Vintage (9 page)

T
he news that she had inherited a farmhouse and a vineyard in Sussex did a great deal to improve Kelly’s mood on the day she learned of her father’s death. She immediately started fantasizing about the money she would get when she sold the place and the smart London flat she would buy for herself with the proceeds.

Unfortunately, the fantasy didn’t last long.

“Oh dear. I’m afraid you can’t actually sell the farmhouse,” said Mr. Harper. “At least, not yet. The conditions of the will are that the house cannot be sold for at least the next five years.”

“What?” Kelly was furious. “But you said it was my house.”

“Not quite. It’s in trust,” Mr. Harper repeated.

Kelly was not glad to hear that. Five years was for-fucking-ever in her world.

“Your father explains in this letter, which he asked me to give to you. I think the idea is that you should produce a ‘vintage’ of your own before you make a decision whether or not to pass the farm on to someone else.”

Kelly looked confused.

“Vintage?” said Mr. Harper. “It’s a wine term. Five years is roughly how long it takes to make a bottle of good
sparkling wine, which is what Dougal was producing at Froggy Bottom.”

Kelly looked at Marina. Marina shrugged in response.

“So, basically, what you’re saying is I can’t get my hands on any money until I’m twenty-three?”

“But it’s an exciting opportunity for you to learn about wine … ” Mr. Harper tried.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Kelly. “Forget it. I don’t know fuck about wine and I’m not bloody living on a farm. Just call me when the five years are up.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. The conditions of the will are that you have to get your hands dirty, as it were, to get any money at all.”

“But I don’t know anything about wine! I told you.”

Mr. Harper explained that Kelly wouldn’t be expected the run the vineyard on her own. There was already a vineyard manager in place at Froggy Bottom and there were three trustees to take care of the financial arrangements: Dougal’s former accountant, Reginald Bryden; his former bank manager, Georgina Nuttall, and Hilarian Jackson, Dougal’s great friend. Overall responsibility would remain with Mr. Jackson until the five years had passed.

“He’ll steer you right. He’s a noted wine critic,” said Mr. Harper.

“I’ve never heard of him,” said Kelly.

Still Mr. Harper persisted. He pulled a map out of his briefcase and showed Kelly exactly where Froggy Bottom lay. It was pretty close to London, he pointed out. Between Brighton and Lewes on the South Downs.

“Brighton?”

Kelly perked up a little. She had been to Brighton often as a child, and later she and her friends would sometimes catch a train down there to go clubbing. A big house
near Brighton was much more appealing than a vineyard in the middle of nowhere.

“I suppose I ought to have a look at it,” said Kelly. “It sounds a bit better now.”

The day came for her to visit Froggy Bottom for the first time.

Mr. Harper picked her up for the drive down to Sussex.

“You must be very excited,” he said.

“Sure,” said Kelly. But she was soon feeling uncomfortable about the whole thing again. This place was nowhere near Brighton. At least not within cabbing distance. As they drove through a couple of tiny villages that didn’t even have their own pubs, Kelly could already feel the boredom that would eat into her bones if she actually had to live there. And then it got worse.

Mr. Harper asked Kelly to navigate for the last part of the journey.

“Turn up the farm track,” was the first instruction Kelly read aloud.

Within three minutes they were out of sight of any human habitation. It was as though they had driven back in time. Kelly felt oddly apprehensive. The downs rolled before them like a quilt freshly shaken out, rain-forest-frog green against the gunmetal gray of a stormy May sky. It had rained solidly for the past fortnight and now it looked as though it was about to start again. Mr. Harper’s brand-new Audi A8 didn’t seem quite such a smart choice of transport anymore. This really was a track, two deep channels worn by years of tractor traffic. As they drove on, Kelly stared out of the car window in horror. If Mr. Harper feared for his Audi, Kelly feared for her boots.

A large puddle loomed across the track ahead of them. It was as wide as the child’s paddling pool in the park near
Kelly’s house and the muddy water made it impossible to tell how deep it was.

“I guess we’ll just have to chance it,” said Mr. Harper, manfully.

It was a bad mistake. The Audi got just halfway across the mini-lake before it was stuck. The channels were too deep, impossible to navigate in anything less than a Land Rover. Mr. Harper revved the engine but the car was going nowhere. Not forwards; not backwards. Just nowhere.

“I’ll have to get out and push,” he said. “You steer.”

“You are fucking kidding me,” said Kelly.

“I’ll steer if you push?” Mr. Harper attempted a joke that failed to elicit a smile from either of them.

“Fuck off.”

Mr. Harper opened the car door and looked at the puddle that swirled around the car as dark as chocolate milk. Wisely, he took off his shoes and rolled up his trousers before getting out. Kelly moved across into the driver’s seat.

It was hopeless. After three more minutes of wheel-spinning, Mr. Harper reappeared from behind the car. He was absolutely drenched from the water that the tires had kicked up. He opened the driver’s door and leaned inside.

“I don’t seem to be making much progress,” he admitted. “Perhaps if we push together?”

Kelly stared at him in horror. “I’m not getting out of here,” she said. “Send someone to fetch me.”

Mr. Harper nodded with resignation. He got out his mobile to call the farmhouse. There was no signal.

“What now?” Kelly asked him, her voice getting shrill with panic.

“Just stay here,” said Mr. Harper bravely. “I’ll walk down there. It can’t be far.”

“It better not be. I’m cold and hungry.”

“And I’m soaking wet,” said Mr. Harper. He waded to the other side of the puddle, put on his shoes and followed the path until he was out of sight.

“Great.”

Kelly remained frozen behind the steering wheel, staring in the direction Mr. Harper had disappeared. Forgetting his experience, she pulled her mobile out of her handbag. She could at least call one of her mates and moan until she was out of this hellhole. But her phone could find no signal either.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” she swore at the screen. “For fuck’s sake! I didn’t even want to be here. I just want to go home!”

Then all was quiet again. Nothing but the sound of the wind rustling through the wheat in the fields on either side. Nothing at all. Until a frog jumped from the puddle through the open driver’s door and straight into her lap.

It was more than three quarters of an hour before Mr. Harper returned. By that time, Kelly had almost given up hope. As it was, she had completely lost the will to be polite or friendly to her father’s solicitor and the man who made up the rescue party in the Land Rover.

“Hilarian Jackson,” said the man, extending his hand. Kelly could tell at once that he was posh. He was properly equipped with Wellington boots and had the red face of a bon viveur. “I’m representing the trustees today,” he explained to Kelly. “Piggyback?”

“Anything. Just get me out of here. A frog left slime on my skirt.”

Hilarian just laughed. “They don’t call this Froggy Bottom for nothing. Let’s get you in my car.” He hauled her out of there and gave her a fireman’s lift.

The view from that final bit of road was breathtaking,
but Kelly didn’t notice. She was almost crying as the Land Rover crested the last hill that hid the vale of Froggy Bottom. She didn’t see the chalk cliffs stretching into the distance or notice the seabirds wheeling overhead, brilliant bright white flashes of flight against the blackening clouds. She certainly didn’t notice the neatly planted vines, marching up the south-facing slopes like regiments of thin, green soldiers.

All Kelly could see was the mud that lay between her and the house.

“I want to go back to London,” she said.

There was one person at Froggy Bottom who really did hope that Kelly went back to London. Guy Harcourt had been running the vineyard for the past three years. He couldn’t believe the girl’s luck. In Guy’s opinion, she had inherited one of the best vineyards in Europe.

Guy had come to England from South Africa. He was passionate about grapes. At just twenty-three he had far more knowledge than many men twice his age. It was largely because he was so young that old man Dougal had taken Guy on, thinking he would be able to pay him half the wages of someone more experienced. Guy didn’t mind. It was worth the pay cut to be able to run the vineyard his way, without any interference.

And so, as far as Guy was concerned, the best-case scenario (after the old man leaving the vineyard to him) was that it should go to someone fairly disinterested, so that he could continue to experiment without having to justify himself.

He was hugely relieved when he discovered that old Dougal Mollison had not left the vineyard to his legitimate children (they had to make do with the enormous house in Norfolk and the Scottish shooting lodge with its associated fishing rights). But he didn’t expect the illegitimate
child to be any more exciting. He certainly didn’t expect her to be beautiful.

It took a rare vision to notice that Kelly Elson was beautiful behind the cheap makeup and tight ponytail that showed off her thrice-pierced ears to perfection. The ring through her nose distracted from its snub prettiness, and as for her attitude … it was very hard to notice the elegance of Kelly’s heart-shaped face when she jutted her chin out so belligerently.

“I’m your new boss,” she said to Guy when Hilarian introduced them. “You better impress me.”

They were off to a very bad start.

“There is no way this is going to work,” Kelly said to herself as Hilarian led her into the farmhouse that he referred to as her “new home.” For a start it was far from new.

“The original building dates from the sixteenth century,” Hilarian explained. “The outhouses were built in the eighteenth. It’s been in your father’s family all that time.”

The place was disgusting. The ceilings were low. The windows were tiny. It was dark and smelled of mildew. The furniture was ancient too. Kelly saw no point to antiques. The three-piece suite in the sitting room made her mother’s settee look positively smart. Neither did the inglenook fireplace impress her.

“You mean like you have to light a proper fire if you want to sit in here in the winter?”

“Yes,” said Hilarian. “Or in the summer. It does get chilly out here. But I think it’s rather romantic.”

“Filthy,” Kelly said. Not to mention labor intensive. The rest of the tour confirmed her worst fears. There wasn’t a radiator in the place. There was no dishwasher in the kitchen. The washing machine was on its last legs. Hilarian merely laughed when she asked about a tumble
dryer. There was no shower in the single bathroom. Kelly turned on a tap full blast and was rewarded with a trickle of cold brown water. How could anyone live like this? Kelly certainly didn’t intend to.

Guy was in charge of the tour of the winery.

“Let’s start with the vineyard itself,” he said.

“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” said Kelly. “In these boots?” She indicated the dagger-sharp heels. “It ain’t happening.”

“We must have a pair of wellies around here somewhere,” said Hilarian. He went back into the farmhouse and returned with a pair of green Hunters. “Bit big,” he said. “But we’re not going to walk far. These must have been your father’s,” he added.

“What? You want me to wear a dead person’s shoes?” Kelly was incredulous. “You are having a laugh. Fuck off!”

So they didn’t go up to the vineyard. Instead they stayed on the relatively safe concrete outside the winery while Guy pointed to the vines they could see from that vantage point and let Kelly know what varietal was planted where with the help of a drawing he’d taken hours to prepare.

“Doesn’t mean anything to me,” she told him when he had finished a fairly impassioned speech about the suitability of the terroir at Froggy Bottom for creating sparkling wine. Guy said he could explain it all again if she wanted, but Kelly told him the only thing she wanted right then was to get inside and out of the drizzle.

And so they went into the winery. It was the newest of the ugly-looking sheds that flanked the courtyard, and inside it was like any other factory—all piping and concrete floors. Kelly stared up at the enormous stainless steel vats and started to zone out while Guy explained the whole process of making sparkling wine from grape to bottle. The occasional word—familiar from Daniel Weston’s
wine monologues—drifted into her consciousness but seeing the tools of the craft laid before her didn’t make things any clearer or more interesting. Meanwhile Guy’s strong Afrikaans accent began to grate on her. He sounded as arrogant as he looked.

Kelly glanced from Guy to Hilarian and caught him looking back at her. He’d seemed happy enough when he came to her rescue in the Land Rover, but now she decided that he’d taken a dislike to her too. His eyes were narrowed as he regarded her. He probably thought she was stupid and common, Kelly decided. People like him always did. Well, it didn’t matter what he thought. She’d never have to see him again. She wasn’t coming back to this place until the time came to sell it. Kelly had talked to one of the girls at work: a law student at the London School of Economics. She said she thought Kelly would be able to get around the whole trust thing if she wanted to. “Circumvent” was the word she’d used.

“OK,” said Hilarian suddenly. “I can see that our guest of honor is flagging in the face of all your jargon, Guy. Shall we cut to the chase?”

Guy had already prepared a little tasting area in the corner of the winery. He’d covered a small folding table with a white tablecloth and arrayed eight glasses in front of two different vintages of Froggy Bottom’s finest. He poured out tasting measures. Hilarian and Mr. Harper examined the color of the wine against the background of the tablecloth. Kelly listened to Hilarian’s pretentious description of what looked like bubbling piss to her.