Not that Clarisse Cambon was renowned for her generosity. Quite the reverse. She had been dubbed a ‘tight-fisted old bag’ years earlier, but needs will when needs must. ‘Life in rural France is not what it used to be,’ they grumbled during breaks.
‘As they have moaned and bitched for the past three decades,’ retorted Clarisse to Claude, when the caretaker had begged a small pay increase on behalf of the labourers.
Luc, on the other hand, firmly held that his mother should raise the hourly picking rate by at least a euro. ‘The estate’s accounts won’t suffer unduly,’ he begged her. ‘Taking care of your employees is an investment.’
‘It will bankrupt me. You don’t know how hard I struggle to keep this place afloat. If you were here full-time …’ There was no arguing with her on the subject. As far as Clarisse was concerned, Luc and Jane should have given up their own lives, their London home, and moved to Les Cigales five years earlier when Aunt Isabelle, Clarisse’s sister-in-law, had died.
Working with the temporary local team was Arnaud Lefèvre, a beefy taciturn man in his early forties. Born and reared on the estate, he was one of Claude and Matty’s twin sons. He was the bachelor of the two brothers who, like his parents, had been employed full-time at Les Cigales until after Isabelle had died, at which point Clarisse had laid him off.
The foreign hands this year consisted of a pair of Australians, Sandy and Jake – backpackers and sweethearts. They were halfway through a two-year round-the-world trip and were earning their keep as they travelled onwards. Jane had rather taken to them for their lively, irreverent energy. More so than she had to the two other couples. An English pair, Clive and his wife Susie, both in their mid-thirties, who made it a rule, they’d told Jane, to take their annual holidays in September to be in France for the grape-picking. Then there was the Dutch couple, Merel and Olaf, in their late fifties, a rather dull twosome.
Last on board was Dan, who hailed from Paris and was Luc’s cameraman, close friend and confidant. Jane caught sight of him and waved but he didn’t notice. His camera was locked to his shoulder. He was not picking fruit but filming the activities. Why? Was this to be a scene in Luc’s new documentary? Jane had never known Dan drive down for the vendange. His presence didn’t displease her, though. She had always liked him, had always felt comfortable in his company. He was less driven than Luc, more lighthearted and easy to be with.
She snipped a bunch of grapes off a nearby vine, a musky thick-skinned variety, then sucked a few to quench her thirst and clear her throat after the dusty cycle ride. Seeds and soft inner flesh disappeared, the empty skins she tossed to the ground. Then she grabbed an empty pannier and lunged the length of one of the vine rows where other pickers hadn’t yet penetrated, immersing herself in a maze of green leaves and repetitive activity. ‘Select a ripe cluster, clip it and place it in the comporte, the basket.’ She lifted her face, delighting in the warmth of the early sun on her closed eyelids. ‘Select a ripe cluster …’
Late cicadas woke to the morning and began to rattle their desire, beating into the monotony. A dragonfly swooped by, settling on a neighbouring plant. Jane paused to watch it, fascinated by the slow lift and fall of its royal-blue body against the rich green leaf, its protruding eyes. She was always pleased to see a dragonfly. Luc had taught her many years earlier, when they were both children and she a visitor to the estate, that dragonflies were ‘good guys’ and she shouldn’t be afraid of them or hurt them: they ate the mosquitoes, ‘and no one enjoys picking fruit while mozzies and midges constantly attack you and suck your blood’.
Overhead, swallows were swooping and wheeling. The Indian summer must have delayed their departure. Jane smiled as she worked, recalling blissful childhood days she had spent there. Days when she and Luc had lain side by side in the long grass, birdwatching through binoculars, gorging on fresh strawberries nabbed from the greenhouse; when they had roamed the estate together, like a pair of conquerors, and she had grown to inhabit it and love it as though it were her own. Luc had taught Jane not to fear the great outdoors. Little suburban English Jane, afraid of spiders, cowed by the unknown: Luc had opened her eyes to the power of curiosity and possibility. He still did.
Mid-morning, Matty came cannonballing along the rutted tracks. The soil was bone dry after the long rainless months of summer and threw up clouds of dust. Wheels bouncing over the earth, she drew to a halt in her ancient Deux Chevaux on a grass verge alongside two fields where a huddle of labourers were picking together. Close by, the Australians were singing as they hauled their baskets. It was a timely arrival: the pickers were beginning to wilt from the physical exertion and escalating heat.
‘On fait la pause casse-croûte,’ yelled Matty, in her thick, throaty Provençal drawl, as she climbed out of the car, hair flying loose from its accustomed bun.
Claude lifted off his hat, a fraying, yellowing Panama, wiped his brow and whooped, ‘Quelle femme formidable! Mine’s a beer!’
Laughter rang through the green, earthy corridors. Claude, arm slung over the shoulders of his son, Arnaud, sauntered towards the food, chatting amiably.
The grape-pickers, grateful for the opportunity to pause for twenty minutes and slake their thirst, trudged as one towards the housekeeper’s stationary vehicle. The sun was high and was threatening to explode with an intensity that outscored even the previous day. Most of the group were sweating already, but spirits were lively and no one was crabbing.
Matty, in her wraparound pinafore, white ankle socks and espadrilles, stood proudly at the open boot of her car. It revealed neat stacks of fresh baguettes, each stuffed with locally cured ham, tomatoes and goat’s cheese from a neighbour’s herd. Substantial triangles of quiche lay on metal trays, still warm from the oven. They were layered deep with vegetables pulled by Claude from the kitchen garden. To accompany, flasks of steaming coffee and chilled bottles of a young fruity red – Clarisse would never allow the quality wine to be doled out to the labourers. And, of course, a chilled beer or two for Claude.
‘Wow, take a look at this yummy lot!’ called Sandy to her partner, Jake.
Luc hung back, waiting for his wife, slipping his hand into Jane’s as they followed the rest of the ravenous crew. He had caught the sun, as she supposed she had too. His green eyes, flecked with amber, shone brightly, their colour emphasized by his bronzed skin. Even plastered in sun cream, Jane’s lighter tone burned and stung, but it was not an unpleasant sensation. A few more freckles would be the result.
‘We’ve made a better start today,’ he remarked, as he bent to pick up a stick.
‘Clarisse seemed upset this morning,’ Jane ventured.
‘She’s not happy about me making this film.’
‘Why?’
Luc shrugged.
‘There must be a reason.’
‘She thinks I should stick to nature films. Probing into the past is dangerous, she says.’
‘Dangerous in what way? She’s so dramatic.’
‘Well, there are elements of French-Algerian history that were ugly and the memories are more painful for her than I’d anticipated. Let sleeping dogs lie, is Clarisse’s philosophy. Talking of which, where’s Walnut?’
‘Chasing a rabbit, or that’s what he was doing when I last saw him. Walnut! Does the film have a personal element to it then?’
Luc slewed his gaze and whistled for the dog. ‘Walnut, viens içi!’
‘Clarisse mentioned that you’re digging into family history.’
Luc dropped to his haunches as the spaniel loped towards him. ‘I asked her about my father. She refused to talk about him.’ Luc ruffled the dog’s ears and Walnut rose on his hind legs and began licking his master’s face, panting contentedly.
‘And what? Why are you being evasive?’
‘Because I don’t like discussing a film until I’ve nailed down its structure, you know that.’
Luc’s reserve, the private part of himself that he was so unwilling to share, sometimes drove Jane to
distraction. ‘Why doesn’t she want to talk about it? You and she, you can be as maddening as each other sometimes.’ Jane laughed, but a flash of frustration steeled her mood.
‘She’s never been comfortable about the fact that she and Aunt Isa were colonials …’
‘Your whole family were colonials. What’s there to be so secretive about? It’s not as if they were personally responsible for the French invasion of Algeria!’
‘Please, let’s drop it, Jane. And … maybe this isn’t the best moment to mention it, but she’s asked if we’ll spend Christmas with her again this year.’
Jane stiffened.
Luc stroked his wife’s cheek. ‘I know how you feel, but what do you say to a rethink?’
Jane was determined not to be browbeaten. Luc and she hadn’t spent a Christmas in London since the death of his aunt Isabelle. ‘How about we discuss it when the harvest’s in and we’re not surrounded by people?’
Luc slid his hand to his wife’s shoulder, caressed her neck and pulled her towards him. ‘Sure.’ He grinned. ‘Listen, I know you’d rather we had time in our own home, but I hate to see her alone and particularly while she’s faché with me.’
‘She’s never angry with you. She dotes on you. And what about my father? He’s alone as well. It’s always about Clarisse.’
‘Peter’s cared for. He’s in a home, whereas Clarisse is –’
A pair of black-winged crows passed overhead, cawing noisily. Jane glanced up at them and bit back her thought. ‘Let’s discuss it later. Not now.’
She and Luc drew up behind the gathered team, who were queuing for or already guzzling coffee, wine and sandwiches.
‘Wow, this work sure burns off the calories. Know the best grape diet, anyone? Pick them. I’m tweeting this,’ giggled Sandy.
The Dutch couple had settled themselves a little apart to partake of their mid-morning snack. Their plates were stacked high with food. Pale-skinned, rarely vocal, they appeared uncomfortable in this southern climate, at odds with everything that fluttered or lived. Merel had rolled up the sleeves of her shirt and was swatting at her arms, scratching at where she had been bitten. Jane wondered what had possessed them to volunteer for this experience, what might have been their expectations. The plentiful meals?
‘I’ve got some cream in my bag if you need it,’ she said to Merel, in an attempt to include them.
Over to the left, Sandy was posing for a selfie. ‘Guess who’s the new Charlize Theron? Moi!’ she called. Others chuckled, wolf-whistled.
The Dutch woman shook her head miserably. ‘Have tube.’ She had placed her baguette sandwich in the dusty grass. Within seconds a column of black ants was intent upon it. Merel let out an angry incomprehensible word and snatched it out of their reach, slapping at the sandwich until it fell to pieces and the ants had crossed onto her arm.
‘Well, let me know if you need anything.’
Several conversations were taking place all at once, in English, French and occasionally a few words in Limburgish, a dialect of Dutch Jane had never heard before. It was only spoken in and around Limburg, a fact she had gleaned the evening before over dinner from the monosyllabic Merel, whom she’d had the misfortune to be seated alongside. It might explain why Jane had drunk too much, although she had been sufficiently fascinated to look up the root of the language on the internet before she’d gone to sleep and had discovered that the local people called it Plat, rather than Limburgish, meaning ‘Flat’, like the regions where it was spoken.
Jake and Sandy were recounting their travel adventures to Dan. The tales seemed to involve a certain amount of high drama and squealing. Dan, who spoke fluent English, was listening politely, laughing appropriately. He was a patient man. It was an essential trait in his line of work and in his partnership with Luc, who was passionate and tireless, relentless, demanding, and obsessive in his quest for quality and truth in his projects.
Jane accepted a coffee from Matty, helped herself to a slice of quiche with courgette, sage leaves and onion, and broke away from the others. She strode by Luc, who was now on his haunches in lively exchange with the local harvesters, all tearing at hunks of bread, ham and cheese. They were a hardy bunch, in moth-eaten fedoras and tight-fitting waistcoats, who stuck together and rarely mixed with the foreigners. They were jumping between the regional Provençal vernacular and French. Both Luc and Jane spoke a little of the language of the troubadours, he more than she, and he always enjoyed exercising his knowledge, and the villagers revelled in listening to him. They had been acquainted with the mistress’s son since he was a small boy. Arnaud and his twin brother, Pierre, who was working further west in the Camargue as the gardien of a château-estate renowned for its breeding of the famous indigenous horses, had practically grown up with Luc. He was popular with all of them even if, he had told Jane years earlier, there had been much resistance to his family buying into the tight-knit Provençal community, purchasing the most sought-after vineyard-estate for miles.
‘They’re rich because they’ve lived off the fat of our African territories,’ neighbours growled behind their backs. ‘Those Cambons and others of their kind were the cause of our Algerian War of Independence. Eight bloody years and de Gaulle still gave the country back. And who paid for it? We did. Our sons fought as soldiers and the war cost us in taxes.’
The conflicts had almost caused a civil war. When France, at de Gaulle’s bidding, returned Algeria in 1962, nine hundred thousand Algerian-born French had fled, to settle in the mother country. A great proportion chose the south because the Mediterranean climate and lifestyle were what they were accustomed to. A small percentage of them were in a position to buy whatever took their fancy and they picked up the market’s prime properties while France was teetering towards bankruptcy. The Cambons, Luc’s mother and aunt, had been among the privileged elite. But it had taken years for them to be accepted here.
Luc had told Jane that it was not uncommon for French mainlanders, especially in the south, to spit upon the Pieds-Noirs. Verbally, at least. He had described to her the humiliation of market days in Malaz when his mother and aunt had been ignored and no one would serve them; his local schooldays, when the other kids had hectored him, yelling unkind names at him.
Luc’s father had died during the escape. His grandparents had chosen to remain in ‘the land of their birth’. Once Luc had waved them goodbye, he never saw them again, never heard what became of them. The loss of his father and grandparents had been a heart-wrenching experience for the four-year-old, he had confided to Jane years before they were married, on one of the rare occasions when he had touched upon his past.
It was a complex and sensitive history, and a very different genre of documentary from his previous films, which had all been explorations of nature and the environment.
‘Bonjour, Jane, comment tu vas?’
Jane swung round from where she was sitting on the grass and lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the sun. In her early-morning haste, she had forgotten to bring a hat.
‘Mon Dieu, it’s been a while.’
‘Dan! How lovely to see you. Yes, it’s been an age.’ She patted the grass and he dropped down beside her, kissing her warmly on both cheeks.
‘You are looking très belle, as always, but very deep in thought.’
‘Oh, nothing of great importance. It’s a surprise to find you here for the vendange, Dan.’
‘Luc’s tracked down an ex-soldier living near Marseille who knew his father. He wants to film an interview with him.’
‘Couldn’t it have waited till after the harvest?’
‘He’s in his eighties and sounded frail when we spoke to him on the phone. Many of the subjects are Clarisse’s generation. I’m all for filming them as soon as we can. This film could break ground, Jane. We’re both pretty excited. Modern French history will never be the same again.’
Dan’s enthusiasm made Jane a little sad. It hurt that Luc never shared the creative process with her. It was such a si
gnificant part of who he was. Only a few minutes earlier, when she had prodded him, he had been cagey, avoiding details.
‘Why is Clarisse so set against it?’
‘She was caught up in that colonial nightmare, lost her husband. Luc remembers almost nothing about him. It was the genesis for the film: “Who was my father?” Some of the material he’s uncovering is bound to ruffle feathers …’
‘Then why?’
‘It needs to be exposed, Jane, and Luc is determined to see it through, as only Luc can be!’ Dan smiled. ‘He won’t be coerced or silenced by his mother, or anyone else. In fact, we’ll interview her.’
‘Do you think she’ll agree?’
‘Clarisse can’t resist a camera. You ought to know that.’ Daniel threw his head back and burst out laughing. It had a mischievous ring to it. Jane found herself remarking yet again how attractive he was. He was divorced with a young daughter, and she wondered that he had not been snapped up. Or perhaps there was someone. Dan rarely disclosed details of his personal life and she would never encroach upon his privacy by enquiring.
‘Are you guys picking grapes or sunbathing?’ It was Luc. He had already chivvied the paid labour back to the vines and was now waving like a traffic warden to his friend and wife. Dan grinned and jumped to his feet, brushing grass off his jeans. ‘Here comes the boss,’ he teased.
‘Dan, does all this explain why Luc’s rather tense at present?’ Jane asked hastily, before Luc reached them. But Dan either didn’t hear or ignored her.
‘Is my wife keeping you from the fields? Jane, chérie, if Dan and I disappear to catch up on some urgent professional matters, will you stay with Claude and keep this harvest moving?’
The Forgotten Summer Page 2