Wildflowers, wine and men of mystery

A pair of sisters, Agnes and Eva, kept the place spick and span for myself and my neighbour, Mr. Jones, who lived in a much larger, much brighter room, on down the hall. I just now thought of Mr. Jones for no obvious reason, to myself at any rate, whilst pouring a glass of today’s Wine of the Week, the decadently rich, full-bodied and impressively aromatic 2020 Weather Station Malbec (£7, M&S). Ripe, muscular blackberry flavours, a warm, smoky palate and a spicy, judiciously oaked finish with hints of dark chocolate and espresso combine to create a robust, rustic and thoroughly satisfying South African Malbec. One to savour alongside a medium-rare steak, garlic fries and some buttery asparagus.

I never actually spoke to Mr. Jones directly though he intrigued me greatly. He didn’t deal drugs or tell fortunes and yet he had a steady stream of people coming and going from his room all day long. No obvious means of income, he nevertheless was always dressed immaculately and ate and drank most handsomely. Handsome man he seemed too when I caught the odd glimpse - pale, lean-jawed, tall and slender, with piercing blue eyes and a full head of dark, silvery hair. A distinctive birthmark, like a slightly misshapen scarlet star on his left cheek. Jonesie never left his room. I only saw him when I happened to be in the hall as he answered the door.

A sober character, I expect if he drank at all, it would have been a no-alcohol or low-alcohol wine which seems to be the fastest growing area for wine sales in the U.K. right now. Top of the zero-alcohol pops for me is the delicate, delightfully dry, salmon-pink McGuigan Zero Rose (widely available in independent wine shops and off-licences, generally £4-£6). Teeming with bright redcurrant, raspberry and strawberry flavours, this veritable mouthful of summer in a glass will go wonderfully well with simply cooked fish or poultry.

Why did all those very ordinary-looking people visit him? And why did they only drink tea or zero-alcohol wine and eat biscuits or cake when they could have had so much more fun in my room, knocking back something along the lines of today’s final recommendation- the rustic, robust and delightfully savoury 2020 Rui Madeira Beyra Interior (£9.95, visit thewinesociety.com or 01438-741177)? A medium-bodied, lubricious palate with plenty of berry and cherry flavours, nicely balanced by soft tannins, before a magnificently lengthy finish with hints of black pepper, this Portuguese red will benefit from being served very slightly chilled. It should prove an ideal match to spicy meatballs in a rich tomato sauce such as those which my darling wife, the redoubtable Madame G., served up for supper at our lovely home, Rose Cottage, last night. One to enjoy on one of these mild Spring evenings which, like love, seem slowly but surely to be coming around the corner and into plain view.

I made my fortune on Wall Street, moved to Manhattan and thought no more of my old neighbour until I returned months later to pick up some books I’d left behind. I was chatting to Aggie and Evie over tea and, for the sake of conversation, I asked after auld Jonesie. They said they’d reported him missing to the police. One morning they’d brought up his breakfast as usual and he wasn’t there. How could a totally blind man, they asked me, a helpless cripple, like auld Jonesie, just walk out and disappear?

Years later, while visiting Moscow on my honeymoon with my darling Madame G., I noticed a familiar man sitting opposite us in the subway car. He wore a long, thick coat, a Russian-style fur hat and had the same lean, distinctive face with the high cheekbones, stern blue eyes and that unmistakable birthmark. Suddenly he nodded at me, smiled, and I was just about to say hello when the train pulled into a station. Mr. Jones rose, stood up proudly and high on a pair of fine, sturdy legs and strode out of the car, clutching a bunch of wildflowers which I assume he had gathered to give to his wife to celebrate International Women’s Day this Tuesday. In Eastern Europe, it is customary for the men to gather wildflowers and present them to their women on 8th March. There’s still time, gents!

The door closed behind him. The train left the station. And I never saw Mr. Jones again, if indeed it was he. Till next week, tipplers, sante!

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