Passing Clouds by Graeme Leith

Author:Graeme Leith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
Published: 2015-01-28T05:00:00+00:00

Vintages and farewells

In November of 1985 it was back to Kingower to spray the vines, bottle the 1985 whites and prepare for the 1986 vintage—I don’t remember much, but I must have done for I have the bottles to prove it. I know that it was very popular and sold strongly, even though my vines had suffered their first case of downy mildew. This infection occurred because I’d taken the family fishing and stayed away too long, returning to relentless rain and humidity. I spent several days in impotent frustration as the warm rain poured down and the humidity rose—perfect conditions for downy mildew.

Vosje seemed to have settled down a bit; she was still enjoying a drink and would occasionally ring me at the vineyard with some outrageous request: ‘I’ve got a place with an open fire now, do you think you could bring me down a ton of wood from the country?’ or ‘Can you take me out to lunch at that place where you used to take Ondine?’ Sue particularly liked the one that went: ‘I’ve accidentally got some rice stuck in the washing machine. Do you think Graeme could clear it out for me next time he’s in Melbourne?’ From then on, Sue and I referred to spurious and deceptive requests as ‘rice in the washing machines’.

One day I got a call from her phone, but it wasn’t from Vosje, it was from her current boyfriend. Vosje used to like defying traffic and would often cross a street and expect the cars to stop for her, which they always seemed to do. But this day, crossing Fitzroy Street in St Kilda, a driver hadn’t seen her and she was dead. I was very sad she’d died that way, but I was also angry with her for having caused the driver, an innocent man, to suffer for the accident which, for all I know, haunts him still.

For Vosje it was a tragic end to what had become a tragic life. But had the cards been played a little differently by her or by me, it could so easily have been a wonderful life. She tried several times over the years to reignite our love but even if that had been possible, it was never the right time. I was always in love with someone else. More sleep-starved nights lay ahead.

So another phone call had to be made to Holland. In my halting Dutch I had to explain to Oma that her daughter was also dead; probably only someone who has experienced that will know how hard it is. Another funeral had to be organised, another burial, another eulogy written. There’d be no more sparks from Vosje . . .

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