The 1970 Eiswein had been produced when a dry autumn had followed a glorious summer, then, rushing in from the Hungarian plains had come the sudden onset of piercingly cold weather. The chill had descended overnight sweeping through the valleys, freezing the grapes into marbles.

Heinrich had organised the teams of workers: drafting in housewives, students, even schoolchildren. He’d asked everyone who could to head for the vineyard after work, where they had picked in hats and fingerless mittens the whole night long, until hands were too numb to bring in any more.

Reaching for one of the bottles, Heinrich brought it down and polished away the dust with his shirtsleeve. He knew it was worth over 600 Euros today. In another 10 years, it might be 10 times more.

People didn’t drink enough good wine. They didn’t savour the work or the expertise. His mother had kept wine in a locked cabinet, only for Sundays. Now people needed six bottles of plonk to see them through the week.

The noise of brakes alerted him to the arrival of the trucks which collected the wine and thundered it across the autobahns of Europe.

Holding the exquisite Eiswein in his hands, Heinrich was suddenly overcome with the desire to subvert Moritz and to make mischief. The retirement stretching out before him would surely not seem so long if he allowed himself to occasionally make mischief. He hurried to get to the cases before the delivery men.

 

Elsa served trifle for pudding. One look at her sister Susan’s face confirmed her suspicions: the custard was lumpy, the pineapple cubes a mistake and the sponge base, gritty instead of soft. She was a barely acceptable cook and this was a barely acceptable party.

It was her father’s 65th and Elsa was hostessing. The problem was her father didn’t want to be 65. Neither did he want to retire. He was sitting glumly at the far end of the table, saying very little.

Plus, his birthday came too soon after Christmas for Elsa and her extended family to be pleased to see each other again.