Page 23 of Wassailing We Will Go
I finally get it off the hook. Hello? I pant.
One of your guests drove into my driveway again, Katherine, says a slightly garbled voice on the other end.
Linda, I mouth to Daniel, who gives me a peace sign and makes a hasty retreat.
Hi, Linda. My name isn’t Katherine. It’s just Kate. It’s not short for anything—
They drove right up and almost hit one of my goats.
I doubt that highly but almost admire her commitment to drama.
I can’t control what tourists do, Linda. They might not have even been one of our guests. Your driveway looks kind of like the turn that’s right next to—
Next time it happens, I’m calling the cops. Click. Thus ends another amazing conversation with Linda.
I grab my jacket to go out to the fermentation shed to have a chat with the lad, as Charlie put it. He’s the only one I haven’t checked in with yet today, not entirely by accident. I’ve felt like I need a little break from looking at his face while I continue to decide whether I hate myself and all the life decisions that led to how Thursday’s car conversation went. The jury is still out, but now I have to talk to him about legitimate work-related matters, so off I go.
I cross the grounds, now dusted with a light smattering of snow, and am pleased to see that the parking lot is pretty full. Still, when I looked it up earlier, we have to do even better than last year on our end-of-year sales to make up for our mediocre-to-sad fall season. At this point, I’ve gone from trying to get the numbers up from last year to just getting close to breaking even on our year over year. When my aunts come back home for the holidays, I’ll at least be able to show that I haven’t made the place worse. Our losing the cider of the year from what is usually a reliable influencer boost is a bit of a hit, though, there’s no denying it.
I walk into the fermentation building and am, like always, assaulted by the humidity and smell after being outside in the fresh air. It’s significantly better now that the first fermentations are done and they’re all racked in the stainless steel. I don’t see Harrison and can’t hear him either since Dolly and Kenny’s Christmas album is blaring through the room.
I find him at the back behind the tanks, where he’s checking levels in some oak barrels that I don’t remember being there the last time I was here.
What’s that you’re working on? I ask, and he startles, spilling a cider sample on the floor.
Bloody hell, he says and clutches his chest like a nervous Victorian woman. I didn’t hear you come in.
Sorry, I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you, I say. May I suggest turning down the Dolly and Kenny volume levels a scootch?
Charlie put it on before he left, and I just haven’t changed it. I was kind of in the zone, I guess, he said, stretching his arms. I like it, though. My grandad liked country music, and as a result, my mum hated it. Because my parents hate it, I like it. I think that’s how it works.
Mmm, I ruin that theory. I secretly like country music after hating it for years because my parents overplayed it. Came back around in university, after the Chicks got feisty with everyone. But then when I admitted it to Wendy and Daniel one day in the office when they were arguing what radio station to put on, they told me the day I turned the office radio to the country channel is the day they throw the radio out onto the road into oncoming traffic. So.
Well, now it’s two against two if I’m ever hanging out in the office, says Harrison.
I doubt it would go much differently, but I appreciate the support, I say. So, what are you working on back here? I remember approving the barrels but can’t remember why.
A small-batch cider made just for the tasting room he says. A little extra draw to make the visit out here rather than just scooping it from the shelves at the LCBO. This one’s aged in an old bourbon barrel, so those nice smoky flavours will come out in the cider. Not for a while, though. Have to sit on this one for a bit, he finishes, tapping the top of the barrel with approval.
That’s…brilliant, actually. I look forward to trying it. Cider of the year for next year, at least, I say.
Harrison frowns. I heard about that, he says. Charlie took it pretty hard. I found it odd that he cared what a social media account thought, to be honest. Didn’t strike me as the type to worry about that sort of thing.
Charlie just feels like he let us down, which obviously isn’t how we feel, but I think it’s hard to convince him of that. It may seem like it was just a little sign that we put up in the tasting bar to brag, but it was also a nice little end-of-the-year sales boost. Typically, that influencer is also a contributor to a few magazines as well, so it’s a loss of a lot of free organic advertising. I shrug. I’m sure your friends are thrilled. Send them my congrats. I almost, almost, almost say this without any trace of resentment. Really, I was so, so close.
I will, he says, and if he heard my slight tinge of sarcasm, I think he’s gamely choosing to ignore it. But then he continues. I’m going to be leaving here shortly, as I came in early with Charlie this morning. Anything else before I go?
His tone is polite, respectful…and boring. No joke at the end, no extra little sidebar. Yesterday, he burst into the office just to tell Wendy and me about an apple fritter he had just tried from a county market, and minutes later, it had somehow morphed into a story about getting bitten by a snake when he was nine. Harrison, I have learned, loves a tangent, so when he’s sticking to the point, it’s very much on purpose.
All good on my end, I say. There’s a moment of awkward silence. I’ll, uh, I’ll leave you to it. Have a good one. You’re still taking tomorrow off, right?
Yeah, I’m taking tomorrow and Tuesday off so that I’ll switch my schedule over to help through the Wassail weekends, he says.
Right, right. Well. Enjoy your time off, I say and leave.
You too, he calls after me.
Again, nothing but politeness. But I can tell that this is the Harrison equivalent of a stone-cold silent treatment.
