breaking of their own accord. They’re famous for it. Happens more often than you might think.’
‘Perhaps you’d better open it, Johnny,’ said his friend with a smile. ‘It would be such a shame if the burglars got it first.’
Johnny Fitzgerald held the bottle up to the light. It glowed a deep red. He inspected the label closely. He ran his hand very slowly down the side of the bottle. ‘I haven’t tasted this Château Lafite since my uncle introduced me to it on my sixteenth birthday, Francis. He said it would tell me what real wine should taste like. I was only allowed two glasses of the stuff. Bloody uncle knocked off the rest of the bottle on his own.’
Johnny inserted the corkscrew very slowly. He peered into the depths of the bottle when it was open. ‘We’d better have three glasses, Francis. We couldn’t leave Lady Lucy out of this.’
Shortly the three all had a glass in their hand, Johnny sniffing delicately at the liquid like a bloodhound that might have just found a new scent, a new trail for the elusive fox.
‘By God,’ said Johnny, ‘I don’t think they have much of this stuff down there in the Colville warehouses, it’s superb. Now then, Francis, let me tell you what little I have discovered so far.’
Johnny Fitzgerald cast a quick glance over his shoulder to check the bottle was still present and correct. ‘There are two very different sorts of people who work for the Colvilles at the lower end of the trade. You could call them the workers by hand and the workers by brain as that bearded old man up in Highgate Cemetery put in one of his pamphlets long ago. The workers by hand are essentially moving the stuff around in one way or another. The wine arrives at the docks in barrels or tonneaux or barriques or feuillettes or pipes. The Colville men unload it, take it to the warehouses, store it or bottle it in their own bottling plant with their own label production and finally it’s despatched to the Colville shops or their regional headquarters in Edinburgh or Dublin. The same thing happens with the gin over in Hammersmith. That’s a very crude description. It’s an enormous operation and the men are, on the whole, satisfied with what they do, though there were the usual undercurrents about low wages and theneed for strike action. Are you with me so far, Francis, Lady Lucy?’
The Powerscourts nodded. Johnny paused to take another draught of his wine, his face breaking into a smile as the taste sank in. ‘You learn some funny things in this line of work,’ he went on. ‘Did you ever realize what the most important factor is in what a country drinks? You didn’t? Well, let me tell you, it’s politics and it’s taxes. During the Napoleonic Wars precious little French wine ever made it here. They say the Garrick Club was down to its last couple of cases of Château Latour when peace broke out. Even if it had managed to get here, the wine, that is, the government would have slapped a great bolt of duty on it. So what were Englishmen drinking for most of last century? Port, that’s what went down, port from those English merchants and growers in the Douro Valley. Portugal, as the Portugese reminded the English every time they even thought of increasing the duty, was England’s oldest ally. All the way back to Henry the bloody Navigator, whoever he was.’
There was a sudden outbreak of motor horns hooting outside, coming from the King’s Road a couple of hundred yards away. Voices could be heard, most of them raised in anger.
‘Later on,’ Johnny continued after a glance out into the square, ‘South African wines began to get a look in as the politicians wanted to encourage the wine industry in the colonies. Now here’s a strange thing, Francis. Even those porters and warehousemen who work for the Colvilles can sing Gladstone’s praises. You might think that he was somewhat odd, an austere old bugger, if you ask me, forever trying to save Ireland by day and the
‘Perhaps you’d better open it, Johnny,’ said his friend with a smile. ‘It would be such a shame if the burglars got it first.’
Johnny Fitzgerald held the bottle up to the light. It glowed a deep red. He inspected the label closely. He ran his hand very slowly down the side of the bottle. ‘I haven’t tasted this Château Lafite since my uncle introduced me to it on my sixteenth birthday, Francis. He said it would tell me what real wine should taste like. I was only allowed two glasses of the stuff. Bloody uncle knocked off the rest of the bottle on his own.’
Johnny inserted the corkscrew very slowly. He peered into the depths of the bottle when it was open. ‘We’d better have three glasses, Francis. We couldn’t leave Lady Lucy out of this.’
Shortly the three all had a glass in their hand, Johnny sniffing delicately at the liquid like a bloodhound that might have just found a new scent, a new trail for the elusive fox.
‘By God,’ said Johnny, ‘I don’t think they have much of this stuff down there in the Colville warehouses, it’s superb. Now then, Francis, let me tell you what little I have discovered so far.’
Johnny Fitzgerald cast a quick glance over his shoulder to check the bottle was still present and correct. ‘There are two very different sorts of people who work for the Colvilles at the lower end of the trade. You could call them the workers by hand and the workers by brain as that bearded old man up in Highgate Cemetery put in one of his pamphlets long ago. The workers by hand are essentially moving the stuff around in one way or another. The wine arrives at the docks in barrels or tonneaux or barriques or feuillettes or pipes. The Colville men unload it, take it to the warehouses, store it or bottle it in their own bottling plant with their own label production and finally it’s despatched to the Colville shops or their regional headquarters in Edinburgh or Dublin. The same thing happens with the gin over in Hammersmith. That’s a very crude description. It’s an enormous operation and the men are, on the whole, satisfied with what they do, though there were the usual undercurrents about low wages and theneed for strike action. Are you with me so far, Francis, Lady Lucy?’
The Powerscourts nodded. Johnny paused to take another draught of his wine, his face breaking into a smile as the taste sank in. ‘You learn some funny things in this line of work,’ he went on. ‘Did you ever realize what the most important factor is in what a country drinks? You didn’t? Well, let me tell you, it’s politics and it’s taxes. During the Napoleonic Wars precious little French wine ever made it here. They say the Garrick Club was down to its last couple of cases of Château Latour when peace broke out. Even if it had managed to get here, the wine, that is, the government would have slapped a great bolt of duty on it. So what were Englishmen drinking for most of last century? Port, that’s what went down, port from those English merchants and growers in the Douro Valley. Portugal, as the Portugese reminded the English every time they even thought of increasing the duty, was England’s oldest ally. All the way back to Henry the bloody Navigator, whoever he was.’
There was a sudden outbreak of motor horns hooting outside, coming from the King’s Road a couple of hundred yards away. Voices could be heard, most of them raised in anger.
‘Later on,’ Johnny continued after a glance out into the square, ‘South African wines began to get a look in as the politicians wanted to encourage the wine industry in the colonies. Now here’s a strange thing, Francis. Even those porters and warehousemen who work for the Colvilles can sing Gladstone’s praises. You might think that he was somewhat odd, an austere old bugger, if you ask me, forever trying to save Ireland by day and the
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