The Olive Harvest (The Olive Series Book 3)

by Carol Drinkwater

  I hurriedly shoot off a couple of urgent e-mails and run to the bedroom to collect my handbag. There, I find that Michel has laid out three neat piles of clothes: several pairs of clean socks, trousers and jeans, half a dozen short-sleeved shirts all neatly arranged on the bed. I go outside and lean over the balustrade searching for him in the pool but the pool is deserted, its water crystal clear. Jacques has done an excellent job. I hasten down the steps that adjoin one of the outer walls of the house, looking for Michel. He is nowhere to be seen. I race round to the back of the house, scanning the grounds for Quashia, who I see at work, mixing up cement, in the vicinity of his shed. I look left and right for Michel, who may be guiding him, but I cannot spot him. I run up the stone steps that lead to the wooden cabin and Michel’s palm grove, behind Quashia’s chantier, his construction site, but there’s no sign of him. Back-tracking, I pause at Quashia’s level and step quickly across what was grass and has now been denuded and calloused by his work to ask after my husband.

  ‘Bonjour, Carol, what do you think?’

  The stone Quashia has been quarrying from our hillside to build his phenomenal wall is limestone and as porous as sponge. Centuries of lying submerged beneath our ochre-red soil has rendered it a glorious colour. As he drills, it splits quite naturally into chunks the size of small washbasins which have a luminous amber tint and, mounted, look mightily impressive. When the row of young fruit trees are in blossom, if they survive this onslaught, it should be a splendid sight. I consider a quip about the Great Wall of China and then decide to leave it.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Quashia – yes, it’s really coming together. Have you seen Michel?’

  He throws his spade to the ground, pulls out a handkerchief, wipes his brow, swabs beneath his hat and strides in his brogues to embrace me. Arms outstretched, I note that he is wearing rubber kitchen gloves: one Robin Hood green and the other livid pink. ‘He was up here a while ago. He wanted to go back over the measurements and placings for the pillars before he leaves—’

  ‘Leaves?’ I holler, and hurry away.

  ‘Carol, when you pass by the builders’ merchants can you pick up another dozen bags of cement and twenty cartridges of ten-centimetre metal roll for the wooden beams?’

  I nod, without turning back. ‘Tomorrow, Monsieur Quashia. Can’t today.’

  I eventually find Michel in the garage, rummaging through shelves straining under the weight of old scripts and programme flyers and floor space packed with stacks of rubbish and boxes and containers and tools and machines, not to mention Quashia’s gallimaufry of gizmos and rainy-day magpie-pickings. Looking for what?

  ‘What are you doing?’ I quiz, fighting to keep any nuance of accusation out of my voice.

  ‘Searching for the leather suitcase. The sooner that wretched shed of Quashia’s is finished the better. This place is worse than a jumble sale.’

  The leather suitcase.

  Michel and I travel so frequently we have acquired between us a veritable collection of luggage – overnight bags, computer holdalls, tote bags, weekend cases, briefcases, Gladstones, little wheely numbers for carting scripts and video cassettes without breaking our backs – but we own just the one leather case between us. It is a very capacious and rather impractical object and is dragged out only for long-haul, long-stay trips.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I need it.’ Dust is rising and settling, displaced objects are slamming to the floor, dropping around my husband, the world’s tidiest man. He straightens up and looks about him, not in disgust, that is not his style, but dismay. ‘We will have to do something about all this. Have you seen it?’

  ‘It’s next door, in the central-heating cave.’

  ‘What is it doing there?’ he calls as he makes his way past the open door, hanging by its last-remaining hinge, into the underground rock cave where our antediluvian heating system, which is crying out for a service, lives. Spotting the case instantly, he extracts it from beneath the sheets and mattresses that are meant to be protecting the detachable hard top of my wrecked coupé, knocking over a saucer of rat poison in the process. ‘What are you going to do about this?’ He points at the roof.

  ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t given it a thought. Is it important? Where are you going?’

  Michel carries the suitcase outside into the sun and tosses it on to the tarmac. A cloud of dust rises as he goes in search of a sponge and cleaning materials. I stand near the luggage, by the garage, dazed; dazed by events, dazed by the sun, blinded by its light – my sunglasses are in the house. I do not know what to say. This man who yesterday seemed to have been stunned into comatose silence is now chugging through the morning as though it were he who had been fitted with the new battery. And where is he going?

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To work.’

  ‘Work? Do you mean Paris?’

  ‘Let’s not discuss it.’

  ‘Why not? Michel, it is only a few days since—’

  ‘Carol, I have to go back to work and I don’t want a debate about it.’ And with that he picks up the empty case, carries it round to the covered walkway that skirts the pool, up the exterior stairs and into the house. I am flummoxed. And a little frightened. I decide to leave him, but I am now deliberating about my planned excursion to Monte Carlo. Perhaps I should forget it for this morning. Instead, I could nip round to the builders’ merchants for Quashia and see how Michel is when I return. That is what I decide to do. I retrace my steps, following the same route Michel has just taken to the upper part of the house but, as I am entering the front door, I spy him on the verandah leaning against the table we ate dinner at yesterday evening. Beyond him, in the lower-middle yonder, the skyline resembles a turbulent seascape with its blackening clouds and streaking fire scars.

  Michel’s back is to me, his head lowered. I hesitate. Should I continue on into the house or should I go to him? I choose to go to him. I approach gingerly and pause about five yards behind him, hovering there. He doesn’t appear to be aware of me. His head remains bent. Is he in distress? Might the view beyond equate to the chaos in his mind?

  ‘Michel, listen, I know there are financial difficulties, but—’ That is it, that is all I manage before he pivots a 180-degree turn with a force, a missile of emotion, the like of which I have never witnessed from him before. Then he bends, lifts up a chair, an ordinary wooden garden chair, over his shoulders and hurls it. It spins and flies over the balustraded railing, falling to the terrace beneath us where it lands, splintering into pieces, sending the dogs scurrying in terror, leaving its metal frame to roll and rest in contortion.

  I step back, horrified. Now I really am afraid.

  In our years together, since we first met in Australia, we have fought only twice. Bickered, of course. Disagreed on many occasions. But physical outbursts are not tools or recourses of Michel’s. He is a man who is never violent, never drives his negative emotions over the edge, unlike me, with my actress’s sensibilities. I stare at him, longing to go to him, to hold him, to protect him and heal him, but I dare not. Because I don’t know where this is leading. I don’t recognise this person here in front of me. And because I am inept.

  Slowly, he sinks into one of the three remaining chairs, a worn-out man. I move in a little closer.

  ‘I am due to attend an international television festival at the end of next week. It is an excellent opportunity, catchment, for the series I have just completed. There will be many clients in attendance. I cannot sit here and let this opportunity ride by. My company needs the sales. I must go to Paris and prepare my papers.’

  ‘Can’t someone – Isobel? – represent you?’ Michel has two women working for him in Paris.

  ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘Where is it being held?’

  ‘The Philippines.’

  I step swiftly to the table and settle at his side, opening up the parasol as I do so, to protect us, him, from the sun. The heat is crucifying.

  ‘I k
now that nothing ever stops you from what you are set on doing; certainly not me,’ I tease, resting a hand on one of his, noticing how cold his fingers are. ‘And I don’t want to sound like a nag, but you have a head injury. The flight to Paris would be risky, air pressure and all that, but what is it, seventeen hours, to the Philippines? Please be realistic. Whatever professional difficulties you are facing, you heard what the doctor said.’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Michel, you are not well enough to endure such a journey. I won’t let you leave. If you want to give me your address book I can send faxes to your clients or Isobel can contact them.’ Still no response. ‘I was planning to collect your car later. Why don’t you come along and we could pop into the hospital, see what the doc—’

  ‘I’m going to lie down.’

  Quashia is calling. Michel disappears inside.

  Walking round the back of the house, the protected side, I pass Lucky and Bassett. They are suspended upside down, slumped against the cream walls, clinging to the shade like expiring insects. Monsieur Q. tells me that he cannot work in this heat and that he will stop now. I nod, barely listening. ‘I’ll start earlier and work in the evenings but noontime is out of the question. I’ve never known heat like this.’

  ‘Whatever works best for you.’ I pat him on his woolly hat and we both grin. ‘What are you wearing this for? It’s stifling. Why don’t you get yourself a boater?’

  ‘Or a pith helmet! This one’s moulded to my crown now; it fits me. How’s Michel? Is he leaving?’ He reads my troubled eyes.

  ‘I hope not.’ I turn my head. Below, I hear the phone ringing.

  ‘He should rest. You both should. Zipping about like fireflies.’

  ‘I must get that. It’ll disturb him. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Don’t forget my shopping!’

  By the time I reach the house Michel has answered the phone. It is the first call he has intercepted since the accident. I find him replacing the receiver.

  ‘You could have left it, I would—’

  ‘The answer machine was off.’

  ‘Sorry. Who was it?’

  ‘The olive people in Marseille. Apparently they sent a letter requesting an inspection of the trees this coming Monday.’

  ‘Yes, I forgot to mention it. I … what did you say?’

  ‘I told them to confirm it. The controller will be with us by midday.’

  I take this in. Michel always deals with these matters. ‘Does this mean that you …?’

  ‘I’ll stay over the weekend and take care of this interview – it sounded important and we are so close to gaining our AOC status – and then I’ll see how I feel on Monday afternoon. If I’m a bit stronger, I’ll leave for Paris in the evening.’

  I breathe a heavy sigh of relief for the few days’ respite.

  It is Monday, eight days since our accident. Although Michel’s business trip to the Philippines has not been mentioned again, I am worrying that he might still decide to take off. I am returning from Monte Carlo with the old Mercedes. My mind on my wounded man, I have overshot our exit from the motorway. Having sailed by the turn-off for Cannes, followed by Cannes La Bocca, chugged past Fayence, I am well into the Var district before I come to my senses. In the rearview mirror, I see the outline of an imposing mulberry mountain. Even with my inaccurate sense of direction I know that what is being reflected back to me cannot be a sketch of the Alps. And then it dawns on me: yet another fire, somewhere back our way. I trundle on as fast as this old bus will manage until I find a slip road, then I swing the car, lumbersome without power steering, to the right, hugging an orbital carriageway, circling two roundabouts until eventually I negotiate my way back to the motorway, travelling now in the opposite direction.

  I am growing anxious, having been absent from home for too long.

  To the left I see a column of flames. They must be 15 metres high. A fire is raging on the crest of a hill. The sky overhead is red-raw as though the heavens are being roasted. Aircraft scud in from the south, crating water from the Med, poppling the vegetation, volplaning to the scene of disaster. A motorway emergency signal is flashing ‘Danger!’ and informing travellers that the prochaine sortie, the next exit, has been closed off; fires are obstructing passage.

  My nerves remain unsteady. This old car doesn’t have much stuffing left in it. I gird myself, push hard on the gas pedal, desperate to be home before I find myself ensnared.

  As I draw close to the next exit, I see the tailback of stationary traffic. It must be 100 metres long. Folk are pressed up against their idling vehicles, hands shielding eyes blinded by light and panic, transfixed by the galloping conflagration, dragging hard on cigarettes, frantic to quit this scene, to be on their way. Are they gazing upon their own homesteads?

  I press on, glancing fearfully at the charcoaling hills. The flames are drawing closer, threatening the motorway. I switch on the radio, twiddling, pressing, slapping knobs, searching for any local station, but all I receive is a high-pitched whistle. I switch it off.

  Concentrate on getting home.

  When I arrive at the farm, it is after midday. I am frazzled, soaked with sweat and trembling. The controller from the central olive office in Marseille has arrived. Michel has installed him at our long wooden table by the pool. I find them there, sheltered beneath the large parasol and the overhang of the Magnolia grandiflora.

  We shake hands. Yet again I am taken aback by the figure who has been thrown up in our yard. A controller of finances working for a government body? His shoulder-length hair and the two silver earrings pierced into his left ear belie what I at first read to be a rigorous attention to detail and an obsession with figures.

  ‘You must have driven through the fires, monsieur?’

  He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Shocking, shocking. All along the route there were fire engines. On the outskirts of Marseille, I passed three caravans of them. The first had eight trucks, then another with nine and the last had six. Later, as I came closer, six kilometres, well, almost seven actually, after the slip road for traffic approaching from the A57, I spied two more convoys of ten trucks each. Forty-three fire engines in total, madame. I understand the government has called for assistance from the Pyrenées where, although the weather is warm, it is cooler. The problems are not as acute and to my knowledge there have been no incidents of arson there this year. The fire service in Toulouse is in a position to send up to as many as twenty-eight fire engines, plus manning crews which could total one hundred and eighty-seven men.’ As he talks he is unpacking his briefcase on to the table, lining up four slender piles of papers. He considers these and then divides one of the piles into two and realigns all five so that they are equally spaced out in front of him. Out comes a biro, a rubber and a pencil. Then a calculator. He shuffles these to and fro, rearranging them to better suit his eye. Once more he burrows about inside his briefcase, delivering a pencil-sharpener to the game plan. Now he exhales, satisfied. ‘Très bien, shall we attack the paperwork first?’

  Michel has uncorked a bottle of rosé. The barometer is reading 34 degrees centigrade. I glance quickly at Monsieur, certain that here is a man who will not look kindly on the imbibing of alcohol during business meetings, particularly out of doors in the heat. I intervene swiftly. ‘I think monsieur might prefer water, n’est-ce pas?’ After all, this fellow has a two-hour drive back to Marseille. Without waiting for his response I scuttle off to the summer kitchen and return armed with a choice of chilled and ambient-temperature bottles of San Pellegrino and Badoit. ‘Or would you like still water? Perhaps you take ice? Or lemon squash instead?’

  Our accounts controller glances at the various mineral waters on offer in my arms, then studies the glasses laid out before him on the table. Three wine glasses and three tumblers. He thrums his fingers against his papers and then thoughtfully moves his tumbler slightly to the left of him, drawing his wine goblet closer.

  ‘Erm, yes a little water, of course, but I’ll
have a glass of rosé as well. Why not? Your husband has gone to the trouble of opening it.’

  ‘Will you join us, chérie?’ asks Michel.

  I shake my head. ‘Not unless you need me.’ I am still a little churned up by my journey and am keen to get inside out of the sun.

  ‘Madame, before you leave us, I will require you to sign each set of these forms, if that is not too much trouble.’

  ‘Of course not.’ I sit down and pour myself and both men glasses of water.

  Monsieur sips his drink and turns his attention to Michel. ‘Shall we begin with the paperwork, get that out of the way and then we can pass along to the business of the trees. Will you not accompany me in a soupçon of rosé, monsieur?’

  Michel pours himself three-quarters of a glass. I shoot him a glance. I have no idea what if any of the tranquillisers or painkillers he has swallowed today. I take comfort in the fact that the answer is probably none, given Michel’s aversion to medicines. I am still not quite sure what the purpose of this meeting is and I wonder if Michel, during my absence, has managed to find out. Dare I ask?

  Monsieur, who has already downed his glass of rosé, lifts his pen and begins with the first set of forms. ‘Name?’

  Michel patiently repeats our names. For a reason that I can no longer remember we are registered with the olive bodies under our two individual names, not under the umbrella of the married one, and this seems to bother the controller.

  ‘This is regrettable, monsieur; it could entail another set of forms,’ he concludes fretfully. Michel raises the bottle and positions it over Monsieur’s glass. ‘Yes, thank you, I don’t mind if I do. Two surnames, not one …’

  The hitch involving two names is then dealt with in a jiffy and we move on, but I cannot help feeling that the questions he is posing are ground that has been trodden and retrodden on numerous occasions in the past. Michel looks exhausted. I find myself losing patience as this fellow downs yet another glass of rosé and painstakingly fills out in spidery little writing line after line of tedious data.