Wild Grapes

by Elizabeth Aston

  “No,” said Zoe, diverted. “Truthfully? You aren’t making it up?”

  “No, unfortunately, I’m not. So no further need for me, no chance of a work permit.”

  “He’ll need researchers, these telly programmes use hundreds of them.”

  “All provided by Gareth’s lot. It’s not my kind of research, what I do wouldn’t be any use for a TV series.”

  “There are other academics at Oxford who need research assistants.”

  “I haven’t got time to find them, and they’d shy off as soon as the little matter of a work permit came up.”

  “Let me think,” said Zoe. “There must be some way out of all this.”

  “It’s no good,” said Gina. “My mind’s made up. I’ve told Harry it’s yes, and that’s that.”

  “You’re a fool.”

  “You say that because you live here, you’ve got a passport, you can get a job.”

  “Well, so can you, in America. It’s not some bizarre poverty-stricken country you come from, no work, bilharzia arid the runs with every glass of water. You’re American, you’re a fully-paid-up citizen of God’s own country.”

  “I want to live in England. I haven’t got family in America, or friends. I was educated here, I feel English, I want to live here.”

  Zoe tried another tack. “Look, if you get married to Harry, you’re bound to fall in love with someone else in a year or two.”

  “And why should I do that?”

  “People do.”

  “If you really want to know, there’s no chance. I fell in love; the guy ditched me. Then it happened again. You get emotional and screwed up about people, and it’s hell. My parents fell in love, and look where they ended up. Walking out on each other and on me. I don’t need to be in love with someone to marry them. Love has nothing to do with marriage. This is going to be a working arrangement, and I’ll make it work.”

  “You’re mad,” said Zoe with foreboding. “What am I going to say to Fergus?”

  “Fergus? It’s none of his business.”

  “He won’t like it.”

  “Tough.”

  Zoe looked at her friend, exasperated.

  To Gina’s relief there was a brief ring on the doorbell and Sybil, not waiting to be let in, put her head round the kitchen door. “Hello, Gina,” she said. “Zoe, do you still want to go to Heartsbury? I need some books from the library, but I’m leaving now.”

  Zoe gave her hands a perfunctory wash, kicked off the shower shoes she had been wearing for her cleaning tasks, stuffed her feet into a pair of sandals, whisked her bag off the back of the door and announced that she was ready.

  “Quarrelled with Gina?” asked Sybil as she started the car.

  “The idiot,” said Zoe furiously. “Do you know what she’s gone and done? Just listen to this.”

  Sybil drove in silence, waiting for Zoe to finish her pithy and indignant analysis of Gina’s wrongdoings. This didn’t happen until they were approaching the outskirts of Heartsbury, and rather than cope with a still fuming Zoe going off pop in the library, Sybil drew into the superstore.

  “There’s a cafe here, have a cold drink or a coffee to restore you,” she said.

  Zoe was glad of the offer, but she was still muttering as they found a table and sat down on the hard little chairs.

  “They’re always so uncomfortable, these chairs,” said Sybil. “Of course, they don’t want to encourage punters to linger. Once you’ve paid up at the self-service, they want you on your way as fast as possible.”

  Zoe had no time for idle chit-chat. “What am I going to do?” she demanded.

  “About Gina and Harry? Nothing,” said Sybil.

  “I can’t stand by and watch Gina ruin her life,” said Zoe dramatically.

  “One, people don’t ruin their lives so easily. Two, she and Harry may get on much better than you think. Three, they’re both adults, and there’s nothing at all that you can do. Friends come mistakes and all, and you either accept them and their more or less unsuitable partners, or you find new friends.”

  “Oh, I suppose you’re right,” said Zoe. “I know you’re right. But it’s such a shame. Gina doing a thing like this, just to get a passport.”

  “I think Gina may be doing it for more complicated reasons than you imagine,” said Sybil. “There’s a lot at stake for her. Any other lovers in her life?”

  Zoe shook her head. She plunged the spoon into her coffee and stirred it with malevolent force. “No. I think she was really quite keen on Alwyn, the guy she worked for. Not seriously, though.”

  “Alwyn Aumbry?” said Sybil briskly. “Well, that’s a waste of time. Apart from the fact that Angela has him exactly where she wants him, she’d be far better off with Harry, who’s a very charming young man.”

  “I haven’t met him,” said Zoe.

  “Then don’t prejudge him. I think you and Harry would get on extremely well. No, my advice is just to sit tight, spare Gina your rantings and ravings, and wait to see how things turn out. You may be surprised.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Fergus drove over to Heartsbury to meet Charlotte at the station. She usually drove herself everywhere in a smart red car, but it was out of action; cows had got out from a neighbour’s field and had taken a short-cut across Charlotte’s parents’ drive.

  “Hardly what you expect in Surrey,” Charlotte had complained on the phone. “Rampaging, I mean. It’s a terrible nuisance, my car will be off the road for nearly a week, and they haven’t got a spare one available at the moment. It’s too bad.”

  “Hire one?” suggested Fergus.

  “No, that would be extravagant, and besides, I won’t need it. I can easily catch the train. You can meet me, and then I’ll be with you all the time in any case. We can use your car.”

  What, every day and all day? thought Fergus gloomily as he wandered up and down the empty platform. He stopped by the chocolate machine, debating whether he wanted a bar or not. No, he had a sour taste in his mouth. And why couldn’t Charlotte come on the branch line to Heartsease? Why did she have to go to Heartsbury?

  Trapped, he prowled some more. Perhaps he would have some chocolate after all. The machine swallowed his 30p, gave a halfhearted clank and spat out a toffee bar.

  Hell, said Fergus, dumping it in the bin. Although the June sun still shone, the station seemed oppressive and gloomy. A label which had come off a parcel stirred in the breeze and Fergus watched its erratic passage down the platform until it flipped over the edge and came to rest on the line.

  Ten past ten. The train had been due five minutes ago. The loudspeaker system crackled into life, giving Fergus, who was standing right underneath one of the speakers, a nasty shock. Crackle, crackle, hiss; then it cleared enough for a robotic voice with strangely refined vowels to announce that the train due at 10.05 was running approximately twenty-three, two, three minutes late. The message ended with a loud click and the station fell silent again.

  Fergus sauntered into the little buffet where three tables were set out next to a counter across which tea and other beverages and sandwiches were dispensed. Fergus eyed the inky-looking coffee brewing on a hotplate and asked for a cup of tea. He took a sip, deposited it on one of the tables and cruised along the rack of magazines and papers which stood at the far end of the room.

  An article caught his eye, and he began to read.

  His tea grew cold, other passengers came and went, and so did the delayed ten-five. The first Fergus knew about it was when he was addressed in cross tones by two women simultaneously.

  One was the woman at the counter. “The notice says, "No browsing",” she pointed out. “Quite clearly, and if you can read the magazine you can read those words. You’ll have to pay for it, nobody else is going to want it once you’ve thumbed it through.”

  The other was Charlotte. “Well, here you are. I do think you could have waited for me on the platform. I went outside and saw your car, but no sign of you. I know the train was late, but y
ou could have noticed it arriving.”

  “Hello, Charlotte,” said Fergus, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Hang on, that biddy is making me buy this magazine.”

  Charlotte plucked it out of his hand. “Country Style? Why are you reading this, Fergus? Of course, you don’t have to buy it if you don’t want to. She can’t make you.”

  Fergus looked at the woman’s baleful expression and thought she probably could. “I want to buy it, in any case,” he said. “There’s an interesting article that I want to finish.”

  Charlotte led the way to his car, and stood by while he tucked her bags into the boot. He saw her into her seat, shut her door and went round to the driver’s side. Suppressing a sudden, wild urge to hurl the keys in through the window and flee to the platform to leap aboard the train for Scotland which had just drawn in, he slid instead into the car and started the engine.

  Charlotte was investigating the magazine. “Was this the article you were reading?” she asked. “About the vineyard?”

  “Yes,” said Fergus, swerving to avoid a pensioner determined to end her life then and there in the High Street. “Or perhaps she just spotted a particularly nice piece of Battenberg cake across the road and threw caution to the winds.”

  “What?” said Charlotte, startled. “Battenberg cake? Fergus, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “Nothing,” said Fergus. “I was just thinking out loud for a moment.”

  “Well, don’t,” said Charlotte. “And I can’t imagine why you wanted to read this, what a dreary, exhausting life, running a vineyard. Apart from making a product which is so bad for people.”

  “Bad for people?” echoed Fergus, speeding up as they left the city behind them.

  “Not too fast,” said Charlotte automatically. “And I think you should be in fourth gear. Watch out for that motorcyclist.” She returned to her subject. “Wine is alcohol. Alcohol is bad for you.”

  Fergus flashed a quick, sideways glance at Charlotte. Was this a joke?

  “Definitely not,” said Charlotte, her eyes gleaming with the enthusiasm of the convert. “Mummy’s been to see this wonderful doctor. He’s written a book, you must read it.”

  Fergus grunted.

  “You don’t sound quite yourself,” said Charlotte, eyeing him intently.

  Fergus pulled himself together. “I’ve been working very hard,” he said. And that was true, no need for Charlotte to know that it had been at Don’s vineyard rather than on his thesis.

  “Of course, and you’re tired, because you’ll have been eating all the wrong food. This book has recipes at the end, all designed to give you a perfectly balanced diet, eliminating acids from the system, helping you to sleep, and, most important in your case, enabling the brain to work to its full potential.”

  “Oh?” said Fergus, who had a suspicion that he wasn’t going to like these recipes.

  “Beans,” said Charlotte triumphantly. “That’s the secret. I’m going to cook all your meals for you while I’m here; you’ll be amazed at how different you’ll feel in no time at all.”

  Fergus felt different at once, as any last vestiges of good humour vanished. I hate beans, he thought rebelliously. And if she’s decided alcohol is bad for me, she’ll be on at me to drink water and juice.

  “Only lightly carbonated spring water, with an alkaline base,” Charlotte continued. “Nothing else, especially not anything which is a stimulant. Such as tea or coffee,” she added, in case Fergus was in any doubt. “You can begin on a new regime today; I’ll prepare a lunch as soon as we get to Heartsbane.”

  “No way,” said Zoe, barring the door. “I’m sorry, Charlotte, but this is a small kitchen, and I’m in it.”

  Zoe was always polite to Charlotte in the Oxford house, mindful of the fact that it was Fergus’s house and that Charlotte was Fergus’s girlfriend and likely future wife. Mostly, she contrived to keep out of her way as much as possible, because Zoe didn’t like Charlotte, thought Fergus was far too good for her, and felt hugely relieved when her visits came to an end.

  “Must be like going to bed with something out of the broom cupboard,” she had said to Gina.

  Gina had defended Fergus. “He’s old enough to know what he wants.”

  Zoe wasn’t having that. “No man is ever old enough to know what he wants,” she said firmly. “Except mostly what he can’t have. But Charlotte’s got Fergus exactly where she wants him, and he hasn’t got the guts to tell her to push off.”

  “He’s in love with her,” insisted Gina. “He doesn’t want her to push off.”

  “He’s no more in love with her than I am with the postman,” said Zoe. “He might have felt a frisson once, but now she’s wound her tendrils round him, and he has no idea of how to get away.”

  “I feel sorry for Charlotte,” said Gina. “If you’re right, and he isn’t really keen on her. But I don’t believe it. They heave off to the bedroom quickly enough whenever she comes.”

  “Yes, but it’s her leading the way, haven’t you noticed? And Fergus is too lazy to go and find himself another girlfriend, so sex with Charlotte is better than nothing.”

  “Such cynicism,” said Gina, shocked. “You make Fergus seem putty in her hands; Fergus isn’t like that.”

  “I’m absolutely right,” said Zoe. “Just you wait and see. It’s laziness, nothing more. And not facing up to how he really feels.”

  “About Charlotte?”

  Zoe gave Gina a quick look. “Among others,” she said.

  Now, in Kingfisher Cottage, things were different. “You’re a guest here, Charlotte,” Zoe told her. “And I’m doing the cooking. Unless you want to go out with Fergus, of course. Just let me know, for numbers and so on.”

  Charlotte was furious. “That won’t be at all convenient,” she told Zoe. “Fergus needs special food, so I’m afraid I’ll have to do the cooking for us both. And for you, too, if you like,” she added generously. “I’m sure a cleansing diet will do you the world of good.”

  “What special food?” said Zoe. “Fergus eats everything.”

  “Exactly, and that’s what’s so bad for him. Everything means meat and dairy products and wheat and acidic fruit and vegetables - the system simply can’t cope. Ninety per cent of what he eats is actually harmful.”

  “Oh, rubbish,” said Zoe.

  Charlotte had spotted the empties.

  “And of course, he drinks far too much. Alcohol is poison, total poison. I can see he’s been having beer, and wine, too.”

  Fergus was hovering in the doorway, alarmed by the raised voices. Wonderful, he thought. Charlotte comes for a ball, and issues a ban on all the food that might be served, not to mention expecting him to drink water instead of champagne.

  Charlotte was well into her stride. “He must only eat foods which restore the chemical balance of the body. Beans and pulses, cooked naturally, without salt. And tofu.”

  Fergus took a deep breath and raised his voice in protest.

  “Charlotte, I had tofu once, at a Japanese restaurant. It was disgusting.”

  “You’ll learn to like it,” said Charlotte with superb conviction.

  “Beans?” said Zoe. “Not in this house, Charlotte. You can worship the bean in your own house, or anywhere you like, but not here. Beans are banned.”

  “I hardly think you’re in a position to lay down the law about what Fergus eats. I’m going to be here for a week...”

  Fergus blanched.

  “...which will give me time to set Fergus off on the right path. Then, when I leave, he can use this.”

  She drew out from her bag a concertina affair, which, unfolded, was about four feet long. It was covered in columns of small print.

  “This is the prohibited list. There are recipes on the other side.”

  Fergus grabbed it, expostulated.

  “Charlotte, practically every food you can imagine is on this list. What is there left to eat?”

  “Some fresh vegetables; there are a few which are
all right in small quantities. A banana once a week. Plenty of water. And, the mainstay of all your meals, as I said, is beans.”

  “I said, no beans in this house,” put in Zoe.

  “I hardly think it’s rational to take this hostile attitude to the bean,” said Charlotte.

  “It isn’t a matter of reason. My objections are purely physical. I am not sharing a small house with a man who eats beans.”

  “And why not?”

  First funny thing I’ve heard today, thought Fergus, the gloom lifting. “Come on, Charlotte, don’t be so slow. Beans meanz fartz.”

  Zoe laughed. “Exactly, I couldn’t have put it better.”

  Charlotte disliked vulgarity and crudity, and chose to ignore the laughter. “You seem to have a warped sense of humour,” she said coldly. “These are serious matters. The gut adjusts to beans, and...”

  “Then it can do its adjusting elsewhere,” said Zoe firmly.

  Charlotte tried to keep calm; getting worked up poured acid into the system, so the good doctor’s book said. She managed a smile, which emerged as a patronizing grimace.

  “So I’m sure you understand, Zoe, why, although it is kind of you to offer to cook, I must insist on preparing our food myself.”

  Zoe folded her arms. “Not here. This is my kitchen, and you’re not cooking up horrid little bean messes in it.”

  The grimace never faltered. “It is Fergus’s kitchen, and...”

  “Wrong,” said Zoe. “I rent Kingfisher Cottage. Fergus may pay his expenses, and we share food bills, but he’s staying with me. And so are you. And my guests eat what’s put in front of them. You want to have a bean orgy, wait until you get married. I can see your honeymoon is going to go with a bang.”

  “Ouch,” said Fergus, trying not to laugh. Any urge to do so subsided very swiftly as Charlotte turned on him.

  “Fergus,” was all she said.

  Zoe unfolded her arms and picked up a dish towel. “Oh, by the way, Fergus,” she said in casual tones, “Sybil popped in. Says Harry rang up, would you meet him at the Bunch of Grapes at half past six. Ring if you can’t make it, otherwise he’ll expect you then.”