The Champagne War

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘He already does. He runs errands.’ At this the old man laughed as if he’d made a joke about history repeating itself. ‘Drink with me to my grandson.’

  He could hardly refuse. ‘All right, what are we drinking? Bit early for champagne?’

  ‘It is never too early for champagne,’ his elder cautioned him. ‘No, have a taste of this.’ He gestured to an upturned barrel and a couple of stools. Charlie watched him pull out a squat, dark, unlabelled bottle from a bucket of chilled water.

  ‘What is this?’ he asked as the fellow released the cork and poured two nips into tiny, grubby glasses. The liquid appeared light gold and syrupy.

  ‘Taste,’ the man urged him.

  Charlie took a sip and was surprised at the powerful jolt of alcohol together with a rich sweetness. ‘Blimey! What is this?’

  Étienne shrugged in that French way and then roared his laughing pleasure. ‘We call it ratafia. Madame’s is the best of the region.’

  Charlie repeated the word. ‘But what is it?’

  Étienne chuckled. ‘A mule’s kick.’

  ‘It is,’ Charlie agreed. ‘Powerful stuff. How is it achieved?’

  ‘The marc.’ Étienne could see he didn’t understand. ‘So, this is the liquor left over from making our wine.’

  ‘Before or after fermentation?’ Charlie asked, taking another sip, impressed by its cool, deliciously sweet flavour that he imagined would be as good an aperitif as a wine served with dessert or cheese.

  The man shrugged. ‘Usually it is the liquor that comes when the grapes are pressed and from the skins, seeds and stalks before fermentation, although fermentation begins once the juice is released.’

  ‘It’s incredible.’

  ‘Hers especially; she takes pride in it. Madame Delancré ensures a fine taste. However, every family around here makes ratafia, monsieur. We all have bottles of it at home for guests, and to add to other things. Some women add it to their sweet cakes; others use it to be flavour for other flavours.’

  ‘Like what?’ Charlie was intrigued.

  Étienne didn’t seem to mind teaching Charlie. ‘I know some houses sell theirs to makers of aperitifs that have lemon or cherry, perhaps apricot, even aniseed . . . You know grappa?’

  Charlie shook his head.

  ‘Italian. Every country in Europe would have a version of it, monsieur.’

  ‘Ratafia,’ Charlie said again, liking the sound of the word. ‘It’s so sweet!’

  ‘You like?’

  ‘I like,’ he confirmed, and drained his glass to prove it. Charlie stood. ‘Good day to you, Étienne, and thank you.’

  ‘Come again. There’s any amount of it after each crush.’ Charlie’s new friend grinned and waved a hand in farewell.

  Charlie ambled off into the tunnel, taking a piece of chalk to make a small mark if he happened to make a wrong turn; he had none of Sophie’s childhood navigation skills among the cellars and didn’t trust his sense of direction. Here, hugged by the dark and seeing only with the lowest of lamplight, he could sense an idea beginning to form in his mind that was all chemist now.

  It had been easier for Sophie to remain in Reims with the pretence of overseeing preparations for harvest, which would be early this year. It was a helpful excuse; returning home to Épernay would bring an avalanche of the memories she’d clung to, which she’d not had to put away but soon would, given the impotence of her persistent enquiries. But having found the courage to go, she’d slipped back home yesterday under the cover of night.

  Louis would be arriving soon from Paris, ready to gloat with news that the discovery of the uniform and papers had officially made Jerome one of the unconfirmed dead – no longer considered missing. A simple rearrangement of words was about to change her life. Now it was time to pack up Jerome’s clothes once and for all – give them to others who could use them. For his three decades on earth Jerome had not acquired much that was entirely his. He owned plenty as a brother. With Louis he had inherited the sprawling family mansion at Avize, the vineyards and their equipment, as well as all their parents’ belongings. Even so, and in spite of his personal wealth, Jerome had not spent much on himself at all. He was not acquisitive; in the time she’d known him she’d never heard him want for anything but her. He wore no adornments, had no desire to own a car – Why, when the nag does such a faithful job? He didn’t appreciate new furniture, new shoes, new clothes. Jerome preferred everything old and lived-in.

  ‘I like being comfortable. I like the familiarity of clothes that have shared my life,’ he had said to her when she darned his vineyard trousers for the umpteenth time.

  Her husband desired little.

  ‘Only you. You are all I desire in life. Your happiness. Your health. Your love. Whatever makes you happy gladdens me.’

  So there was little in either of her houses to speak of the month that they had shared there as man and wife. His compass, perhaps, which he had pressed into her hands on his last night as they’d laid together and wept.

  ‘Keep this, knowing I hold it here,’ he said, touching his breast over his heart. ‘You are my true north. I’ll find my way back to you.’

  Sophie leaned against the wall and looked out the window of her attic room towards Avize, where Jerome was born, and her tears flowed. No one shared them but no one needed to. These were hers to indulge as she came to terms with the news, and worse, the realisation that Louis might get his way and Charlie would only be a lovely memory she took out from time to time to enjoy. They hadn’t got in so deep that Charlie couldn’t surface and survive. In a different life, a different situation, she knew they would have been lovers, a strong couple – made a good marriage. War had brought them together and now it needed them to part. She knew her decision was the right one, and now with Jerome’s status official, she no closer to finding any sugar and the war still dragging on half-heartedly, she needed to make a decision about this year’s champagne.

  She punished herself one last time, recalling her final discussion with Jean from the Red Cross on the telephone.

  ‘Are you convinced, monsieur, that my husband could not be wandering around lost, so injured he can barely remember his own name?’

  ‘I do doubt this,’ Jean had replied, sounding emphatic. ‘And I understand your pain, madame, and why you hope against hope. You are not alone in your sorrow at not having your loved one’s body returned or even knowing precisely where he fell.’ When Sophie didn’t say anything – she couldn’t, she was biting her knuckle to prevent herself sobbing, imagining Jerome clutching at his throat and gasping his final breaths before the sucking mud swallowed him – Jean hurried on with formalities. ‘Following the discovery of his tunic and his papers we are adjusting his status accordingly. The Red Cross now officially regards him as permanently lost.’

  A nice way to say There’s no more hope. Consider your husband dead . . . and move on with your life, as millions of other women have had to. He said none of that, of course. Instead he remained polite and sympathetic.

  ‘You have my deepest condolences, Madame Delancré,’ he added, as gently as he dared.

  So now all she had to look forward to – if she was going to stay true to Jerome and keep his vineyards going, making champagne in their name, hoping to keep that name alive through a son, even – was marriage to Louis. At the thought a shudder erupted through her and reminded her that she was out of excuses, out of time and out of sugar.

  23

  ÉPERNAY

  August 1918

  It had been a fortnight since that phone call. Most of that time she’d plunged herself into work at the hospital, barely sleeping for more than a couple of hours a night, preferring to be moving, busy, confronting other people’s problems rather than her own. Jerome tended to visit when she was alone, trying to sleep, frustrated that she wasn’t more exhausted. He was telling her to forget about him. Make a new life. She was young and wealthy, she had years to look forward to, so much love to give another . . . especial
ly to children.

  And yet, two days ago, when she’d returned to Épernay to essentially pack up his memory, he had seemed larger in her unsettled sleep and was conveying the opposite.

  Look for me. Don’t let me die.

  She forced herself to wake. Checking the clock, she noticed she’d been asleep for less than two hours, all of it restless and invaded by Jerome, she was sure. This would not do. She was functioning, but it was as though she were a wind-up doll. Time to take control, as she had when she’d first lost Jerome to this war. Well, the war was won. The Germans were retreating. They’d achieved nothing but nightmares, pain, fear, death and destruction across Europe, including Germany.

  Maybe this was the time for new beginnings . . . for all of them, and for her especially. She had slipped back into Épernay unannounced, looking for Charlie but also hoping not to see him, and hiding out in her attic, taking no food and worrying her household as she brought herself to fully face her pain and reach a truce with it. Finally, after two days, she had bathed, dressed, agreed to take a small breakfast of a sweet roll and jam, smiling thanks and hugging those around her, assuring them that she was feeling strong.

  ‘My husband was presumed dead just over a fortnight ago and I am resigned to it now. And nothing has changed with this news,’ she admitted to the small row of concerned people who stood in the parlour. ‘It simply reinforces what we have all had to accept.’

  ‘We’re all very sorry that it has reopened the wound, madame,’ said the housekeeper.

  Sophie smiled at her loyal staff. All had lost someone important. ‘We all share each other’s grief. Thank you for your kindness.’ Sophie didn’t want to ask about Charlie, even though the question was searching for a way out of her pressed lips. Instead she chased it away and found a sad smile. ‘Now it’s time for me to return to the cellars. Always plenty of work there.’

  Later that morning, she checked in with the kitchen team to show she was fully focused on being head of the house and overseeing its smooth running again.

  ‘Captain Charlie has been looking for you, madame,’ the cook mentioned as she turned to stir a pot on the stove. She had dutifully sent up food for the last couple of days and Sophie now had to swallow her guilt for refusing it.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Most days he asks about you,’ she added, still stirring.

  Sophie knew she wasn’t fooling her wise cook. Marie had been in the family for two decades, had known her since she was a girl, annoying the kitchen staff by trying to sneak a pastry before they’d cooled.

  It smelled like a rich vegetable soup was being cooked up for their large midday meal. Freshly baked bread from the flour Sophie had brought back with her scented the air. She blinked. ‘Well, that’s kind of him. I’m sure I’ll meet up with him.’

  ‘He mentioned that he works in the cellars each day with Adeline,’ Marie said over her shoulder, sounding casual but her gaze said otherwise. Sophie knew Marie had a soft spot for Charlie and would not be a critic should Sophie pursue a romantic relationship with the English captain.

  ‘I see. Well, thank you. I shall make sure to look for him.’

  She departed the house via its back entrance and headed down the pathway that framed the back garden towards the cellars. There was no sound of guns, no smell of cordite. This is how life used to be, she thought with a sense of wonder breaking through her sorrow as she began her descent into the labyrinth below.

  ‘What do I do now?’ she asked aloud, knowing the cellars listened; they’d been listening to her thoughts since she was a child wandering around them and singing rhymes or reciting her times tables. They’d listened to her when she was upset over what had felt like insurmountable problems at six and seven, but were in fact trivialities. They had heard her despair at losing Jerome and had held her close, reassured her, and helped to get her through these last few years. Although they never replied, the cellars gave her the space and, more importantly, the right frame of mind to think through her problems. And here she was, still walking these corridors, inhaling their mineral bouquet while listening for their soothing, silent advice.

  Charlie heard the gritty sound of footsteps but didn’t turn immediately; he imagined it was one of the other workers going about their business in this world underneath Épernay in which they spent so much of their lives.

  Sophie found him holding a lantern above his shoulder so he could light the cavernous space in this part of the Delancré cellars.

  ‘This section always struck me as having the quality of a chapel,’ she admitted, breaking the silence. It was the voice he’d been longing to hear but now that he did, a fresh surge of sadness began to tear at his resilience; he hoped he’d find the right words and stay true to his decision.

  ‘How are you, Charlie?’ she asked, as he turned.

  He removed his hand from the sling and surprised her by being able to open and close his fist. His fingers still felt stiff and no doubt appeared that way, but his hand was obeying most of his invisible commands, it seemed. ‘The exercises are helping,’ he remarked.

  She found a smile. ‘That’s good news, Charlie. I’m happy to hear it.’ She looked hollow, her complexion wan.

  ‘Sophie, have you been ill?’

  ‘I’ve been sad, Charlie. No sadder than anyone else living through this war but learning to handle the grief that is all mine.’

  He frowned. ‘Were you in Reims?’ It sounded accusatory. He couldn’t help that.

  ‘Yes.’ She glanced down, looking to him as though she did feel shame for her absence, but he watched her raise her chin, perhaps reminding herself that she did not have to answer to anyone for her actions, and certainly not to him.

  He simply nodded. Charlie had been told on countless occasions by a good number of people that he could be infuriating in his silence. He waited for her to speak.

  ‘It’s nice to see you,’ she said.

  He heard the hesitancy. ‘It’s nice to see you,’ he remarked pointedly, and they both regarded each other in an awkward pause. Do it, Charlie, he told himself. She’s suffered enough and so have you. ‘Listen, Sophie,’ he began more gently. ‘I waited for you because I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye properly.’

  She couldn’t hide her shock from him. ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘Gaston was right that I should be finding my people.’

  ‘The war is all but over. The Battle of Amiens made sure of it —’

  ‘I know, Sophie. But I have to say I feel awkward now. Every minute that I linger I am trespassing in another man’s footsteps.’

  ‘Charlie . . .’

  ‘Let me finish,’ he said softly. ‘Everything I hear about Jerome reiterates that you and he were meant to be. You were right to stop our affections going any further. I agree that what occurred in your attic could be viewed as a mistake, a misunderstanding, an error of judgement.’

  She impaled him with a gaze that told him he’d offended her. ‘It was none of those.’

  He opened his palms, pleased that his wounded hand obeyed. ‘Nonetheless, we can pretend because it will make it easier on my heart if you can go along with the notion that it was a reckless moment in which we forgot ourselves.’

  She nodded reluctantly.

  ‘I love you, Sophie, but I’m going to leave because each moment with you makes it harder. I should be honest and thank you for this enforced separation. It gave me time to think straight, get my thoughts organised for what feels like the first time in years . . . and my good sense has prevailed. I can only admire your decision, heartbreaking though it is for me, to hold out hope of finding Jerome and stay true to him. No soldier could ask for more from the woman he left behind, and maybe it’s that very notion that is keeping Jerome going in some hellhole somewhere, whether real or in his mind. And one day when he walks back into your life, we can silently thank each other for honouring him in this way.’ He nodded encouragingly, needing her to agree, needing her to accept it.

 
‘Charlie, Jerome is not coming home.’

  He watched her eyes glisten with tears that had not been there a moment ago. ‘Now why do you say that?’

  ‘Because it’s been confirmed.’

  He blinked, taking time to make sense of what she was saying. ‘Dead?’

  She flinched at the word. ‘His uniform and now his identification papers have been found, badly bloodstained. No doubt because of what happened between us, and so that I didn’t feel disloyal to Jerome after all these years, I put more pressure on the Red Cross for information, and here it is . . .’ Sophie pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. Her voice was unsteady. ‘I, er, wrote it down so I wouldn’t start to think I’d imagined it.’

  Charlie stared at her with pain in his gaze, his face crestfallen. The news might be hers but it profoundly affected him. His decision hadn’t changed – she was in no state to love another, but it made it so much harder to leave her. ‘What were you told?’

  She sniffed, wiped at her cheeks, but the tears still ran; she cleared her throat so she could speak. Her voice trembled slightly as she told him about where the items had been found, which was in the region where the poison gas had been unleashed, and their significance in terms of corroborating witness accounts. ‘Apparently, some were able to run as far as two miles – including Jerome, helping others as usual – before the gas overwhelmed them. Many corpses from his unit were found there.’ She sniffed again. ‘I don’t feel like reading any more.’

  ‘They have his body?’

  She shook her head. ‘But they did find his bloodied uniform and papers. I’ve been counselled not to hold out any further hope.’

  ‘You said he was helping others. The blood could be someone else’s,’ he tried.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, that was my counter too. But the authorities firmly believe him buried with so many others in the mud of Flanders. They are changing his status to “permanently lost”, another way of saying “killed in action”. And there will be no further investigation into Jerome.’ She seemed to tremble but her voice was steady. ‘They seem to have run out of patience with me . . . even Louis has refused to make another enquiry.’