The Old Rioja Box

The Old Rioja Box

'Look Jane,' he'd said. Curious as to what had caused the note of excitement in Peter's voice, she'd gone to stand behind him and peer over his shoulder. He'd pointed at something on the computer screen. 'Spain, we could afford this. We'll only have to pay the airfare, they give you the food and accomodation free.' He'd sounded pleased at his discovery.

Jane had laughed and asked, 'What's the catch?'

'Picking grapes,'

'That sounds like hard work.'

'No, it'll be fun. Go on, say yes.'

And she had. Peter had e-mailed the wine company who were offering the 'harvesting experience' before she'd had a chance to change her mind. A couple of days later their places were confirmed. While Peter organized the flight reservations over the internet, Jane had read through the sheet of details he'd printed out.

'Oh no, we'll be sleeping in a tent.' Jane had been dismayed at seeing the address of a campsite on the outskirts of a Spanish town called Haro. She'd been hoping for at least a no-star hostel with an en-suite shower. It hadn't dampened Peter's enthusiasm one bit.

'It's smack bang in the middle of the Rioja region. I've checked it out on the internet. Beautiful place and there are interesting historical sites nearby, you'll enjoy visiting those.' He'd caught her up in a hug and held her tight to him. 'You know you love old things, look at me.'

'You're not old.' She'd mumbled the words into his shirt.

'Maybe not, but I'm a lot older than you.'

That she couldn't deny. People often gave them a second glance when they were walking down the street, a question of uncertainty etched on their faces. Father and daughter or couple? At first it had made her angry, then she'd learned not to care. They were happier than most, comfortable with each others company. He was everything she needed.

Jane had laughed ruefully as she'd packed the suitcases. She'd folded old jeans and sweaters, added two pairs of the gloves he used for pruning roses in the garden and some thick socks to stop their work boots chafing. Piled everything in until it was too full and she'd had to call him to come and help her close the zip.

'I'll look elegant in one of these.' She'd held up the plastic rain jackets. 'Do you think we'll need them?'

'It's September, but there might be showers up in the mountains. The monasteries are at quite an altitude. We might be lucky, but the weather there is as unpredictable as here. Put them in, better safe than sorry.' He'd always said that, her Peter.

They'd worked together, side by side, the whole week. She still remembered the first morning. Seeing the green expanse of the vineyards, spread out in straight rows, stretching so far down into the valley they were lost in the low laying mists. How they'd crunched their way over the gravel pathways separating the vines, Peter carrying the wicker basket for collecting the grapes, she clutching the secateurs. Their lunch was in her back pack. A makeshift picnic of fresh, crusty bread rolls, strong, salty goat's cheese imported from the Canaries and apples. In his were the drinks. Bottles of mineral water, a thermos of coffee and a half litre of a young, local wine. Tempranillo, Peter had called it, made from the previous year's harvest.

'What if we pick the wrong ones?'

'We won't.' He'd said, putting on his gloves. He lifted the dense foliage. Cloudy-skinned black grapes hung in thick clusters under the droop of vine leaves. She cradled a bunch in the palm of her hand, snipped through the stem, then laid it in the bottom of the basket. When it was full they'd carried it between them, down the row to the collecting station and tipped the grapes into the huge plastic vat.

By midday the sun had blessed the vineyard with autumn warmth. They'd shed their sweaters and spread them on the ground, sat on them while they'd eaten lunch.

'2004,' he'd joked as he poured the wine. 'A good year for drinking out of plastic glasses. Salute.' He'd raised his cup and toasted her.

Mid-week they'd made the trip to San Millán de la Cogolla. She'd fallen in love with the peacefulness of the old buildings as they'd strolled under the arches and columns of the Yuso monastery's inner courtyard. He'd promised they'd come back to stay and maybe walk the pilgrimage of St John's Way. Soon, he'd said, as though they had all the time in the world.

He'd bought the box of wine from the campsite supermarket. It had been a bargain, he'd told her, for the four bottles and the case to carry them in. They'd save it and drink it at Christmas with the turkey and they had. It had glowed rosy in the elegant crystal glasses as they'd eaten their festive dinner by candlelight. After, laying close together on the rug in front of the fire, they'd sipped a second bottle.

The third they'd opened to see in the new year. Peter had first-footed through the door on the stroke of midnight and with snowflakes clinging in his hair and melting on his jacket, he'd pulled the cork and poured. They'd clinked glasses, drank and then kissed. She'd tasted the tart fruitiness of the wine on his cold lips.

The fourth they'd kept intact until Peter's sixtieth birthday.

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This was something that had to be done. Jane sighed and opened the workshop door. It was Peter's domain. She hadn't been inside since a long time before the funeral. It took a deep breath to steady the jitter of nerves dancing in her stomach. She clicked on the electric light and squinted, half-blinded by the sudden brightness of the bare bulb. It dangled, naked, from the centre of the ceiling on a thin white cable. Shone like a small sun, lost, in her dark world. She didn't want to go inside, it was too soon and she didn't feel prepared, would she ever? But Tim was coming to collect Peter's tools later. He said he needed Saturday afternoon to clean them up and get them ready for the car-boot sale on Sunday.

Jane dumped the empty cardboard carton she carried on the floor and ran her finger across the surface of the table. A thin covering of dust lay over everything. She drew a winding trail around the scatter of screws and nails. Wondered what he'd been working on when the had pain gripped him and he'd slipped into the black of unconsciousness. It was here she'd found him, head slumped on the course timber, a rigor grip, tight, on the wooden handle of the chisel he'd still been holding in his hand. He'd never woken up again, slipped away before the ambulance had arrived. That had been the hardest part to accept and she knew, she still hadn't forgiven life for not letting them say goodbye.

The old box stood on its side, end up, facing the wall like a discarded memory. She recognized it straightaway. It was the one they'd brought back from that one brief holiday in Spain. She crouched down and turned it around so she could see it better. The wood had been stained to give it an aged effect. The words Berceo and Rioja were still there, stamped in bold, black letters on the front. Under them, the year, 2004. She remembered they'd had a silly row about it. She had wanted to keep it in the dining room and use it as a decorative cutlery box. The four inner compartments where the bottles had been made it perfect. Peter had said he was going to turn it into a tool box, it was ideal. He'd disappeared out of the kitchen with it and taken it over to his workshop. She'd never seen it again.

Jane picked it up and pressed the case to her chest, knowing she couldn't part with it. She carried it through the garden and back to the house. It weighed heavier than she expected. She set it down on the kitchen table and sat looking at it, traced over the painted letters with her fingertip. A tear slid down her cheek and landed on the box. It darkened the wood in a small, circular spot of escaped sadness.

She sat there for an hour, her hand resting on the lid of the box, just remembering. The black paint on the wrought iron clasp had flaked with rust, she touched it and it swung open as if it had been newly oiled. She lifted the lid. The cuts stood out, fresh wood against aged. Inside the Rioja box were four full bottles of wine. The simple white labels printed with a date which now seemed long past.

In a daze she rose and went to the drawer for a corkscrew, then took a glass down from the cupboard. Peter had always opened the bottles. She struggled a little. The hard metal of the opener dug into her hand as the cork slid free. She poured the burgundy liquid, watched it slosh in the glass as she raised it. In silent salutation she toasted the message he'd left carved in intricate letters on the inside of the lid.

I love you. Remember 2005. A Good Year.