Page 37 of Wassailing We Will Go
Vinegar wrong, he says simply.
Vinegar. The cider’s been oxidized—something’s been introduced to it, or it’s been mishandled somehow. This hasn’t happened since the cidery’s earliest days, and I can’t believe it’s happening now.
Kate?
Sorry, I—how do you think it happened?
I have no idea. You know how careful I am. And honestly, cider is tough stuff. It takes a lot for something like this to happen.
I pause.
Have you asked Harrison?
Charlie sighs. He’s told me every single step he’s gone through, and I can’t see a single mistake on his part. But I’ve been leaving him to it, so I can’t be sure.
The fact that even Charlie has the slightest hint of doubt tells me everything I need to know, but I don’t want to confront it.
We’re going to try and see what we can do, but it’s not looking good, he says. You rest up. We’ll keep you updated.
I do not rest up. I pace around my cottage, unsure what to do. I’m not yet healthy enough to go to the cidery, even though I desperately want to. Without seeing the tank myself, without talking to Harrison…I don’t know what to think or what to do. Mistakes happen, but this is a big one.
By the end of the day, I open up my email again and see that the choice has already been made for me.
Dear Kate,
I’m sorry to have to write this, but I don’t think my employment with Sparks Cidery is working out. I have no idea what happened with Tank 3. I promise you that I did everything I thought was right, but clearly, something went wrong on my watch, and I can’t forgive myself for it.
I also know that my position has put you in a difficult place from the start, and I think it would be better for you to have a less complicated cider maker on hand to work with Charlie.
I want to thank you for everything. I wasn’t in a great place when I arrived here, and meeting you at the spa was the thing that helped turn everything around. Working with Charlie reminded me of being with my grandad at times. And then there was spending time with you—I wish there had been more of it.
I’ve made the decision to return to Melbourne in the new year, as I think it’s time I go home, at least for a while.
I wish you every happiness.
Yours, Harrison
It takes a lot to shake me. I don’t cry easily. But by the end of the letter, tears are running down my face, and I realize that I no longer care about tank three at all. If I thought calling him right now and explaining that we could figure this out would make him stay, I would. But the fact that he’s going back home makes me pause on the dial. He’s already made the decision, he wrote.
I close my laptop, pick up Steven, who protests loudly, and go back to bed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ON THURSDAY, I GO BACK to the cidery, but it’s grim. By now, everyone has heard that Harrison has quit. Barb is helping Charlie with the heavy lifting in the tank room, and the mood is sombre.
Charlie is maybe the only person just as sad as I am. When I visit the tank room, there is no Dolly and Kenny Christmas album, just him testing the levels of the ruined cider with a glum expression.
I just don’t understand any of it, Kate, he says, looking at his various instruments. This tank had been fine. And I really don’t think the boy had anything to do with it, so why he took responsibility and quit, I’ll never figure out.
He’s headed home, I say. There could be a lot of reasons for that. Maybe even some good ones.
I don’t add that I probably made it worse.
Our second Christmas-themed karaoke goes well enough. Rodney decides to step up as MC and does pretty well. A little liquid courage in the form of a shot of tequila was needed to get him up there at first, but he got into character quickly. By the end, even Daniel was a little impressed by his cousin’s performance.
Friday and Saturday go smoothly as well, with no more dramatic illnesses or surprise disasters. Our traffic is amazing, our guests are happy, and by all accounts, I should be pleased.
Instead, when a guest mentions how amazing our small-batch barrel-aged cider is, I’m reminded of Harrison and get sad. When I find a green scarf sitting neatly folded at my desk, I get sadder. And Sunday morning, when I’m in the tasting bar after going through the numbers with Wendy for the day, I finally lose it. For the first time, I notice a new little Christmas ornament on the staff tree. It’s one of those nice wooden ones, and it’s a small barbecue with meat on it. It’s so, so stupid, and it’s what brings me to tears.
