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 goodsparkling 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 housenear 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
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 goodsparkling 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 housenear 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
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