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“Just going out with you is a privilege, Hope.”
“That’s enough of that, Nash. Nice men don’t try it on with their girlfriend’s mothers.”
“Oh, it’s girlfriend already, is it?”
“Just a figure of speech, smart-ass. Go do your jobs.”
Nash followed Hope through the orchard into the old horse paddock, which was a rough piece of land, scarcely being able to even grow grass. She unlocked the door of the old hay shed and took two torches from a shelf, passing one to Nash. Hope then walked the short distance to the end of the shed which was build right into the rockface behind it. She unlocked the steel door and entered the cellar she said was dynamited and hewn by workmen on the instructions of her father.
In the dim light Nash looked at row upon row of tilted shelves, seven rows high.
“Crickey,” he breathed.
“Formed out of solid rock, no water seepage, remarkably constant low temperature and capacity for three thousand bottles, and it’s still two-thirds full. Collecting notable New Zealand wines and wines from abroad was daddy’s hobby. I just dip into it on special occasions. Some wines may turn to vinegar, so so what? Others won’t. You may get your hands on to this collection if you’re lucky with Lisa, as it will be inherited by her when what I drink no longer matters to me.”
“Crickey,” said Nash.
“I take it you are impressed.”
He nodded.
“Good boy.”
Later that afternoon Hope was lying awake after trying unsuccessfully to take a nap. The weather was hot and dry, wonderful conditions for the lead in to grape harvesting. In a month to five week her premium Montgomery block would be stripped by handpickers of its Carbenet Sauvignon grapes for the latest vintage of Montgomery Home Paddock Cab/Sav. Only yesterday Marko Bronkovic had phoned saying the assessment of the crop was very promising: providing the weather held through to harvesting it was likely Montgomery Home Paddock would merit ‘Reserve’ status labeling.
Hope rolled on to her side and looked though the open windows of her bedroom on to the Home Paddock block. As to be expected, her mind drifted back to her father’s last days – autumn of 1993.
To Be Continued.
- COMMENTS
Anonymousabout 16 years agoThere seems to be something about growing wine that challenges and upsets families. I lived in California long enough to get to know a couple of multi-generation vineyard families and learn the story of the Mondavi feud. When later I moved to upper New York State, I learned that the Taylor family had gone through nearly identical bustup, with ensuing feud. Something in the wine, I guess.
P.S. Like some other readers, I would appreciate more thorough spelling and grammar checking. As I have told my students, when English is written well enough that it can be read smoothly, a glitch breaks the flow.
