by Isabel Wolff
‘No, you don’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve already guessed. It’s because you’ve got some boyfriend who, if he saw us now, would tear me limb from limb. Is that the reason?’
‘No,’ I said wearily. Dan smiled. ‘It’s because I’m going to France – to buy stock.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘I remember. You go to Provence. In that case, we’ll see something when you get back. No, sorry, you need six weeks to think about it, don’t you – shall I phone you in mid November? Don’t worry – I’ll e-mail you first to say that I’m going to phone – and perhaps I should write to you the week before that to let you know that I’ll be e-mailing so that you don’t think I’m being cheeky.’
I looked at Dan. ‘I think it’d be a lot easier if I just said “yes”.’
EIGHT
Early this morning I boarded the Eurostar at St Pancras for my trip to Avignon. I decided to give myself up to the pleasure of the journey which would take about six hours with a change in Lille. As the train waited to depart I skimmed through my Guardian. In the City section I was surprised to see a photo of Keith. The piece that accompanied it was about his property company, Phoenix Land, which specialised in buying up brown-field sites for redevelopment. It had recently been valued at £20 million and was about to be floated on the Alternative Investment Market. The piece explained that Keith had started out selling self-assembly kitchens by mail order, but in 2002 his warehouse had been destroyed in an arson attack by a disgruntled employee. There was a quote from Keith: That was the worst night of my life. But as I watched the building burn I vowed to make something worthwhile rise out of the ashes. Hence the name of his new company, I thought as the train pulled away from the platform.
Now I turned to the copy of the Black & Green that I’d picked up at Blackheath station. I’d been too tired to read it before. There were the expected local news stories about spiralling commercial rents, the threat to independent shops from the High Street chains, and problems with parking and traffic. There was a weekend curtain-raiser including a page detailing what was going to be on at the O2. There was a ‘Social Whirl’ section, with snaps of well-known visitors to the area, including a shot of Chloë Sevigny looking in the window of Village Vintage. There were also photos of famous residents out and about – there was one of Jools Holland buying flowers, and another of Glenda Jackson at a fund-raising concert at Blackheath Halls.
Filling the centre pages was Dan’s piece about the Age Exchange, which was headed À LA RECHERCHE DU TEMPS: The Age Exchange is a place where the past is treasured, he’d written. It’s a place where the elderly can come to share their memories with each other and with younger generations … the importance of story-telling, he’d gone on. Oral history … Carefully selected memorabilia help to trigger recollection … The centre helps improve the quality of life for older people by emphasising the value of their reminiscences to old and young …
It was a sympathetic, well-written piece.
Now, as the train gathered pace, I closed the paper and gazed out at the Kent countryside. The harvest was recently over, the pale fields blackened here and there from stubble burning, the still-smouldering ground wafting drifts of alabaster smoke into the late summer air. As we went through Ashford I suddenly imagined Dan, standing on the platform in his mis-matched clothes, waving at me as I sped by. Then the train soon plunged under the Channel, emerging into Belgian flatness, the featureless fields bestridden by gigantic pylons.
At Lille I changed trains, boarding the TGV which would take me to Avignon. Leaning my head against the window I fell asleep and dreamed of Miles and Annie and the girl who came back for the green cupcake dress and the girl who couldn’t have a baby who’d bought the pink one. Then I dreamed of Mrs Bell as a young girl, walking through the fields with her blue coat, desperately searching for the friend that she would never find. Then I opened my eyes and to my surprise the Provençal countryside was already flashing past, with its terracotta houses, and its silvery soil, and its green-black cypress trees standing up against the landscape like exclamation marks.
In all directions were vines, planted in such straight lines that it looked as though the fields had been combed. Agricultural workers in bright colours were following grape-picking machines as they trundled down the rows, driving up the dust. The vendanges was clearly still in full swing.
Avignon TGV, I heard over the tannoy. Descendez ici pour Avignon – Gare TGV.
I made my way out of the station, blinking into the sharp sunlight; then I picked up my hire car and drove into the city, following the road around its medieval walls then negotiating the narrow streets to my hotel.
Once I’d checked in I washed and changed then strolled down Avignon’s main drag, the Rue de la République, where the shops and cafés hummed with early evening trade. I stopped for a few minutes in the Place d’Horloge. There, in front of the imposing town hall, a fairground carousel whirled gently around. As I looked at the children rising and falling on the gold-and-cream-painted horses, I imagined Avignon in a less innocent time. I imagined German soldiers standing where I was now standing, their machine guns by their sides. I imagined Mrs Bell and her brother laughing and pointing at them, and being hushed by their anxious parents. Then I walked on to the Palais des Papes and sat at a café in front of the medieval fortress as the sun sank in an almost turquoise sky. Mrs Bell had told me that towards the end of the war the palace cellars had been used as air-raid shelters. As I looked at the huge building I imagined the crowds running towards it as the sirens sounded.
Now I turned my thoughts back to the present time and planned the trips I’d need to make over the next couple of days. As I was looking at the map my phone rang. I peered at the screen then pressed ‘answer’.
‘Miles,’ I said happily.
‘Phoebe – are you in Avignon yet?’
‘I’m sitting in front of the Palais des Papes. Where are you?’
‘We’ve just got to my cousin’s.’ I registered the fact that Miles had said ‘we’, meaning that Roxy must be with him. Although I could hardly be surprised, my heart sank a little. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ I heard Miles ask.
‘In the morning I’ll go to the market at Villeneuve lez Avignon, then after that to the one at Pujaut.’
‘Well, Pujaut’s halfway to Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Why don’t you just come on here after you’ve finished, and I’ll take you out to dinner locally?’
‘I’d like that, Miles; but where’s “here”?’
‘It’s called Château de Bosquet. It’s easy to find. You drive straight through Châteauneuf-du-Pape then as you leave the village take the road to Orange and it’s a large square house about a mile on the right. Come as early as you can.’
‘Okay – I will.’
So this morning I drove across the Rhône to Villeneuve lez Avignon. I parked at the top of the village, then walked back down the narrow main street to the market place where traders had laid out their antiquités on cloths on the ground. There were old bicycles and faded deckchairs, chipped porcelain and scratched-looking cut glass; there were antique bird cages, rusty old tools and balding teddy bears with creased leather paws. There were stalls selling old oil paintings and faded Provençal quilts, and strung between the plane trees were washing lines hung with old clothes which flapped and twisted in the breeze.
‘Ce sont que des vrais antiquités, madame,’ said one vendor reassuringly, as I looked through her garments. ‘Tous en très bon état.’
There was so much to look through. I spent a couple of hours selecting simple printed dresses from the 1940s and 50s, and white nightgowns, from the 20s and 30s. Some of these were made of chambre – a coarse rustic linen, others of metisse – a linen and cotton mix, and some of Valencienne, a gossamer-light cotton voile that floated in the breeze. Many of the nightgowns were beautifully embroidered. I wondered whose hands had stitched the perfect little flowers and leaves that I now touched, and if it had given them pleasure to do such fine work, and if it had ever
occurred to them that later generations would appreciate it and wonder about them.
When I’d bought all I wanted, I sat at a café, having an early lunch. Now I allowed myself to think about the date. I’d thought I’d feel upset, but I didn’t, though I was glad to be away. I briefly wondered what Guy was doing, and how he would be feeling. Then I phoned Annie.
‘The shop’s been very busy,’ she said. ‘I’ve already sold the Vivienne Westwood bustle skirt and the Dior grosgrain coat.’
‘That’s good going.’
‘But you know what you were saying on the radio about Audrey Hepburn?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I had a woman in here this morning who asked me to turn her into Grace Kelly. It was rather tricky.’
‘Not attractive enough?’
‘Oh, she was gorgeous. It’s just that it would have been easier to turn her into Grace Jones.’
‘Ah.’
‘And your mother dropped in to see if you wanted to have lunch with her – she’d forgotten that you were in France.’
‘I’ll call her.’ So I did, straight away, but she began going on about some new treatment she’d just been to see someone about – Plasma Regeneration. ‘I took yesterday morning off to go to this clinic about it,’ she said as I sipped my coffee. ‘It’s good for deep wrinkles,’ I heard her explain. ‘They use nitrogen plasma to stimulate the skin’s natural regenerative processes – they inject it under your skin and that gets the fibroblasts going.
The result, believe it or not, is a brand-new epidermis.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Phoebe? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, but I’ve got to go now.’
‘If I don’t have the Plasma Regeneration,’ Mum went on, ‘I may try one of the fillers – they said there’s Restylane, Perlane or Sculptra – and they talked about autologous fat transfer, where they extract the fat from your behind and stick it in your face – cheek to cheek, as it were, but the thing about that is…’
‘Sorry, Mum – I’m going now.’ I felt sick.
I got back in the car, forcing from my mind thoughts of the grotesque procedures my mother had just described, then set off for Pujaut.
As I saw the sign for Châteauneuf-du-Pape I began to feel pleasantly apprehensive about seeing Miles again. I’d brought a dress to change into before I got there as I’d been in the same things all day.
The market at Pujaut was small, but I bought six more nightgowns and some broderie anglaise vests with scalloped necks, as girls like to wear them with jeans. By now it was half past three. I found a café and changed into my dress, a navy-and-white striped St Michael cotton pinafore from the early sixties.
As I left Pujaut I could see agricultural workers toiling in the vineyards that stretched away in all directions. Signs along the roadside invited me to stop at this domaine or that château for wine tasting.
Ahead of me now, perched on a hill, was Châteauneuf-du-Pape, its cream-coloured buildings huddled together beneath a medieval tower. I drove through the village then turned right towards Orange. About a mile or so on I saw the sign for Château de Bosquet.
I turned off the road on to the cypress-tree-lined drive at the end of which I could see a large, square castellated house. In the vineyards on either side of the drive men and women were stooped over the vines, their faces obscured by hats. At the sound of my wheels, a grey-haired figure straightened up, shielded his eyes against the sun, then waved. I waved back.
As I parked I saw Miles striding through the vines towards me. As I lowered the window he smiled; his face was so streaked with dust that the lines round his eyes stood out like little spokes.
‘Phoebe!’ He opened my car door. ‘Welcome to Château de Bosquet.’ As I stood up, he kissed me. ‘You’ll meet Pascal and Cecile a bit later – for now everyone’s working flat out.’ He nodded at the vineyard. ‘Tomorrow’s our last day, so we’re pushed for time.’
‘Can I help?’
Miles looked at me. ‘Would you? It’s dusty work though.’
I shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ I gazed at the workers, with their black buckets and secateurs. ‘Don’t you use a grape-cutting machine?’
He shook his head. ‘In Châteauneuf-du-Pape the grapes have to be hand-picked to conform to the laws of “appellation” – that’s why we need this small army.’ He glanced at my lace-up pumps. ‘Your footwear’s fine, but you’ll need an apron. Wait here.’ As Miles walked towards the house I suddenly noticed Roxy sitting on a bench by a huge fig tree reading a magazine.
‘Hi, Roxy,’ I called out. I took a few steps towards her. ‘Hi there, Roxy!’ Roxanne looked up, and without lifting her sunglasses gave me a thin smile then returned to her reading. I felt rebuffed, until I remembered that most sixteen-year-olds have poor social skills, added to which she’d only met me once, so why should she be friendly?
Miles came out of the house holding a blue sunhat. ‘You’ll need this.’ He plonked it on my head. ‘You’ll also need this …’ He handed me a bottle of water. ‘And this apron will protect your dress. It belonged to Pascal’s mother: she was a sweet lady, wasn’t she, Roxy – but somewhat on the large side.’
Roxy sipped her Coke. ‘You mean fat.’
Miles unfolded the voluminous apron and put it over my head, then reached behind me to pass back the ties, brushing my ear with his breath as he did so. Now he was pulling the ties around to the front. ‘There,’ he said, fastening them in a bow. He took a step back and appraised me. ‘You look lovely.’ I was suddenly uncomfortably aware of Roxy focusing on me from behind her Ray-Bans. Miles picked up two empty buckets and walked towards the vineyard, swinging them from either hand. ‘Come on then, Phoebe.’
‘Is much skill needed?’ I asked as I caught up with him.
‘Practically none,’ he replied as we stepped in among the gnarled vines. Here and there a sparrow flew up as we walked down the rows, or a grasshopper glided away at our approach. Miles picked a small bunch of grapes then passed it to me.
I burst one against my tongue. ‘Delicious. What sort are they?’
‘These are Grenache – the vines are quite old. They were planted in 1960, like me. But they’re still fairly vigorous,’ he added slyly. He squinted at the sky, shielding his eyes with his hand. ‘Thank God the weather’s been good. In ’02 we had catastrophic floods and the grapes rotted – we produced five thousand bottles that year instead of one hundred thousand – it was a disaster. The village priest always blesses the harvest; he seems to have done a good job this year, because it’s a bumper crop.’
Scattered all around us were huge round pebbles: inside the cracked ones I glimpsed the occasional sparkle of white quartz. ‘These big stones are a nuisance,’ I said as I picked my way through them.
‘They are a pain,’ Miles agreed. ‘They were deposited here by the Rhône aeons ago. But we need them because the heat they store during the day is released at night, which is one of the reasons why this is such good wine-growing country. Now, could you start here?’ Miles stooped to a vine, and pulled back the red-gold foliage to reveal a huge cluster of black grapes. ‘Hold them underneath.’ They felt warm in my hand. ‘Now cut the stem – no leaves, please – then place it in the first pail, with the minimum of handling.’
‘What goes in the second pail?’
‘The ones we reject – we discard twenty per cent of what we pick, and they go to make table wine.’
Around us a party atmosphere prevailed – the dozen or so workers were laughing and talking – some were listening to Walkmans and iPods. One girl was singing – it was an aria from The Magic Flute, the one about husbands and wives. Her clear, sweet soprano rang across the vineyard.
Mann und Weib, und Weib und Mann…
How strange to be hearing that today of all days, I thought.
reichen an die Gottheit an.
‘Who are the grape pickers?’ I asked Miles.
‘A few local people who help us every year, plus some students and a fe
w foreign workers. On this estate the vendanges takes about ten days, then Pascal throws a big party to thank everyone.’
I put the secateurs to the stem. ‘Should I cut here?’
Miles bent down and put his hand over mine. ‘It’s better there,’ he said. ‘Like that.’ I felt a current of desire crackle through me. ‘Now snip – but they’re heavy, so don’t let them fall.’ I placed the bunch carefully in the first pail. ‘I’ll be over here,’ Miles said as he went back to his own pails a few yards away.
It was hot, hard work. I was glad of the water – and I was especially glad of the apron, which was already floured with pale dust. I straightened up to relieve my back. As I did so, I glanced at Roxy, sitting in the shade with her copy of Heat and her cold drink.
‘I ought to make Roxy help,’ I heard Miles say, as though he’d read my mind. ‘But with teenagers it’s counterproductive to push things.’
I felt a bead of sweat trickle between my shoulder blades. ‘And how did her ancient history project go?’
‘In the end it was fine. I’m hoping to get an A star,’ he added dryly. ‘I deserve one, as I was up all night writing it.’
‘Then you’re an A-star dad. My bucket’s full – now what?’ Miles came and sorted the less good grapes into the second bucket then he picked up both pails. ‘We’ll take them to the pressing machine.’ He nodded at the big concrete sheds to the right of the house.
As we entered the first shed the sweet yeasty scent was overpowering, as was the noise from the huge white cylinder juddering in front of us. Beside it was a tall stepladder from the top of which a thick-set man in blue overalls was tipping in the grapes that were being passed up to him by a petite blonde woman in a yellow dress.
‘That’s Pascal,’ Miles said, ‘and that’s Cecile.’ He waved at them both. ‘Pascal! Cecile! This is Phoebe!’
Pascal gave me a friendly nod, then he took the pail that Cecile passed up to him and tumbled the grapes into the cylinder. She turned and gave me a warm smile.