Paul Torday - Irresistible Inheritance of Wilberforce

TO BE PROOFREAD

Title:

The Irresistible Inheritance of Wilberforce: A Novel in Four Vintages (aka Bordeaux)

Author:

Paul Torday

Year:

2008

Synopsis:

You really love me dont you? she said.

Of course I do.

Its hard to tell because you never talk much. Youve never really had any fun in your life at all, have you?

No, but thats about to change.

Late one summer evening, Wilberforcerich, young, work-obsessed and self-containedmakes an unexpected detour on the way home from the software company he owns and unwittingly takes the first step on a journey that will change his life. His uncharacteristically impulsive act leads him to the door of Caerlyon Hall, to the vast undercroft beneath it, and the domain of Francis Black, a place where wine, hospitality and affection flow freely. Through Francis, the eccentric and enigmatic owner of Caerlyon, Wilberforce is initiated into a life he could never have imagined: a life rich in the promise of friendship and adventure, where, through his new set of friends, with their shooting parties and stately homes, the possibility of finding acceptance, and even falling in love, seems finally to be within his reach. As his horizon broadens and his heart expands, Wilberforce becomes a willing pupil to Franciss master, and in the cellars of Caerlyon he nurtures a new-found passion for fine wine. But even the finest wine can leave a bitter aftertaste, and Wilberforce will learn that the undercroft holds some unpalatable secrets, and that passion comes at a price. Chronicling the vintage years of Wilberforces life, The Irresistible Inheritance of Wilberforce is a dazzling, haunting story of obsession and addiction, of loyalty and betrayal.

I stepped out of the taxi too quickly. I rocked back on my heels to slow myself down and found that the best way to maintain my balance was to lean against the side of the taxi and look up. The sky was hard and black and a few stars glittered, though I could not see as many as I used to see. Once I had looked up, it was hard to look down again.

Are you all right, squire? asked the driver. A younger man might probably have abused me for bumping against the side of his taxi; this man belonged to an age when drivers were called cabbie and customers were called squire or guvnor.

The question was difficult to answer. Was I all right? It was a very good question. It required thought before I could answer. I gazed at the stars and thought about the question.

Thatll be fifteen pounds, squire, the driver said.

I realised I had not managed to answer him. I peeled some notes from a bundle I kept in a money clip and paid him a sum of money. I cannot remember how much it was, but he seemed pleased.

God bless you, guvnor, he said, as he drove off.

I rocked on my heels again. It was a pleasant feeling. I took in a bit more night sky, while I found my balance, and a bit of the front of the restaurant as my weight shifted back to my toes. A small, discreet sign announced: Les Tripes de Nor-mandie. It was a very successful restaurant, I had heard. I had never been before. I did not like to go to the same restaurant more than once; perhaps twice if it was very good. There always seemed to be issues, these days, when I went back to places where I had eaten before. I liked the sign. I thought the font used was probably Arial, and the lighting was clever: the lettering was done in neon tubing in an off-white, almost a cream colour, against a polished black-marble fascia.

They said the chef was brilliant. He had constructed a menu which took rustic French dishes and elevated them to art forms. He had appeared on a number of television programmes and was admired and loved by the public. I am quoting from the restaurants web site. I am not especially interested in cooking. It is the wine list in a restaurant that catches my attention. When I had inspected Les Tripess web site, Id clicked straight away on to the wine list and seen that they offered a Chteau Petrus 1982. I dont remember the weather in 1982 in western France, but I have read about it. It was a cool spring and then a warm summer that extended into September: long hours of sunshine and not much rain. Conditions were ideal for the Bordeaux vineyards that year. As a result, 1982 is a vintage that seems to have lasted practically for ever. It is a classic. But, you will not be surprised to learn, it is becoming harder and harder to find.

Finding Petrus 1982 on a wine list is like discovering a diamond lying on the ground. The vineyard only covers 28 acres and produces about twenty-five thousand bottles annually. The grapes are picked, then fermented for twenty-four days, then macerated in concrete tanks. After that the young wine is aged in oak barrels for twenty months, and then bottled. After that, all you have to do is wait between fifteen and twenty years, and it will be ready to drink. It is rare now to come across a Petrus 1982 or indeed any of the earlier vintages; but if you do find a bottle, you need to make the most of the opportunity. It is not cheap: the restaurant web site indicated a price of 3000 a bottle; but, if you are an enthusiast, the price is irrelevant if you find what you are looking for. That is what I always say.

It wasnt as if I could drink that particular year of Petrus at home. I have rather a large amount of wine now, which I obtained from Francis Black. Some people would say it is an incredible amount of wine. But it did not include Chteau Petrus 1982.

I found I had finished rocking on my heels and decided to enter the restaurant. As I came through the door, they took my coat and said, Mr Wilberforce?

I nodded and the waiter asked if he could show me to my table. The restaurant was quite empty. It was still opening up, it being just a few minutes after seven in the evening. I liked to go to restaurants early. It meant that I could stay in them a very long time, if I felt like stayingfor example, if there were several different wines on their list which I wanted to try. Then again, if there was only one wine I was interested in, I liked to eat my dinner and drink my bottle or two of claret and be out again before the place filled up and I risked being distracted from what I had come to taste.

I entered a warm, softly lit room. The tables were of dark oak, with squares of white linen laid upon them. Two waiters were still lighting the candles on the tables. Another waiter was straightening the knives and forks with microscopic attention to their alignment, and picking up and inspecting the great, bowl-like wine glasses for specks of dust. A girl was putting the final touches to a large flower arrangement in the centre of the room. An important-looking person in an immaculate navy-blue suit, whom I took to be the head waiter, was standing at the double doors into the kitchen and talking to the chef. A waiter in a white shirt and black waistcoat was standing behind the bar, arranging the bottles on the shelves and flicking them with a duster, so that they gleamed and sparkled in the reflected light from the mirrors behind them. The bar counter was a deep pool of mahogany, on which crystal ashtrays sparkled. This too was given a final polish as I watched, and the ashtrays, which were already clean, were picked up and wiped again.

Would you like a drink at the bar, sir, or shall I show you straight to your table?

I realised I had come to a standstill in the middle of the empty restaurant, drinking in its potent spell, as one does when the curtain rises on a stage set, revealing a perfectly ordinary drawing room which is yet latent with a drama that will soon unfold. I love the early evening in a nearly empty restaurant. I love the hushed silence, the whisperings of the waiters as they wait to be called, the distant clatter and shouts that come from the kitchen as the doors swing open for a moment, and then swing closed again, cutting off the intrusion of noise. I love the glitter of the glasses and the cutlery in the candlelight, the purity of it all, the orderliness.