The Forgotten Summer

by Carol Drinkwater

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Of course you do, Luc. The fellow with short legs, always puffing on a pipe. Stop defending her. And who the hell is so important on that phone?’

  Luc sighed and placed the mobile on his nightstand.

  Jane, dress still not fastened, dropped her hands to her sides, approached her husband and stroked his head. ‘Sorry. You’re really shattered. Let’s get back to London as soon as we can and have a fun week. You need a break.’

  ‘Not possible now. We can spend a couple of days in Paris. I’ve got several important meetings, but there’s the Hopper exhibition at the Grand Palais – you said you wanted to see it. Afterwards, you can continue on home and I’ll return here.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘I’ve agreed to base myself here while I shoot this film so she won’t be alone, even if she resents the work I’m doing. I can keep an eye on everything. Have you noticed how much she’s drinking?’

  ‘How long will you be away?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  And what about us? Jane bit back her disappointment. The more time Luc dedicated to Les Cigales and his mother, the less remained for her and their marriage. He must have read her thoughts because he added, ‘You don’t have to leave. It’s your choice. There’s no reason why you can’t hang on. You work well here. The internet is stable. I’ll only be in Paris for a few days.’

  Jane refrained from pointing out the obvious. ‘I’ve already missed three Russian classes. Can you zip up my dress, please?’

  By degrees Luc was being drawn into what Jane perceived as Clarisse’s web. He argued that it was his duty to watch over the ‘old girl’. Jane could not disagree or fault this sentiment: she had her ailing father in a care home in Kent to consider, another reason she preferred to remain in England.

  From Luc’s point of view, Les Cigales suited his work programme better than their UK address. It offered ample space – he had converted the bastide cellars into a den with an editing suite – and if he based himself in France, he was entitled to French cinema subsidies. No British government looked so generously on the arts.

  And so their debate ran round in circles, as it had since Aunt Isa’s death. Back and forth, without resolution. The fact of the matter was that the two women didn’t get on. They never had. Or not for years. Not since that hot troubled night of way too long ago … But Jane preferred to leave that summer where it belonged. In the past.

  Right now, in the present, the proposed ‘jolly’ scenario of Jane and Clarisse living together, bumping into one another on a daily basis, almost made her blood run cold. If she and Luc opted to live here permanently, Clarisse would rule the roost and Jane would have no voice in her own decision-making. No, she was determined not to give up her independence. On the other hand, she wanted to accommodate Luc, to offer support. It was clear that he was having a rough time, juggling the weight of his commitments. Jane owed it to him, for Heaven’s sake.

  She took a deep breath. She’d do as he requested. She’d stitch together some kind of truce with his difficult, demanding mother.

  5

  The third week of October. The days were amber-lit and that particular morning was no exception. It had unfurled like the others preceding it, offering a heat that was benign and enveloping. It welcomed you to the outdoors, to the working life of the land. Five hundred and eighty-eight tons of top-quality picked grapes had been the estate’s yield this season. Seven tons an acre was the figure achieved. Not bad at all. Once the fruit was ready for the primary ferment, Luc and Jane could prepare for their departure.

  For Luc’s sake, Jane took the old estate car, beat a path across the rutted parkland, cutting through the parcelles of vines denuded of their fruit, but still lovely with their russet leaves, to seek out her mother-in-law. Clarisse’s office was on the ground floor of the building that contained the winery. It had been installed in the spacious stone-walled cellars of a refurbished, nineteenth-century construction. As well as Clarisse’s office, it housed a wine-tasting salon and reception room on the ground floor. Packing rooms were on the level above. The winemaking plant was the heart of the vineyard. Jane was unfamiliar with it and its operating life. She rarely found herself on that section of the property, not since the years when she and Luc had climbed trees together up in the olive groves.

  Two middle-aged men were in the yard when Jane drew up. She knew them both by sight. They were local labourers, temporary muscle, called in when heavy lifting or sweat work was required. They were rolling carts stacked with empty unlabelled bottles off a trailer. One raised his head, coughed, wiped his blue-veined brow, acknowledged her arrival with a nod as Jane slammed the car door. His eyes followed her as she strode across the gravelled surround.

  ‘Où est Madame Cambon?’ she called to him. The yard was scruffy with plastic rubbish spilling over from a trio of dustbins forgotten in a corner. Arnaud or Claude should get over here and organize a major clean-up. Had no one else remarked upon it? For visitors who came to taste and purchase, it gave a rather usavoury impression.

  The workman pointed her to the rear of the building while his companion never raised his hatted head. Jane nodded her thanks and strode on, hiding her apprehension.

  The French windows of Clarisse’s office led out onto a path that intersected a bright flower garden, where a round table and six chairs offered the possibility of al fresco coffee or lunch breaks. Inside, a radio was playing softly. Instrumental jazz. On the wall, slightly askew, hung a black-and-white photograph of the young Romy Schneider. Clarisse was hunched over a desk, a cigarette smoking in an old-fashioned ashtray stamped with the Noilly Prat logo. Papers and chaos surrounded her. Heavy tortoiseshell sunglasses held her grey-flecked auburn hair firmly off her face. Unusually, she was without make-up and looked her age. Jane hovered by the half-open door. She opened her mouth to announce her presence but was cut short by a barked ‘What do you want?’

  Her mother-in-law’s greeting took the wind out of her sails. ‘Bonjour. May I come in?’

  Clarisse was scribbling a list of figures on a scrap of paper as Jane stepped inside and glanced nervously about. This workplace had the air of a temporary trailer office on a building site, rather than anything more permanent. Two folding chairs were leaning against the far side of the desk. Jane hesitated and decided against opening one to sit down. ‘Luc and I’ll be setting off early on Thursday morning.’

  ‘I am well aware of that. However, my son is coming back and he will remain here for the olive harvest. He has promised that he’ll be here to oversee it, and I’m expecting him to stay on for Christmas.’

  Jane held her breath. Why was Clarisse’s manner always so bloody challenging? ‘I thought I’d drop by, say au revoir and apologize again for the loss of the grapes. I hope you are reassured it was an accident.’

  Clarisse made no response. Then, slowly, deliberately, she placed her fountain pen, which Jane noticed was leaking, on the desk, lifted her head and stared full into Jane’s face. There was no warmth, no forgiveness in her gaze.

  ‘I wonder you dare show yourself here. I suppose it was my son who begged you to come. Good-natured but foolish of him to believe that anything you say could make any difference.’

  Momentarily knocked off-centre, Jane took a deep breath, steadying herself, determined to keep the exchange civil, to avoid a scene. ‘Yes, he did ask me to drop by, but I wouldn’t have done so if I hadn’t thought we could sort this out.’

  ‘Sort this out? Even you don’t believe that!’

  ‘Well, yes, actually –’

  ‘Do you know, Jane? The one regret I have for Luc is that he married you. You, when he had the choice of all women. I said as much at the time and nothing has changed my mind.’

  It was an unexpected, brutal attack and threw Jane off-centre. ‘Clari–’

  ‘You have no idea of the battle we had to get out of Africa, fleeing a war zone, dead bodies all about us, grief, driving for days on end, not knowi
ng where we’d end up. Two women and a boy, and we struggled, my God, we struggled to make something of this estate, to build the Cambon reputation, to put this place on the viticulture map. Les Deux Soeurs is a label to be proud of, and everything I did, I did for Luc. Everything I’ve fought for, every last drop of energy I’ve given to this enterprise, has been for my son.’ Clarisse hit her desk with a sideways fist to emphasize her point. Jane watched a sheet of paper float to the floor. ‘With little help from the local community, I might add. Full of their prejudices and recriminations about who we were and –’

  ‘I don’t see what any of this has to –’

  ‘I dreamed that by this stage of my life my son would be running these vineyards alongside me, that we’d be surrounded by a house full of his children, vibrant and talented like their father.’

  ‘Clarisse, stop right now!’

  ‘Grandchildren to carry on the business. To fill this place with noise and play. Instead of which … instead of which … You are not worthy of my son. You never were.’

  Tears stung Jane’s eyes. ‘Why do you bring this up? If Luc and I have accepted our loss and built a contented life, why can’t you? You talk as though I deliberately tried to spite you, to destroy your dreams of happiness.’

  ‘Oh, no, Jane, you’d never “destroy” anyone’s “dreams of happiness”, would you? How conveniently you’ve wiped from your memory the damage you caused to others by your resentments and jealousy. The sacrifice I was forced to make.’

  Jane felt the knife sink deeper. ‘What sacrifice? For God’s sake, Clarisse, what are you talking about?’

  Clarisse glared at her. ‘You simply don’t get it, do you?’

  ‘What I get is that you are hell-bent on blaming me. For no real reason. Nothing I have ever done to you deserves this vile attack. What sacrifice are you talking about?’ Jane was leaning against Clarisse’s desk. Her cheeks were flushed with anger. She had promised herself she would remain calm – she’d do it for Luc – but … this was an impossible, insoluble situation. The force of Clarisse’s hatred confounded her. ‘Surely you’re not talking about …’

  Clarisse picked up her cigarette, dragged on it deeply and then ground it out in the ashtray.

  ‘Clarisse, that was years ago.’

  Ignoring Jane, Clarisse retrieved her pen from the desk and made a performance of slipping on her glasses, of concentration, of drawing towards her a cumbersome old-fashioned ledger.

  Jane lingered awkwardly, watching the bent head of the matriarch, lost for words, searching for any gesture of generosity to turn this around, for Luc’s sake. To redeem even a smidgeon of respect if not affection between them.

  ‘Clarisse, is that the sacrifice?’

  Clarisse opened the ledger and ran her finger down lists of figures. She left an inked fingerprint on the page.

  ‘I was fourteen years old. I was shocked and angry –’

  The old woman did not lift her head.

  ‘Why can’t we let all this go? Move on. Get on with our lives …’

  Jane waited, but Clarisse continued to ignore her. Eventually, she retreated. ‘You’ve got ink all over your fingers,’ she called back. It was a pathetic final blow and she knew it. Outside, she hurried along the pathway, convinced that all hope of any reconciliation had been dashed.

  The day before they were due to leave, Jane cycled to the beach, crossing the snaking coast road, the Golden Route, to the horseshoe bay known as the Cove of Illusions, where she perched on the shingle between blood-red rocks and watched the terns and sandpipers. It was the time of year when the migratory species were gathering. Any day now, flocks of swallows and martins would begin their relocation south across the Mediterranean to Africa. It was time to gather their forces and be on their way. ‘France is an excellent crossroads for birds on the wing,’ Luc had once told her. When she and he were adolescents, he had shown her many fine lookout points, even on his own estate, where they could hide in the rocks and grass and identify the birds. On one or two rare occasions they had spotted or heard overhead small flocks of cranes.

  Jane had always been curious as to whether the migrating avians perceived their north or south lands, their breeding or wintering grounds, as home. ‘Which do you think?’ she had quizzed Luc years earlier.

  ‘Home is within us,’ he had replied. ‘Algeria was once my home. Now, I am here and France, Les Cigales, is my home. It will always be my home.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I feel connected to this place. It has a special energy.’

  The post-harvest departure was filled with regret for Jane. Did Luc still regard France as home, rather than London with her, his wife? The conflict with Clarisse had dredged up so much from the past. Insecurities and grief. Clarisse’s cruel allusion to the lack of children.

  Since her fourteenth year, Jane had never been made welcome at Les Cigales. She knew that Clarisse judged her a poor choice for Luc, but until this recent confrontation it hadn’t occurred to her that her mother-in-law still clung to the events of that long-ago summer night, or that she blamed Jane for a ‘destruction of her happiness’. Truth to tell, Jane had never equated Clarisse with any potential for happiness.

  In Paris, Luc and Jane stayed on the Left Bank in a small hotel in rue Saint-Sulpice, steps from the boulevard Saint-Germain and the dusty, cavernous, baroque splendour of Saint-Sulpice église where, occasionally, there were evening recitals. Its great organ was classified as National Heritage. This Left Bank quarter was one of their favourites. Here there were cinemas, art-houses, cafés and food markets aplenty. And for Jane, the perfume department at Bon Marché. They had three days, three precious days, on their own, although as Luc was on business Jane spent her daytime hours without him. She was happy enough. She loved Paris. She bought marmalade-orange suede shoes in a narrow little shop in rue Cherche-Midi and a rather elegant green dress in a boutique along the rue de Sèvres. The colours enhanced her blonde hair and skin, lightly tanned from weeks of grape-picking. She wore the frock out to dinner that first evening. They ate at Les Éditeurs, one of Luc’s old haunts, and he complimented her on how beautiful she looked.

  The evening was light-hearted, affectionate. The subject of Clarisse and the vineyards had been tactfully set aside. Neither could handle any more disputes for the present. Back at the hotel they made love for the first time in a while. Away from the cares of Les Cigales, Jane found Luc more accessible, although he remained burdened with the weight of his film.

  She spent an afternoon in the Grand Palais, at the Edward Hopper exhibition. She was thrilled and astonished, particularly by his lesser-known magazine illustrations, and wished that Luc had been at her side to share it with her, to see the range in the artist’s work. That second evening they queued in the cold night air to hear jazz at the piano bar of Aux Trois Mailletz, nestled in a cobbled lane behind the Shakespeare & Co bookshop. Autumn leaves were falling. The club’s history was as fascinating as its musical line-up and Luc, who had been frequenting the tiny jazz palace since his days at the Sorbonne, had immersed himself in both. Jane had first visited the club when she was eighteen and Luc had introduced her to blues and boogie with Memphis Slim on the keyboards.

  On the third morning, Luc drove her to the Gare du Nord to board the Eurostar alone.

  ‘Any idea when you’ll be home?’ she asked him, as they kissed goodbye.

  ‘Not yet, but you know I’ll come as soon as I can. Say hello to your dad for me.’

  She nodded. The urgency of their parting caused a rush of need, a softening and momentary panic within her. A desire to spill out all that they had been avoiding during these last days alone together. ‘I tried with Clarisse, Luc, honestly, I did.’

  ‘I know, chérie. She has too much responsibility, that’s the nub of the matter, living there all alone. She needs me … needs us. When the film’s delivered, you and I will have to make some decisions.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘London, but’ – he lif
ted his hands to silence any further argument – ‘not now, Jane, please, I beg you. I have to get this film wrapped first.’

  Jane felt her stomach clench. ‘Do you want us to move to Les Cigales? Is that your preference, for us to sell London? If you think that’s best then we could … could consider renting out Lady Margaret for a while. I’ll give it a try at Les Cigales …’

  ‘Chérie, doucement. Let’s discuss it another time, not here as we’re parting.’ He pressed his fingers against his forehead and temple as though rubbing away a headache. The gesture was uncharacteristically agitated. ‘We do need to talk. There’s –’ The thought was broken by his phone beginning to ring. He slid his hand into his jeans pocket but the call went dead. ‘I’ll give you a buzz tonight.’

  She waited, scanning his face. Suddenly, a fear. ‘Talk about what?’

  He shook his head, glanced at his watch. The iPhone was going again. ‘I’m late for a meeting.’ He smiled. ‘And I need to touch base with Dan. Don’t worry. Please, don’t. I’ll sort everything out.’

  ‘I don’t want Clarisse and her responsibilities to destroy us. I love you, Luc.’

  They embraced once more. She felt tension harden his body and clung to him tightly, wanting never to let him go, sniffing his body scent to keep it close to her during his absence. He shuffled himself loose and pecked her left ear. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  She saw in his expression, in those disturbed green eyes, that he was already elsewhere, his thoughts lost to her. A tight knot gripped her throat, shackling speech. She nodded and hurried away, dreading tears.

  Was she losing Luc?

  Jane rubbed the carriage window with the sleeve of her cardigan. It was starting to rain. She stared out, barely registering the landscape as it slipped from cityscape to graffiti-walled suburbs, accelerating towards rolling acres of farmland populated with church spires and low-lying stone and timber villages. Northern France in late autumn. Leaves were falling; colours were fading. Her heart ached.