He did take a step towards her now and she allowed him to wrap his arms around her as she sobbed.
He heard her voice muffled against his chest. Forbidding himself to read anything more into this moment of affection, he let her speak on. ‘On an intellectual level, I knew he had to be gone . . . After more than three years, I would have heard if he were alive, or in a hospital, or prison. But you know, my heart just wouldn’t let go.’
He didn’t comment but simply held her tightly.
‘So please don’t go just yet, Charlie. Just a few days. I could use your friendship right now.’
He pulled away, knowing his expression showed how torn he was. ‘I’ll stay until harvest is complete.’
‘Thank you for waiting a little longer.’
He blew out a tightly held breath; he desperately wanted to comfort her with affection, with a kiss, but knew it was a complication she might not welcome. ‘Come on. Shall we walk? I know you love your cellars, but breathe some of the fresh air of your vineyards.’
Charlie felt trapped in a stalemate as they walked. The affection they had once felt – which he still felt – had been put on an imaginary shelf for the good of them both. It would be hard for him to explain it to anyone else, but he knew Sophie understood how they were able to do this. Certainly for him, the desire had not waned. All she had to do was perhaps look at him in her soft way and he would deliver up his heart, his life, all over again. He suspected this sensible armistice of theirs wouldn’t, perhaps couldn’t, last and he was glad there was a deadline on it. Just a week or so more.
They were seated in the nearby vineyard of chardonnay, its grapes gone, crushed, now fermenting in barrels until the following spring, when they would be woken up to the winemaker’s magic that would turn the wine into champagne. Meanwhile Sophie’s workers were busy in other fields gathering the fruit from vines that were more patient.
They were sharing a bottle of champagne from 1915; both knew it would be their last private time together, so Sophie had decided to open a bottle to mark their farewell.
‘What do you taste?’ Charlie asked, keen to break the spell of misery and forbidden love.
‘Grief,’ she said, and he didn’t think she was being flippant.
‘Nineteen-fifteen was a horrible year in both our lives.’
She nodded. ‘Champagne is best drunk at a party or when one is in a good mood. It loves happiness. It should taste like falling in love. It should make its drinker feel light-headed quickly but in a good way, as though intoxicated by life in the moment of the joyous sparkle of its first sip.’
‘Like a first kiss?’ He was disgusted that he’d let the remark slip out.
Sophie smiled, fielding it as though it hadn’t felt like a barb. ‘Like dozens of kisses with someone you can’t resist being with.’ She returned to the champagne quickly. ‘This is not our best. I swear I can taste gunpowder in it.’
He changed topics. ‘How is Gaston?’
‘I haven’t heard from him.’
‘I have no doubt he is stretched thinly at present. He’ll be back in your life soon. What about Louis?’
‘Angry and ignoring me for now. That too will change, I’m sure. I’m going to miss you, Charlie.’
He shook his head, refused to be drawn into it. ‘Tell me about the wine from this vineyard. It can be my final tutorial with you.’
Sophie’s gaze rested on him for longer than was comfortable, and it was Charlie who demurred. She spoke into the silence. ‘I told you, she’s a goddess with several personalities depending on where she grows. She’s too important to be kept waiting, which is why we harvest her first.’
‘Go on.’ He plucked a grape and casually crunched it to release its juices and his eyes widened.
‘Sweet, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he said, his tone filled with wonder. ‘Surprisingly so.’
‘Most people think the grapes we eat at our tables are sweeter, but this is a fallacy. And did you note how thick the skin is?’
He nodded.
‘Full of flavour, which is why we cultivate grapes specifically to become wine.’
He spat out the pips. ‘How many grapes do you need for a glass of champagne?’
She laughed; it was a delicious sound, he decided. ‘It doesn’t follow that way,’ she said, shaking her head at him.
‘Approximately,’ he encouraged her.
Sophie shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘Perhaps a typical cluster . . . there, like that one we’ve missed picking.’
‘And so, this goddess . . .?’
‘Well, as you can tell, she is sweet when she is ripe.’
He nodded.
‘She is also capricious.’
‘In what way?’
‘She teases. She can be delicate at times – a terrible flirt.’ She grinned. ‘But she can take on flavours that can astound, depending on terroir . . . er, do you understand this term?’
He frowned. ‘The soil?’
‘Yes, the landscape. Where she grows. What is growing around here?’ She emphasised this by pointing to the earth, a dark red as though it had absorbed the blood of the fallen. ‘What is flavouring this soil?’ she insisted. ‘Chardonnay can be neutral and simply absorb, then throw back flavours from terroir as significant as those erupting from the skills of the champagne maker and what he or she adds or balances those flavours with. She can be austere – lots of minerality. I want to say she tastes like the swipe of a steel sword.’
He gusted a laugh. ‘The picture in my mind is brilliant when you describe it like that.’
‘Or she can be fruity, like crunching into a fresh apple. Best of all, with one hundred per cent chardonnay you are almost certainly going to achieve a very dry, crisp, citrussy experience. Imagine rubbing the skin of lemon – that’s what you get.’
‘She has no characteristics of her own?’
‘Ah, no. That would be wrong to presume. I said she can be neutral. She isn’t always. Sometimes she’s bold, and will deliberately confuse us with something jammy like apricot, or astound us with a spicy anise, even ginger.’
He laughed. ‘How can that be?’
‘You should be seriously impressed with this grape,’ Sophie said, playfully wagging a finger. ‘She is a chameleon.’
‘I can tell you are impressed.’
‘I love her . . . She encourages me to step away from all that has gone before, to snub tradition – to ignore the people like my father, my grandfather, his father, and so many through the decades. She wants me to disregard all the expertise we have in Épernay and have followed through the passage of time . . .’
‘And do what?’
‘Be a rebel, as Jerome always hoped I would be with my wine. She wants me to make my own champagne entirely from her grapes. She doesn’t believe we need the others. It’s why he grew me that whole vineyard of chardonnay as a wedding gift.’
The chemist in him was aroused, his interest piqued by someone daring to step away from the known and trusted. ‘What would happen if you did?’
She smiled thoughtfully. ‘I would be relying on the capricious nature of this grape for a vintage. It could mean an entire wasted crop: a year of work for everyone involved . . . all the toil, effort, ingredients and —’
‘Why haven’t you tried it?’
‘I think I prefer to dream it. I’m scared of the reality.’
‘All right, explain to me then why is this important to you, other than the obvious reasons of flavour you’ve described?’
‘Well, the beauty for me is that it needs less sugar and that means less interference. She and I would have a relationship based entirely on trust. She would trust me to pick her at the right time, crush her gently, extract her juices quickly, knowing in my heart,’ she said, placing a hand across her chest, ‘that she knows what to do next. And then I would hand over all the trust to her to do just that – to ferment as she inherently knows how. You tasted her sweet ripeness. I feel she could do it alone,
but if she needed me – and I would be with her all the way – I could always help by balancing. You see, we would be like a perfect pair of acrobats, balancing each other and flying through the air on trust.’
He whistled his praise. ‘You must do this.’
‘Until the start of war, I suppose I was mindful of Jerome’s fields, his hard work, our very limited chardonnay.’
‘No, you’ve just said this is what he encouraged . . . what he wanted for you to achieve.’
‘He was a generous man, but his grapes were like his children. He would never see them abused or taken for granted . . . or used on a whim.’
‘Come on, Sophie . . . surely?’
‘Chardonnay is precious. We couldn’t spare them for my hobby . . . for an experiment.’
‘Promise me you will create this champagne one day.’
She pushed him affectionately. ‘I promise.’
He felt such an urge to kiss her but instead he walked away, determined not to go where he’d sworn he never would again.
He wanted to entwine hands like the tangled vines around them, growing not in neat rows but haphazardly. The scientist in him wanted order: straight rows, neatly tied-up vines. Perhaps. Generations of knowledge meant doing it this way and he should not interfere. He resisted taking her hand. ‘Tell me about this year’s wine needing to be made.’
‘Well, now, my private dream aside, let me say the three traditional grapes are all queens in their own right. I have elevated chardonnay – my favourite – to goddess status but all should be acknowledged as their majesties.’
He chuckled. ‘And I’m guessing each with their own special gift to bring to the final dazzling wine.’
‘Exactly,’ she encouraged him, eyes sparkling like the champagne she made. ‘When the balance is perfect you taste the perfection of three different queens, combining to form one whole glass of majesty.’
‘I want to learn. Describe them for me.’
‘You know chardonnay intimately now – you have tasted her, you have a feeling about her. Let me test you. If we discount winter, because winter is when the landscape slumbers and my vineyard will relax into his waiting arms to sleep . . . Ah, yes,’ she said quickly, noticing him about to interrupt. ‘I see the landscape as a “he”. He embraces the three majesties. He looks after them. He is their knight . . . their lover . . . their protector.’
Sophie, his love for her, her voice, her stories . . . they were winning his internal war to return to life and sunlight, no longer those dark thoughts from the trenches. Could she possibly know how much he needed her or how hard it was going to be to leave her in a week or so?
He let her speak on over his sad thoughts. ‘So, with winter left aside, we have three seasons. If you were to attribute one season to chardonnay, which would it be?’ She had a hungry look on her face as she posed her question, clearly desperate for him to choose the right one. ‘This is not, how you say, a trick question . . . but what do you feel?’ Sophie put a hand on the left side of his chest. ‘This is how I make champagne: with emotion, with my heart.’
Charlie took a slow breath. He wanted to get this right for her. Chardonnay. The grape, he recalled, had exploded with sweetness, but the sweetness wasn’t so overpowering that he couldn’t taste the other element Sophie had mentioned: that crispy apple, and its citrussy element.
‘Think about the colour you tasted, Charlie,’ she urged. She handed him a grape. ‘Taste again.’
He crunched the grape and the first colour that leapt into his mind was green; he explored it, knowing she’d insist, and decided it was a muted green, like a new apple still filling out into its fecund shape. But then he tasted the sun, not rich and bright, but like the early warmth of morning – yellow mingling with the silvery, steely sensation of the moon’s memory. This was not summer or autumn. ‘Spring,’ he said, and wanted to hold his breath. Please let me be right, he cast out, feeling as though this was the most important test of his inner self that had ever been presented to him.
She squealed pleasure. ‘Charlie, my Charlie. Yes! She is spring.’
‘Now you describe the woman she is,’ he demanded. ‘Good grief, that was exhausting,’ he admitted quickly, blowing out an exaggerated breath. ‘I was terrified to get it wrong.’
‘There is no wrong . . . it’s like art. It’s what you feel and see and experience when you taste. But I’m glad you share the same vision as I.’ She looked radiant in her pleasure. ‘The woman who lurks in this juice is chic. You know this word?’
He nodded.
‘She is an accomplished woman . . . she is as good at tennis as she is well-read. So she’s sporty but also loves art, the classics, and yet she is avant-garde in her manner. She can breeze into a party and entertain everyone and then she is gone.’
‘Where?’
‘To the next party, of course!’ Sophie said, as though appalled he couldn’t guess. ‘She has an ethereal quality to her. You can watch her but don’t touch – she is unreachable; there for you but not entirely. Does that make sense?’
‘It does, actually.’ You are chardonnay, Sophie, he thought, watching her become passionate and abandoned because they were talking about champagne – not war, not love lost, not misery, but pure joy.
‘Next we have pinot noir. Here is a grape that brings to the champagne her directness. She is spontaneous and can be fun, but she can have a sharp edge – don’t take this woman for granted. She is mature . . . she is a mother and therefore she is strong.’
‘Her colour?’
‘This queen is all shades of red, from the brightest scarlet to the darkest maroon. Always warm, and so with that comes the potential for her unpredictable temper that needs calming.’
‘Her season?’
‘What do you think?’ Sophie asked.
‘Well, for the fieriest of our majesties, I would have to say summer.’
‘You would be right.’ She smiled. ‘Summer storms.’
‘Damn, but I love talking with you, Sophie. I could sit here against this plum tree for the rest of my life, and if all I could have were your voice and stories about your grapes, it would be enough.’
She turned to stroke his stubbly cheek. ‘How many women’s hearts have you won with that sort of talk?’
He demurred. ‘I think most women consider me a scoundrel.’
‘“Scoundrel”?’ I don’t know this word.’
‘Well, they think of me as someone who isn’t around for the long term.’
‘But they fall in love with you all the same.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Charlie, you don’t have to. Every nurse in Reims wanted to care for you. You are a handsome man, but you hurt inside. You hurt before the war . . . I think the war gave you the right excuse to unleash your pain.’
He looked at her, not knowing what to say. She saw all of him; Sophie was not just the first woman but the first person who seemed to understand him. No wonder his shattered mind had repaired itself and returned from that void for her. She was a reason for any man to return.
‘We have one woman of champagne left,’ he said, lost for how to respond to her insight.
‘We do. We have meunier. Now, she’s our friendly, loving woman – the grandmother. She’s got fancy jewels in her possession, earned over time. However, she doesn’t always wear them with a lot of taste.’
Charlie gave a bright laugh. ‘She needs chardonnay and pinot noir to know which jewels to show off.’
‘Exactly! This woman owns the ochres, beiges and browns so she gives us a lovely backdrop for the brighter colours. She is our autumn. Mellow but not without strength, and perfectly capable of being lively as much as she is welcoming. She brings roundness, softness where needed.’
‘And so traditionally the champagne makers only use these three grapes?’
‘They worship them. They must balance them, though.’
‘And you, you rebel, you want to break free of all that tradition to the three
queens.’
‘And pay homage to only one . . . yes.’
‘You will.’
‘I fear her.’
‘You are already making champagne that people revere. You know what to do, how to do it . . . you feel it here.’ He banged his chest over his heart.
‘And still I haven’t tested my theory.’
‘Because that takes risk. And you have spent your life being reliable, I’m guessing. Everyone here relies on you and trusts you. But why not take the chance of being wrong? Letting them down, letting yourself down? Dare to fail, Sophie . . . and I suspect in that gamble you may just win.’
She looked helplessly buoyed by his rousing words, stood up and offered a hand to haul him up. ‘I will think on this, Charlie. I’m closer now than I’ve ever been to taking that risk, especially now that Jerome is gone. Maybe next year in peacetime when my chardonnay feels no fear from bombs or fire or frightened vineyard workers.’ She sighed. ‘Charlie, I know this is us saying goodbye. We’ve just not said the word “farewell”. Instead may I hug you without . . .?’
He nodded and sighed into their embrace. They held each other without changing the pressure, without trying to communicate anything more than all that had already been spoken. The embrace said everything anyway.
He risked kissing her head, hard and briefly, hoping the misty gaze he was looking through would clear before she noticed. He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll write.’
‘I hope you do.’
They regarded each other awkwardly. She had no one, he had no one, and now the loathsome brother stood between them. He wished he could find the courage to suggest she wait – hold Louis off and he would come back in a year to see how she might be feeling, but he didn’t. The line had been drawn; only Sophie could cross it and change their future.
‘And I’m hoping that the champagne you make this year . . . from last year’s crush —’ he pulled a face that suggested he hoped he was getting that right; he was, because she gave him an appreciative nod — ‘is one of triumph. For France, for Épernay, for House Delancré. I will search it out in England.’ There was a pause that didn’t feel right and she looked crestfallen. ‘What’s wrong?’
The Champagne War Page 28