by Fiona Valpy
I know I’m not going to be able to get to sleep until I’ve moved the urn, so I slide out of bed carefully so as not to disturb Lafite and pad through to the kitchen. The house is so quiet all I can hear is the soft heartbeat tick of the clock above the fireplace. I fill the kettle and switch it on, pretending that a cup of camomile tea is just the soothing antidote I need to get back to sleep, but really to ruffle the surface of the silence with a little comfortingly domestic noise.
Gingerly, I remove the urn from the box and carry it through to the sitting room, tucking it into the crook of one arm as I turn the door handle and push the door open with a dry creak of its hinges. I put the casket of ashes on the coffee table between the two sofas which face each other conversationally. I pause for a moment and consider putting Dad’s photo on the table beside the urn. But no, that would be too public an admission of what has gone before, even with the picture of the magpies covering the guilty secret, as in the past. And it would also be too shrine-like. I can see Liz’s wry smile mocking the idea. I pull the creaking door shut behind me, but then hesitate and open it again, pushing it ajar. It feels more companionable this way. And, yes, I do realise how silly this is and that I’m making a huge issue out of what merely amounts to a jar full of dust. But since there’s nothing I can do to bring Liz back, our last threads of connection—no matter how tenuous they may be—have become vitally important. I can’t ask her for the truth about her relationship with my father. I can’t scream my anger at her for her betrayal. I can’t tell her that she’s wrecked my life, turning everything I thought I knew about my childhood into an empty charade. I can’t weep on her comforting shoulder, emptying out the muddle of conflicting emotions that has been one of her legacies to me. All I have is this last gesture of grudging respect.
I pad back to bed, ignoring the now-quiet kettle with its wisp of silent steam and shivering a little despite the warmth of the July night. I slip back under the covers, pulling up the light quilt. Lafite, disturbed by the movement, wakes and stretches, then jumps down and stalks soundlessly out of the room, no doubt off on some nocturnal hunting expedition as I hear the clatter of the cat flap moments later.
Pity. I’d have liked his company in the dark hours that stretch endlessly between me and the dawn.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The State of the Nation
To-Do list:
•Re-hang shutters—ask Thibaults
•Buy more teabags
•Practise taking deep breaths and letting go—ongoing
•45 mins Pilates (frustration still taking its toll...)—daily
•Stop obsessing about incredibly romantic moment with unattainable married man with children—ongoing.
Celebrations and jubilations—that’s the last shutter finished! I’ve left the heavy ones that flank the doorway until the end and now they are neatly sanded, undercoated and painted and are resting on the trestles to dry. I’ll ask the Thibault brothers to put them back on for me tomorrow. All the windows are now framed with the sage-green panels and I pause for a moment on my way back to the house to survey my handiwork. Most satisfying.
I’m cleaning both the brushes and my green-spotted hands at the kitchen sink when there’s a tap at the door and a faint ‘Coucou!’ I turn, and am delighted to find Mireille on the doorstep.
‘I’ve come to inspect all the work that’s been going on here—both yours and my sons,’ she grins, her eyes bright as a bird’s in the leather-brown folds of her face.
‘Well, you’re just in time for tea, too,’ I reply.
‘Good, I hoped that might be the case.’
We go out onto the terrace where Pierre is passing roof tiles up to Cédric. Raphael and Florian are elsewhere this week, finishing up other jobs before their break.
‘The building inspector is here,’ I call, and the men pause in their work.
Peering down from his scaffolding perch, Cédric says in mock alarm, ‘Oh, mon Dieu, not that one! She’s particularly difficult.’ He climbs down to join us. His manner is always nothing but professional when any of his brothers are around, but today I sense that he’s been a little more distant with me and it’s as if our moment of intimacy at the festivities last night never happened.
The boys explain to their diminutive mother what they’ve been doing and she squints up at the newly rebuilt chimney and the surrounding roof with a critical gaze, before finally giving their work a nod of approval. ‘We’re still waiting for the cowl for the chimney. It’s on order at Lacombe and will only be in at the end of the month, but as it’s summer Gina won’t be lighting any fires I think,’ says Cédric. Our eyes lock and I blush at his words as, unbidden, a sudden vision enters my mind of a roaring fire on a winter’s night, the two of us sitting in front of the flames sharing a bottle of wine, his lips on mine...
‘And there’s still the internal plastering to be done,’ he continues, but his gaze is still focused on my face and I feel even more flustered at the thought that he may be reading my mind. ‘But we’ll come back after the holiday to finish that off.’ I snap back to reality and try to concentrate on the discussion once again.
‘Are you going to use wet plaster or plasterboard?’ Mireille asks knowledgeably. I have no idea what the difference is, but I’m thankful to have such unromantic practicalities to focus on in order to banish inappropriate thoughts about her son from my head.
‘Plasterboard as it’s easier and quicker. We can fix it between the beams and you won’t be able to see the difference once it’s painted,’ Cédric replies.
‘Well,’ says his mother somewhat doubtfully, ‘if Gina is happy with that solution...’
‘I’m happy with whatever you recommend,’ I say to Cédric, pulling myself together and trying to sound as brisk and business-like as possible. ‘Plasterboard sounds fine. And I’m really so grateful to your sons for all the work they’ve done,’ I continue, turning back to Mireille. ‘I know it’s taken them away from other jobs. Now, let me go and get the tea things.’
I carry the tray out and Mireille and I sit at the table while the brothers perch on the terrace wall. ‘We won’t stop for long; we need to carry on, to be sure of getting the tiles finished by Friday,’ they say.
I’ve made Pierre his usual tiny cup of strong black coffee, which he downs in one gulp, breaking off for a second from sending a couple of texts to do so. Mireille raises her eyebrows in surprise as Cédric accepts a cup of tea, and then shoots him a sharp glance. ‘Aha, I see you’ve managed to civilise one of my sons at least, Gina.’
Cédric grins and takes a couple of sips, but then stands up and nudges Pierre. ‘Come on, Casanova, back to work.’ Without thinking, I reach out to take his mug from him and our fingertips brush as he passes it to me. We exchange a smile, the distance that I’d sensed between us closing in a flash. And I only realise how intimate this gesture must look when I catch sight of Mireille who is watching this momentary exchange like a hawk, an expression of suspicion dawning in her wise old eyes.
But, with her customary kindness, she chooses to ignore my obvious confusion at the fact that she’s noticed this English hussy seems to be flirting shamelessly with one of her married sons, and turns the conversation to last night’s revelries.
‘So, did you enjoy our Bastille Day celebrations my dear?’
I blush again at the memory of exactly how much I’d enjoyed one particular moment in the company of a certain married son of hers. Pulling myself together, I say, ‘Very much indeed. You rarely get a community coming together like that in England. At least the part I come from. It was fun. And you made all us foreigners feel very welcome.’
‘Ah, oui, the second occupation we call it. The first dates back to Eleanor of Aquitaine when this whole region belonged to the English kings. The second has happened a little more stealthily and a lot more recently. But we like having the English here. Everyone knows they make an important economic contribution to the region, especially when times aren’t easy. And no
w with la crise in the wine industry it’s even more important. Bordeaux isn’t yet as badly hit as some other parts of France, but it’s difficult all the same.’
‘I know it’s getting harder to sell French wine in Britain,’ I say, ‘but surely the winemakers of Bordeaux can easily sell their production in France?’
‘Not so much these days,’ Mireille shakes her head.
Cédric, pausing in the act of handing up another stack of tiles to Pierre, chips in, ‘It’s not cool for the younger generation to drink wine these days. Whisky and beer are much more in.’
‘Yes, and the French Government isn’t very supportive of the wine industry,’ Mireille adds. ‘In fact there’s a big campaign against alcohol in general, because people are worried about the effects of drinking too much. But they’re going to the opposite extreme, so the traditional French way of having a glass or two of wine with meals is dying out.’
Cédric starts up the ladder, a bucket of mortar in hand, but he pauses to call down, ‘Yes, it’s incredible. Wine is one of France’s greatest commodities and yet the wine farmers are being left to struggle. You’ve worked in the industry all your life, Gina, but do you really know how hard it is on the small domaines where they have to do everything themselves—grow the grapes, make the wine and then try to sell it too?’
I bridle a little and retort, ‘Well, France needs to get its act together. Your country has sat back and let the New World run away with the market, with their massive advertising campaigns and super-brands on the shelves in every supermarket. Their labels are a lot easier to understand, too!’ Normally I’d be backing France to the hilt, but something in his challenging tone makes me defiant.
‘Ah, yes, but isn’t the wine-drinking public much the poorer as a result? There’ll be far less choice if there’s no room for the smaller producers who bring individuality and character to the industry.’
‘You don’t need to lecture me about French wines! I spent the last ten years of my life fighting your corner and as a result I’ve ended up losing my job. I agree; it’ll be a complete tragedy if the industry declines here. The last thing I want is to be left with only a few boring big brands that all taste the same. It just feels like France is fighting a losing battle at the moment.’
He balances against the scaffolding and holds up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry. We need more enlightened, intelligent people like you in the world,’ he teases. But then continues in a more serious tone, ‘You know, you should write about it, Gina. You understand how difficult the situation is becoming. You could help spread the word, tell people what’s really happening in France. Wasn’t your father a wine writer?’
Mireille must have heard that from Liz, of course. What else did Liz tell her about Dad, I wonder...
‘You know, Cédric,’ Mireille calls up to the roof, where now only her son’s boots are visible as he lies on a ladder across the newly mended area to fix more tiles in place, working methodically up towards the apex of the roof, ‘you should take Gina to visit the Cortinis. They can tell her more about the situation and show her their vineyard. It’s one of the best around here,’ she adds, turning back to me. ‘Château de la Chapelle, just over in the next valley near St André.’
I recognise the name.
‘That’d be interesting. I loved their red, which Cédric introduced me to last night.’ I marvel at how calmly I manage to say this.
Cédric peers down from the roof. ‘I’ll get in touch with Robert Cortini when we get back from Arcachon,’ he says, his tone conciliatory now. ‘In fact, we’ll probably see him while we’re at the bassin. He’s usually there at this time too.’
‘Robert and Thomas are the sons of the château owner, Patrick Cortini,’ explains Mireille. ‘Patrick’s getting on a bit now, but he still keeps an eye on the chai. Robert looks after the vines and Thomas does sales, but all three of them make the wine together.’
‘I’ll look forward to meeting them in August.’ I tell Mireille about the Master of Wine course. ‘I need to know a lot more about the technicalities of winemaking,’ I finish.
She nods approvingly. ‘It sounds like a tough course. But there’s not much the Cortinis don’t know about wine. They’ve been in the business for five generations. They’ll be pleased to help you, I’m sure. And they’re always delighted to meet anyone who’s as passionate about wine as they are.’
As I say goodbye to Mireille at the kitchen door, she gives me a searching look. And then, nodding back to where her sons are working at the other side of the house, she says, ‘You know, Gina, of all my sons Cédric is the most practical. He’s not a great one for showing his feelings—he is a man, after all. But that’s how he expresses them—by actions, not words.’ She’s deadpan, her expression neutral, and I sense she’s treading carefully, trying to tell me something important.
I wonder what she’s getting at and then, to my shame, I realise that of course she’s picked up on the strong current of attraction that flows between me and her son. She probably saw us together last night too. So she’s warning me off, in the gentlest and politest way possible.
I blush and try to deflect the guilt I feel by saying, ‘I’m so grateful to all your sons, Mireille. I really appreciate the effort they’ve made for me; I know they’ve gone out of their way to help. You’ve all been so kind. I’m very lucky to have such wonderful friends and neighbours.’
‘Ah well, we have all grown very fond of you, you know, Gina.’ A yellow school bus comes into view in the distance. ‘And now here come Luc and Nathalie. I’d better be going.’
‘How many grandchildren do you have in total?’
‘Nine,’ she replies proudly. ‘Raphael’s four, Florian’s three, and Cédric’s two. Pierre has none yet—at least so far as we know!’
‘And what is it that Marie-Louise does?’ I ask.
Mireille looks a little surprised—perhaps she thinks it’s a bit of a brass neck for me to be asking about Cédric’s wife when I’ve just spent a good half hour flirting with him over tea on the terrace. ‘She’s a legal assistant in the notaire’s office. It’s a pretty demanding role.’
‘It must be hard juggling work and family,’ I say.
‘Well, yes, but of course we all help out. That’s what family’s for, after all.’
And with that she heads for home.
♦ ♦ ♦
On Friday afternoon, the Thibaults’ white lorry pulls into the courtyard. All four brothers have come to dismantle the scaffolding. Raphael inspects his younger siblings’ work with a critical eye, and finally pronounces it to be ‘Pas mal.’ It looks a lot better than pas mal to me. They’ve put a layer of new tiles underneath and then painstakingly cleaned the old tiles that were undamaged in the storm, slotting these back in place over the new ones to make a perfectly snug, watertight covering that is still weathered in subtle shades of terracotta and cream, so that the restored area blends with the rest of the roof. They’ve also cleaned off the moss from the remaining sections and replaced several cracked tiles (and I’m sure that wasn’t on the original remit). They sweep up the debris that’s accumulated under the scaffolding and collect up the sheets of plastic and pallets that the new tiles were encased in, leaving everything neat and tidy.
‘Can I offer you a drink to celebrate the end of the job and the start of your holidays?’ I say.
‘Non merci,’ replies Cédric ‘We must get the lorry back to the yard and unload everything. And then go home to pack. Although Nathalie has had her bag packed for two days already, Luc will take a little more organising, I suspect.’
I suddenly realise how much I’m going to miss having them around.
And yes, of course I do mean one of them in particular.
We shake hands as they leave. Cédric hangs back until last, and there’s an awkward moment where I extend my hand and simultaneously he leans in to kiss my cheek.
There’s that unmistakeable jolt of heat between us again.
&
nbsp; Politely ignoring the fact that I’m blushing bright red, he says, ‘Au revoir, Gina. I haven’t forgotten about your visit to Château de la Chapelle. I’ll be in touch when I get back and have had a chance to organise things with the Cortinis.’
‘Thank you. I’m looking forward to it very much.’
The deep-etched lines around his dark eyes crinkle in that sexy smile again. ‘And I’m looking forward to seeing you again very much, too,’ he replies.
Which wasn’t what I’d said at all actually, I realise, when I replay the scene in my head afterwards, over and over again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wine, Women and Song
To-Do list:
•Attempt to attain balance and poise in life—ongoing
•45 mins Pilates plus 20 mins walk (Pilates alone clearly not enough...)—daily
•Reading for Master of Wine course—ongoing
•Clean spare bedroom and make up bed for Annie
•Food shopping
•Buy wine.
It’s hot. Each day starts with a tantalising hint of coolness in the air and a few faint wisps of cloud in the sky, but these soon evaporate. The geraniums blaze brightly in their pots in the courtyard and on the terrace wall, reinvigorated by the long drink of water I give them each evening and a few hours’ respite from the baking sun. But even at this time of day the background hum of cicadas underlies the fluting descant of morning birdsong, before the insects build to a frantic scream which drowns out every other sound and thought.
The heat becomes unbearable by midday, and in the garden leaves wilt and curl, their vitality drained. The grass is bleached to straw. Only the surrounding vines remain as abundantly and exuberantly green as ever, their strong roots able to penetrate to the very heart of the underlying limestone which holds water like a giant sponge. Perfectly formed bunches of grapes are starting to ripen beneath the neatly trimmed canopy of leaves. Overhead a buzzard floats languidly in the white hot sky, its nonchalantly lazy air not fooling the furry creatures that huddle terrified in the grass below as its shadow passes.