Restoring Grace (5 page)

On the other hand, the
upkeep of such a house, even
if she lived very simply, was a
constant worry. At least, having made certain of the roof, she was fairly
confident
it wouldn't need anything spending
on it for a while.
There was the damp in the older part, at the back,
but almost all old houses were damp somewhere or other, and as she didn't use
the back, that wasn't a problem.

But in spite of her optimism about the house
standing
longer than she would, and her
relaxed attitude to damp,
she was
aware that if the house wasn't kept warm, wasn't
properly lived in, it
would deteriorate. She either needed
a way
of earning a living which was sufficiently well paid
that she could keep
the house in good repair, or – and
this was
her present course of action – she could use the
house itself to provide an income. Hence the wine tasting
which, to her horror, she noticed was due to
start in less
than an hour.

‘Oh God! Now I've got to disguise myself as
someone who looks like she knows what the hell they're talking about!’

She
did
know
what the hell she was talking about; she was just worried no one would believe
her.

As she rushed upstairs to change, she realised
how
much depended on her making a success
of the evening. It wasn't just the money, although that was important, it was
that it would prove she needed to live in Luckenham
House, that it had
value beyond what the bricks and
mortar were
worth, and beyond its beauty. Otherwise,
the house, which was all she had in the world, would
just be a
very lovely, very uncomfortable place to live.

As she dug out her
ancient make-up bag, she reflected
that although she'd only visited her
Aunt Lavinia once,
when she was about
seventeen, her aunt, who was a great-
aunt really, must have sensed how
Grace had fallen in love with the place. Her parents had commented on the
cost of upkeep, and how difficult it was to get
help in the
house, but Grace, had
just said, unreservedly, that it was
wonderful.

Looking at her make-up, most of which she'd
bought
before she was married, or even
courting, she decided
not to bother
with foundation, and just breathed heavily
on the mascara and hoped
there was some left. As
she
scrubbed away with the dried-up wand she
realised that
was why she'd been left
the house, and not the furniture.
She'd seen what there was beyond the
obvious.

*

To her enormous relief, the kindly couple from
the shopcum-post office were the first to arrive.

‘I can't tell you how curious I've been to come
to this
house!' said Mrs Rose. 'My aunt
used to clean here when
I was a little girl and she used to tell me
about all the wonderful things there were.’

Grace laughed. 'I'm afraid
the wonderful things have
all gone, but the house is still the
same.'

‘I'd love a look round sometime!’

It crossed Grace's mind that Mrs Rose might
very well tell everyone what the inside of the house was like, but
she decided she didn't mind. After all, honest
poverty
was nothing to be ashamed of and if the local burglars
got to hear she had no furniture, it would make
her safer.

‘
Well,
I'd be happy to give you a tour afterwards. Not that there's much to see,
really.'

‘Thanks, pet, I'll look forward to it.’

As they were the first there,
and she felt warm towards
them, she steered Mr and Mrs Rose to
the most comfortable chairs. The latecomers could have the tea chests.

The next couple, the Cavendishes, used to live
in London. They were young, well dressed and overtly rich, but Grace warmed to
them anyway. They seemed fun.

‘
Hi! I'm Sara and this is
Will,' said Sara. She was dressed
in a scarlet
suit and draped with the most heavenly black
scarf
which probably cost as much as Grace's car. 'Will, darling, this is Grace, we
chatted over the phone. Will's always spending a fortune on wine and I thought
it was
time I found out a bit about it. Oh,
I know you!' she said
to the Roses,
who were sitting rather stiffly on their chairs,
wondering if they'd
made a mistake. 'You run the post office!' Sara put her hand out so Mr Rose had
to take it. 'I love your little shop! It's like a treasure box! You never know
what you're going to find in it!’

Mr Rose visibly softened, responding with
satisfaction
to Sara's compliments about
his pride and joy, and Grace
was
pleased to know that they used the local shop. They
could easily have
been the sort of people who bought everything off the Internet from the huge
hypermarket miles away

‘Can I sit on a tea chest?' asked Sara. 'Such
fun!'

‘You might ladder your tights!' said Grace,
suddenly noticing the sheerness of Sara's leg wear.

‘Oh, don't worry about that,' cried Sara.

‘My wife has no idea of economy,' said Will.

Sara grinned. 'You spend
your money on wine and fast
cars, and I spend mine on clothes.
Who else is coming?’

Grace had a list which she
now pulled out of her trouser
pocket. 'Urn
... one more couple. The' – she checked
her list
– 'Hamilton-Laceys. And there's someone called
Margaret Jeffreys and a friend of the wine-shop owner, a
Mr
Cormack.'

‘First name?' asked Sara.

‘Flynn,' said Grace.

‘
Oh, Irish!
How heavenly! I love Irishmen, they're
always so good at flirting!’

Mr and Mrs Rose appeared a little uncomfortable
and,
as they had the chairs, Grace realised
it was not the seating
arrangements that were making them edgy.

Will frowned affectionately at his wife.
'Darling, do pipe down a bit. Wait until you've got the wine as an excuse for
being outrageous.’

Sara shrugged apologetically. 'Sorree! What did
he sound like on the phone?' she asked Grace in a stage whisper.

‘
I didn't
speak to him. He came via the man at the wine
merchants, in town.' In fact, Grace suspected him of being
sent by the wine merchant to check if she knew
her stuff.
Which was fair enough, she supposed, because if she proved
herself, he might send wine for her to taste.

The doorbell rang and Grace let in the other
couple, who looked rather anxiously about them. 'Oh. Shabby chic,' said the
wife, 'how lovely' She was obviously wondering what on earth she was letting
herself in for.

‘Come into the kitchen,' said Grace, realising
she'd forgotten their names again and couldn't check her list without seeming
rude. Pointing them in the right direction, she took the coats the couple had
rashly removed and draped them over the banisters.

‘The kitchen? Oh.' The wife glanced longingly
at the
front door, wondering if it was too
late to make a run
for it.

The couple took their
places and made token attempts
at smiling. Sara Cavendish started
chatting in a friendly way, and Grace, filling a jug with water, couldn't hear
everything, but she did pick up on the words 'not quite what we expected from a
wine tasting' issuing from the wife. When she put the jug on the table, she
caught the woman giving her husband a very reproachful glance.

There were still two more people to come. Grace
had put out slices of bread and glasses for water as well as the wine bottles,
and she noticed people picking at the bread to fill the hiatus. If she'd been
Allegra she would
have made them play some
sort of game, or asked
leading
questions about what people did, but as her
guests didn't appear to have
that much in common,
Grace was at a loss.
Particularly as the latest arrivals were
refusing to join in the chat between the Cavendishes and
the
Roses.

‘Well, I wonder if we should begin?' Grace
ventured, hoping a few sips of wine would lighten the atmosphere. 'It's after
eight.’

But that moment, to her enormous relief, the
door bell jangled. Margaret Jeffreys and Flynn Cormack arrived together.

‘
Sorry we're
late,' said Margaret to Grace as she held
the door open. 'We got lost. Flynn kindly offered me a
lift
because I said I knew the way, and then I turned left at the crossroads instead
of right, I'm so dyslexic. It's taken us hours!’

Grace smiled. Margaret and Sara Cavendish were
obviously twins separated at birth, and would both take the
edge off everyone's natural shyness. Flynn Cormack
might well have been Irish, but he
certainly didn't exude
the bonhomie Sara was obviously expecting. In
fact, he seemed distinctly irritable. He and the couple with the
double-barrelled name that Grace still couldn't
remember
would get on fine.

Margaret talked her way
into the kitchen and when she
got there looked brightly around the
table. She waved
hello as she realised she
knew Sara and Will, and faintly
recognised Mr and Mrs Rose.

Grace relaxed. If they felt comfortable with
each other, they wouldn't feel inhibited about expressing their feelings. In
her opinion, lots of people took wine far too seriously. Her ex-husband
certainly did.

‘Well,' she began. 'As you know, because it
said on the
advertisement, we're here to
discuss Cabernet Sauvignon
bought from a supermarket.'

‘We never buy wine from supermarkets,' said Mrs
Double-Barrelled. 'We only ever buy from
reputable wine
merchants. Or from
caves
when
we're
in France.'

‘
If supermarkets
didn't sell wine,' said Mr Rose,
'there'd be more call for it in a village shop.'

‘
Shut up, dear,' said Mrs Rose. 'You know you
haven't
got a licence.'

‘
Would it be worth your
while getting one?' asked Sara
'We'd buy wine from you if it was
drinkable.'

‘
I
think we
should press on,' said Grace, aware that if
she
let her class get out of control before they'd even taker
the first sip,
she'd have no hope later on. She poured a
small
amount of the first wine into her glass. 'If you circu
late the bottle, and each pour yourselves a
little, I'll give
you a bit of spiel about this grape. It's found in red
Bordeaux wines, which we tend to call
claret in England
It has a distinctive flavour, and once you've learnt
to
recognise it, and know you like it,
you'll know which
wine to pick when you're at the sup— wine shop,' she
added for the benefit of the spy, who so far had said not a word.

‘
Right,'
she went on, still in schoolmistress mode, once
the bottle had done the
rounds. 'Take a good hard sniff and tell me what you think.’

The spy caught her eye and
regarded her with a strange,
intent look.
Grace wondered if her ancient make-up had
done
something funny to her face.

*

Eventually, it was over.
Almost everyone had gone home
except the spy
– Grace was too tired to remember names
– and Margaret Jeffreys. Margaret and Mrs Rose had had
a guided tour of the drawing room and Margaret was
still in
there, having a cigarette.

The spy was helping Grace clear the table. 'Are
you going to wash these up now?' He indicated the glasses which now seemed
enough for a reasonable sized party

‘
Not
tonight, no,' said Grace. 'It's much better when
it's sunny, don't you
think? Washing up?'