And then Nino asked me to marry him. Knowing my father’s stringent views on servicemen, I had to refuse. We might have been all right, I sometimes think, if the second time he’d asked me he hadn’t done it in front of my father.
When Jean died, nearly fifteen years ago now, I thought Nino Gaines might collapse into himself and fade away. I’ve seen it before with men of that age – their clothes get a little more unkempt, they forget to shave, they start living on packet food. They have a lost quality about them, as if permanently hopeful that someone will step in and take care of them. It was how that generation of men was raised, you see. They never learnt to do anything for themselves. But Frank and John John kept him busy, made sure their father was not alone, set up new projects with this grape and that blend. Frank remained at home and John John’s wife came twice a week and cooked for them. Yes, Nino Gaines did better than any of us had expected. After a year or so, there was little about him to suggest that he had suffered such a blow. Then one night, over a nice bottle of shiraz merlot, he confided in me that, two weeks before she’d died, Jean had told him she’d celestially box his ears if he moped around by himself when she was gone.
There was a long pause after he said this. When I looked up from my glass he was staring straight at me. That silence burns me now, if I think too hard about it.
‘She was quite right,’ I said, avoiding his eye. ‘Be silly for you to mope around. Make sure you get out and about. Go see a few friends up north. Best thing for you.’
There were other things he said, later, but we didn’t talk about those any more. For many years now Nino had accepted that he and I would never be more than good friends. I treasured his friendship – probably more than he knew – and it was rare that one of us was invited to some event without the other. We had settled into a kind of joke intimacy, a verbal dance that we performed partly because we both enjoyed sparring, partly because neither of us knew how else to hide the slight awkwardness that existed between us. But it was some years since he had talked to me with any intimacy, which suited us both fine.
‘Frank was in town yesterday, and bumped into Cherry Dawson,’ he said.
I had been staring at his place mats, with pencil and watercolour views of London landmarks, which he still put on the table for every meal, as Jean would have asked him to. Her presence was everywhere in that house, even so long after her death. She had favoured heavy, ornate furnishings, which were at odds with his personality. I was surprised the house didn’t depress him: it was like a funeral home. I had never yet been in his drawing room, with its flock three-piece and antimacassars, without wanting to rip out the whole lot and splash some white paint about.
‘She still working for the council?’
‘Sure is. She told me the Bullens have sold the old oyster farm. There’s a lot of cloak-and-dagger stuff in the town hall about what’ll go there instead.’
I took a sip of my tea. I hated the fancy floral teacups too. I always wanted to tell him that I’d be happier with a mug, but somehow it would have seemed like a criticism of Jean. ‘Land as well?’
‘A good stretch of the beachfront, including the old hatchery. But it’s the oyster beds I’m curious about.’
‘What can they do with an underwater stretch like that?’
‘That’s what I’m curious about.’
There had been a time, before he got into wine, that Nino had toyed with opening his own oyster farm. He’d considered buying the Bullen place, back when they were struggling against the Japanese imports. He’d asked my father’s advice, but Daddy scoffed at him, and said a man who knew as little about the sea as Nino Gaines should leave it well alone. I think he might have changed his mind a little when Nino’s vineyards won an award for Australian wine, and again when his turnover headed towards six figures for the first time, but he was not the kind of man to admit it.
‘You still got designs on it?’
‘Nah. Your old man was probably right.’ He downed the last of his tea, and looked at his watch. Every evening he climbed on to his quad bike to ride round the estate, inspecting the irrigation system, checking his vines for botrytis bunch rot and powdery mildew, still taking pleasure in the knowledge that he owned all the land he could see.
‘The bay’s not suitable for much. It could only really be another oyster farm.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Nino shook his head.
I got the feeling he knew more than he was telling. ‘Well,’ I said, when I realised he wasn’t going to elucidate, ‘they’ll have to keep the deep-water channel open for the boats to get in and out, so I don’t see how it will make too much difference to the crews, whatever they decide to do with it. That reminds me – did I tell you Hannah saw her first whale?’
‘Liza finally took her out, did she?’
I grimaced. ‘No, so keep it under your hat. She went out on Moby One with Yoshi and Greg. She was so happy that night I was surprised Liza didn’t guess. Went past her door at ten thirty and she was singing along to a whalesong tape.’
‘She’ll have to ease up on that kid eventually,’ he said. ‘She’s headed for the difficult years. If Liza tries to keep her too close she’ll pull right back the other way.’ He mimed straining at a reel. ‘But I don’t need to tell you that.’
I glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece and stood up. I hadn’t noticed how late it had got. I’d only meant to bring him a cake.
‘Good to see you, Kate.’ When I made to leave he leant forward to kiss my cheek, and I held his arm, which might have been a sign of my affection – or a way to keep him at a distance.
My dad had thought he was like all the rest, you see. He swore they were only after my fame and the hotel. It’s only now I wonder at a man who couldn’t let his daughter believe she was good enough to be loved for herself.
When I got back they were already out at the tables. Liza must have served them, and they sat along the bench, cradling their beer and packets of chips. Yoshi and Lance were playing cards, and all were wrapped in fleeces and hats, muffled against the cool southerly wind. Apparently no one had thought to turn on the burners.
‘The butcher’s delivery arrived,’ Liza said, raising a hand. She was studying the local paper. ‘I wasn’t sure what you wanted out so I stuck it all in the fridge.’
‘I’d better make sure he brought the right order. Last time he got it all wrong,’ I said. ‘Afternoon, all. You’re back early.’