished the bottling in May, there won’t be any more until after this year’s crop is in.”

  “October?”

  “We pick from September through to November usually.”

  “Who does it?”

  “Everybody,” said Don. “All the employees here, people from the village, a few students early on, youngsters from the agricultural college in Heartsbury after the term begins.”

  “Fun,” said Fergus, thinking of where he inevitably was at that time of year; picking words, not grapes. He told Don he thought he had the better of it, here among his twisty plants.

  “Don’t get any romantic notions about vines,” said Don. “Viticulture is an ancient and honourable way of life, but it’s bloody hard work. And, if you live in England, the odds are stacked against you.”

  “Worth it, though?”

  “For me, yes. It’s in the blood, you might say. And I love wine, so what better work could there be for me to do?”

  They were back in the main courtyard now, and Don pushed open a door. “Now,” he said. “What shall we try?”

  Zoe handed Fergus another glass of water. “Gross,” she said severely. “You’re going to have a head like a beehive tomorrow.”

  “Mmm,” said Fergus, in a very happy haze.

  “Put him to bed,” said Sybil.

  “Will he make it up the stairs?” said Zoe doubtfully.

  “We’ll push him up,” said Sybil after a moment’s thought. “Only thing for him, to sleep it off. And you know, I expect Don drank just as much, and all there’ll be to show for it will be a slight merriness.”

  “Lucky Don,” said Zoe. “Fergus surprises me, though. I haven’t seen him blotto like this before.”

  “All students drink too much,” said Sybil.

  “Undergraduates, yes. Fergus may have been on the toot every night of the week when he was an undergraduate; I didn’t know him then. But by the time they’re postgrads they’ve usually grown out of that, haven’t they? Fergus enjoys a drink with the best of us, but not like this.”

  “He seems to have a lot on his mind,” said Sybil.

  Zoe thought for a moment. “Does he? I wonder why. Steady girlfriend, shortly to get his doctorate, glittering career beckons; all very satisfactory.”

  Sybil looked foxy. “Not satisfactory to him, that’s all I can say. And I speak from considerable experience, I may add.”

  “You look very cheerful,” said Harry.

  “Do I normally look mournful?” asked Gina.

  “No, but you’ve looked rather down recently. Not enough of my company these last few days. Sorry about that, I’ve been busy.”

  Work or boys? Gina was tempted to ask.

  Harry’s mind was running on matrimonial lines. “I don’t want to push you into anything, but...”

  Gina was off her guard, pleased and relieved at the prospect of getting her passport back, happy about seeing her father again. So, without stopping to think or exercise caution, she told Harry about her father, and the passport plans.

  Big mistake.

  “You see, we can’t do anything without my having a passport.”

  “I didn’t know you had to show a passport to get married.”

  “You do as an American citizen. All kinds of formalities.”

  Harry looked very put out. “I’d never thought about that. Well, it’s no problem, you can get married as Georgiana Hartwell.”

  “It wouldn’t be legal.”

  “Who would ever know? Slight spelling mistake on the marriage certificate, who’s going to notice? And you’ll be Mrs C from then on; no one will remember what your maiden name was.”

  This made Gina feel very uneasy, although she wasn’t sure why. When you got married, you took your husband’s name. Or not, as you felt best. However, if you married a Cordovan, then you became a Cordovan, that was clear.

  “No point at all in keeping your own name. You aren’t a writer or on the stage or any kind of a professional. What the hell does it matter?”

  “I haven’t agreed to marry you.”

  “Not yet, but you will,” said Harry.

  Gina didn’t like the note of certainty in his voice.

  “Did you tell your pa you were going to marry me?” went on Harry.

  “I did not.”

  “Better break it to him afterwards, although he’s never showed much interest in you or what you do, has he?”

&
nbsp; Gina said nothing, filled with a sudden determination that on the day she got married, both her parents were going to be there.

  “When’s your pa going to see Georgie?”

  “I don’t know, exactly,” said Gina, grateful for the turn in the conversation. “Pretty soon, he isn’t in New York for long.”

  Harry looked thoughtful for a moment. “Want to come to Bath?” he asked.

  Gina did. Her father’s cheque had duly appeared, and it was more than generous. The air fare would hardly make a dent in it. “I need to get a dress for Aimee’s ball.”

  “I’ll help you choose. I have excellent taste.”

  “I’ll go and get my bag,” said Gina.

  Harry watched her go upstairs and out of sight, then went swiftly into the library. Nicky wasn’t about. He took a black leather address book out of his pocket and looked up a name. Code for New York, he said to himself, 001 212...

  He dialled.

  Sports Day at Guisborn Lodge was a carefully orchestrated affair. The nitty-gritty of early heats and qualifying events were all held at an unreasonably early time in the day. Only the most enthusiastic parents, or those who knew quite well that darling Polly or dear Hermione would never make it through the first rounds turned up for the preliminary sort-out events. By the time the bulk of parents rolled to their parking places on Laggard’s Field, boots groaning with picnic hampers, only the fleetest and strongest were on display.

  This, the head felt, left a much better impression with parents. “We are unashamedly competitive,” she was wont to claim with a steely smile pinned to her lips. “We insist that all our girls take part, but they must learn early on that there are no prizes, in sport or in life, for those who don’t make it through the early rounds.”

  So the standard in the afternoon was high, and the main events were soon over, leaving plenty of time for tea in the marquee before the five o’clock drift to Founder’s Hall and the annual Laggard Address. This was the high spot of the school’s public year, and was given “by those eminent in the professions, the arts or in industry, whose achievements are a beacon lighting Our Girls to success’.

  Gareth and Lori, who didn’t live far away, were resolute early arrivers. Melissa and Ariadne were both sporty types and keen achievers, but there was always the prospect of a humiliating fall in a heat, as had happened the previous year, thanks to that hopeless girl lumbering about the track.

  Melissa had been vocal. “That bloody Jemima, I don’t know what she’s doing at this school. She should go back to her horrible comprehensive, they don’t do any sports there, it’s such a dump. I don’t think they should give these poor girls scholarships, not for grinding away at a violin like she does. Not if they can’t do sports and are always getting demerits. Eleven on the board so far this term, it’s too bad, and she’s in my house.”

  The unfortunate musician represented no kind of threat this year as she had gone off to a more musical establishment, much to her relief. But there was that cow Veronica, who ran like the wind, and wasn’t averse to a spot of shoving and tripping if the opportunity arose.

  Gareth and Lori were there in position, however, eagle-eyed, deputed to make a fuss if Veronica got up to any of her tricks. Besides, Gareth liked to capture every moment of his daughters’ doings on his camcorder. Being in the trade, as he put it, he prided himself on his video professionalism. Unfortunate friends who were obliged to watch the results mostly wished that he had no skill at all. What a relief it would be if he forgot to load it up or pressed the wrong button or the dratted thing went mercifully out of focus.

  Melissa relentlessly acquired personal and house points as the morning wore on. Ariadne, a well-built girl, tended towards the heftier events and flung javelins and discuses with muscular seriousness.

  “Miss Crump says it’s the pentathlon for me next year,” she announced as she thumped down beside her parents. She was not an attractive sight, with her red face and brown, damp hair, but she was winning, and, on Sports Day, that was what mattered. A cooler Melissa joined them as Gareth hauled the goodies out of the car. Ariadne pointed out various friends’ ‘people’, as she called them, while Lori unfolded napkins and hunted for the dinky little salt and pepper containers.

  “Pretty lush, this,” commented Melissa as she sampled some pâté. “Did you get it in Heartsbury?”

  “No,” said Lori, passing a bottle of chilled wine to Gareth to open. “From the vineyard. Nadia’s started cooking for the shop there.”

  “Nadia?”

  “She and her husband have moved into Oracle Cottage. I believe she’s Russian.”

  “Oh, a foreigner. This is good, though.”

  “Rather exciting news,” Lori said, when she finally got to eat something herself. “The Cordovans have asked us to the ball at the Hall, for their daughter Aimee; it’s her twenty-first. We’ll be hosting a dinner party that evening, and then having some people to stay.”

  “Do Melissa and I get to go?” asked Ariadne.

  “No, darling,” said Lori, who had had quite an argument about this with Gareth.

  “No, we cannot, under any circumstances, ring up and ask if we can bring two teenage girls,” Gareth had said. “No, no and no. It just isn’t done.”

  Lori had reluctantly conceded the point, especially when she realized that she would need to use the girls’ rooms to put guests up. Best that they stayed at school, all things considered.

  “People to stay?” said Melissa sharply. “Not in my room, I hope.”

  “Perhaps Tara,” said Lori.

  “Has Tara been asked?” said Ariadne.

  “Yes,” said Gareth with simple pride. “She’s seeing a lot of Don Cordovan, and is going as his partner. She’ll have dinner with him, but of course she’ll be staying with us.”

  “I don’t mind if you put someone in my room,” said Ariadne helpfully. “Just as long as it’s a dishy man.”

  “You’re so puerile about men,” said Melissa scornfully.

  Alwyn and Angela were being entertained to lunch in the headmistress’s house. Alwyn, a distinguished academic, very suitable, was going to deliver the Laggard Address. He had no connection with the school, but Angela had a daughter there. The head, casting around this year for a scholarly type to enhance the school’s academic reputation, had decided to ignore the fact that Angela had carelessly cast off her husband years before and had since appeared with Alwyn in tow. Morality was one thing, the well-being of her school another. Alwyn had written several well-reviewed books, had become a minor radio personality, and, as a bonus, had an easy charm which would go down very well with both girls and parents.

  Alwyn liked being flattered and deferred to, and although there were better places to be on a glowing June day than a girls’ school, he was enjoying himself. As he took his place on the dais in the hall, applauded by some five hundred adolescent girls and their parents, he felt pleased with life. He sat with a clever expression on his face as various more or less shapeless girls trooped up to receive cups and prizes from the Chairman of the Governors, a tall and dissipated-looking Dean from a nearby cathedral.

  Alwyn observed with malicious satisfaction that neither his age nor the cloth deterred the Dean from eyeing the more attractive sixth formers in a very unclerical way. He must tell Angela to warn her daughter not to find herself in a dark passage with the good Dean.

  So Alwyn was in excellent form as he rose to address the company on the subject of History: the Mirror of our Minds. He was a brilliant speaker, with a fine voice, just enough humour, a vitality which was almost entirely missing when he was off the platform, and a gift for caressing his audience into believing that they were sharing and understanding weighty and difficult ideas.

  Gareth was entranced. Before the applause had reached its full volume, he had pushed his way along the line towards the exit.

  “Some people!”

  “Really!”

  “Excuse me!”

  “What does he think
this is, a rugger match?”

  “Daddy, don’t.”

  Gareth didn’t ignore the protests; he was simply unaware of them. He shot along the corridors and reached the heavy oak doors which led to the important part of the hall just as the platform party were emerging.

  He brushed past the Dean, flashed a quick smile in the direction of the headmistress and halted in front of Alwyn.

  “Mr Aumbry, I have a proposition to put to you. How would you like your own television series? Peak time, I can promise you, and a contract that any comedian would die for.”

  Gareth had found his star.

  Gina was so pleased with her dress that she had to show it to someone.

  “Lucky you!” said Zoe. “Heavenly! Carmen, only well cut. It must have cost a fortune. Is this the money from your dad?”

  “Yes,” said Gina. “It was on the sale rack, but it was still a horrendous price. Never mind, this ball’s going to be something special and I refuse to creep around like a poor relation.”

  “Good point,” agreed Zoe. “Especially since you’re supposed to be a rich relation.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Gina. “There you are then, wise move, not an extravagance after all.”

  “Did Harry like it?”

  “Ye-es,” said Gina.

  “What did he want you to buy?”

  “Black. More grown up. Slinky. Not me, really. The sort of dress you’d look good in, but I’d just look dreary. Not being possessed of your celestial fairness.”

  Zoe snorted, and adjusted her position on the swinging sofa. “You’ll have to wear a Wonderbra, though. That dress demands uplift, and you haven’t got much left, all this worrying isn’t good for the figure.”

  “Mmm,” said Gina, her mind on other matters. She sucked up the dregs of her iced coffee through a straw. “Where’s Fergus? Slaving away at his word processor? Deep in economic cycles?”

  “Not a bit of it. Deep in whatever pests attack vines. Helping Don to spray,” she added helpfully, seeing Gina’s puzzled expression. “At the vineyard.”