The West Country Winery

Lizzie Lovell

• Publisher: Allen & Unwin
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN:
  9781786498373
• eBook ISBN:
  9781786498366
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

Chrissie loves her London life and job as an events manager. She loves her loyal lodger and cleaner Melina (a bit neurotic but hardly ever breaks anything), and her daughters Scarlet (loud, vegan, activist) and Ruby (quiet, musician, boffin). She even loves her husband Rob, despite him deciding to cycle across Africa. For a year. But life as the only responsible adult has left Chrissie stressed and overworked, so much so that she is almost relieved when her mum calls her home to Devon to help with the struggling family vineyard. Almost. But if Chrissie has her doubts about moving, how will she persuade the girls to trade their multi-cultural, fast-paced London lives for a twice-weekly bus service and erratic broadband? Only Melina is keen to come along for the ride - worried as she is about Brexit and despite Chrissie's description of the local villagers, Melina is on the look-out for a Brit to marry. Chrissie gives herself a year: if she can make it through until then, maybe they can celebrate as a family with their own fizz? But adjusting to West Country life may take more than she bargained for... A comedic state-of-the-nation tale for fans of Katie Fforde, Jenny Colgan and Phillipa Ashley.

Autumn

IT WAS SUPPOSED to be a normal Monday family supper. Sausage casserole and green beans. Quick. Easy. Fairly nutritious. But mainly quick.

We have a routine. A plan.

Every Monday, Rob does the school run both ways – seeing as it’s band practice and impossible for Ruby to lug a harp around on the bus. Scarlet either goes along for the ride or makes her own way depending on which mood she’s in: hormonal or murderous. My job, first thing, is to take the casserole out of the freezer and pop it in the pre-set oven so that when the four of us are reconvened back here, the one night we can all manage to be under the same roof at the same time, it will be bubbling away nicely.

It’s not a lot to ask. You would think.

Unfortunately, stuff happens and I don’t particularly like it if I’m not prepared, though I’m usually adaptable. At least, I reckon so – my colleagues and family might say otherwise.

Tonight has not gone according to plan.

I am cornered by Declan on my way out of the office – something about a client changing their mind last minute over the type of water required at the upcoming conference – adding ten minutes to my schedule so I don’t get in until 6.30, by which time an argument’s in full flow.

‘You are not going to be a bloody vegan!’ Rob’s face is puce and marbled like an old boozer, his wiry frame jutting at awkward angles. A slightly charred sausage casserole sits between them on the dining table, its aroma filling the room.

‘I haven’t had an animal product or by-product for five days and you haven’t even noticed, so what’s the problem?’ Scarlet’s standing in her usual pose, hands on hips, defiant, deadly.

‘It’s bloody inconvenient, that’s the problem.’

‘It’s more inconvenient for the animals.’

‘Don’t be a smart-arse. Nobody likes a smart-arse.’

‘I don’t care about being liked. I just don’t want to eat dead things. We could swap the rotting flesh for Linda McCartney sausages.’

‘I don’t want Linda McCartney sausages,’ Rob whines. ‘How am I supposed to survive on Linda McCartney sausages? My hair’s falling out as it is and my muscle’s turning to fat.’ He points at his stomach area. There might be just the smallest bulge, but he’s not doing badly for a forty-two-year-old – although a forty-two-yearold who sounds more like a teenager, and we already have two of those in the house. One of whom is right now as bright red as her name suggests, the high colour of her father.

‘What’s Chrissie going to say?’

‘I don’t know, what is Chrissie going to say?’ Then, catching sight of me, ‘In fact, why don’t you ask her?’ Scarlet points a finger in my direction.

Rob spins round, finally noticing me standing in the kitchen doorway, briefcase still clasped in my clenched hand, heels still clamped on my tired feet. ‘Oh, I didn’t see you there.’ He checks his Fitbit. ‘You’re late, aren’t you?’

As if I need to be reminded. I’m about to open my mouth and respond but in that moment, seeing father and daughter reflecting each other’s stubbornness, I realize I don’t have the energy. So I make a sharp exit, retreat down the hallway, take off my shoes, and head upstairs to get changed.

Our bedroom used to be a sanctuary of calm and serenity but recently that doesn’t seem to be working out so well. Rob has implanted an exercise bike in the corner – cycling being his latest obsession – and Ruby is currently ensconced on my favourite piece of furniture, my grandmother’s cocktail chair, plucking away at her harp.

‘Hi, Mum. You look terrible. Do you like this?’

I do feel terrible so I perch on the bed to gather myself and listen to her play. The relaxing, whimsical notes of Joanna Newsom fill the air.

‘Actually, I really do like it,’ I confirm after a trance-like few minutes.

Ruby’s cupid lips turn into a big smile. She’s very good and the harp is very soothing. The harp is also very big. Too big to fit in the bedroom shared with her stepsister, so she comes into my room – our room – to practise.

‘I really like it, Ruby, but haven’t you played enough for one day?’

‘I want to get this piece right,’ she says, brow furrowed in concentration. ‘And it means I don’t have to listen to those two shouting at each other.’ She continues to run her fingers across the strings and I remember the first time she had a go on a harp, her hands so small I never thought she’d be able to make a tune.

‘You all right, Mum?’ She stops for a moment, turns her serious eyes upon me. Deep brown eyes, sometimes murky, other times bright, like amber. In fact, my mother suggested I call her Amber, but Ruby was the only name Nathan and I could agree on. Actually, that was the only thing that Nathan and I could agree on. ‘Mum?’

‘Oh, yeah, sorry, Ruby. I’m just a bit frazzled, but I’ll be OK after a glass of wine and some dinner.’ I start to take off my work clothes and decide it’s already pyjama time. ‘Did you know Scarlet’s gone vegan?’

‘Yeah,’ she says, as if it’s old news. ‘She’ll get bored.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Last month it was raw food. It’ll be something else next month.’

‘I dread to think.’

‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ she says. ‘Let’s go downstairs and eat. Scarlet can have beans on toast. That’s vegan, right?’

‘Yes, definitely vegan.’

We share a smile.

‘OK, then. Just let me get changed.’

Ruby slips out, quiet as anything. Only her harp remains, a reminder that my daughter is an angel. And my stepdaughter... Not so much. But I love them the same. I’ve known Scarlet since she was a tantrumming toddler. I know her moods will pass, her emotions are changeable. I almost wish some of that passion would rub off on Ruby – quiet, shy, self-contained Ruby – but that really would be asking for trouble.

AN HOUR LATER and we’ve eaten. Ruby joined her sister in the baked-bean feast and put forward the idea that she might like to be a vegetarian – not a vegan because she could never give up cheese – so there’s plenty of rotting-flesh casserole left over for Rob to consume at work tomorrow after his Friday-lunchtime spin class. Now he’s disappeared and I can hear the whirr of him above, in our bedroom, pedalling away on the exercise bike, giving himself indigestion. The girls are doing homework – they’re pretty good at getting on with it, I’ll give them that, even Scarlet who finds concentrating much harder than focused Ruby. This gives me the chance to catch up on some work of my own at the cleared kitchen table; there are a few loose ends to tie up ahead of Saturday’s conference.

I’m just contemplating a second glass of Merlot when the phone goes. The landline. There’s only one person who uses this number – apart from the occasional stray nuisance caller who has escaped my eradication – and this person uses the landline because, where she lives, there isn’t a single bar of signal unless you climb up the steep hill behind the house.

Mother. Or ‘Eve’, as she likes to be known.

‘Hello, Christabel.’

My mother is the only person allowed to use my official, ridiculous name. I don’t remember my father as he was gone before my memory was even a thing, though I sometimes wonder when I catch a whiff of old-man tobacco... But really I hardly ever think of him because there’s been no need – not when I have my glorious hippy Eve and my larger-than-life stepdad, Des, exasperating and infuriating as they are.

‘We’ve got a bit of a problem.’

‘Oh? What’s happened?’

‘Calm down, my darling. It’s nothing too serious.’

‘Serious? Oh my God. Serious?’

‘I said it’s not se...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Autumn
• Winter
• Spring
• Summer
• Autumn