We hold the demijohn to the light. The juice I’ve trodden from Grandpa’s grapes is murky.
Grandpa says not to worry: it will clear after fermentation.
The liquid wurgles for weeks in Granny’s airing cupboard, but stays cloudy and tastes vile.
Grandpa says not to worry: it will mature.
We fill three Lucozade bottles with the funnel he uses for motor oil. I make labels for our first vintage.
There is no second. Grandpa dies as new grapes grow in the greenhouse.
I find the bottles after Granny’s death. Seven years on, when I’m eighteen. Château Grandpa tastes good. And light shines through.
Not to worry.
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