The Harvest Tractor – Part 1: Dawn Pickup

"You're late," said Claire.

"It's four fifty-eight."

"Exactly. Late for the best part of the day." She patted the seat beside her on the old green tractor. "Climb up. I brought coffee."

Nomsa climbed up. It was dark and cold in the Cape Winelands, with the mountains a black wall against a sky just starting to pale. The tractor rumbled out through the gates and along a gravel track between rows of vines heavy with fruit. Mist hung over the valley like breath.

Nomsa, thirty-five, a sommelier from Cape Town, had signed up for a week of harvest work to understand where her wine came from. Claire, thirty-eight, the tractor driver, had been working on the estate for fifteen years. She was tall, sun-browned and freckled, with a thick blonde plait, a faded hat and a dry sense of humour that took a while to notice.

"You know about wine," said Claire.

"I know what it tastes like."

"That's the half that matters. This is the other half." She waved at the vines. "Sticky fingers and sore backs."

Nomsa picked all morning with the crew, cutting bunches of dark grapes and laying them in crates, her hands stained purple, her back aching, her ears full of laughter. Claire drove the tractor along the rows, collecting crates, shouting jokes, and every so often looking back at her.

By the fifth day, they were sharing the coffee flask without asking. By the sixth, she knew that Claire hummed when she changed gears.

On the last morning, in the golden light, Claire stopped the tractor at the top of the hill. The whole valley lay below them, rows of vines glowing gold, the mountains rose-lit.

"Nomsa," she said. "I have something to say. I am not good at it."

"Try."

"I would like to kiss you. If you would like that."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Long Table.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Long Table.