The French for Always

by Fiona Valpy

  Sara held hers up appreciatively. ‘Proper glasses too, I’m impressed!’

  ‘But of course. Only a philistine would drink such a wine as this from plastic. Santé!’

  He tore a generous chunk from the baguette and put it on one of the plates, handing it to Sara. ‘Sers-toi,’ he urged.

  Suddenly ravenous, Sara spread a thick slice of pâté onto the bread and bit into it. She hadn’t felt much like eating since Gavin left, and in any case it hardly seemed worth the effort to cook anything for one. Funny how congenial company is by far the best seasoning for any meal, she reflected.

  ‘So you were taking your father to the airport?’ she prompted.

  ‘Yes, he’s off to England for a few days. At the age of nearly eighty he’s found himself a lady friend there. C’est génial! I haven’t seen him on such good form since my mother left him fifteen years ago. He’s learning to play Bridge and drink tea. It’s given him a whole new lease of life.’

  ‘And your mother? Do you see her often?’

  ‘Oui, de temps en temps,’ he shrugged. ‘But she’s often busy with her stepfamily. She remarried you see. Her husband’s a dentist in Bordeaux, retired now of course.’ Sara nodded sympathetically: she knew all about stepfamilies, having two of her own. ‘She doesn’t like coming back to the farm. A guilty conscience, I suppose. The vigneronne’s life was never really for her; she’s a city girl at heart. She was always restless living here in the countryside.’

  Something in the way he said this made Sara glance at his face, trying to read his expression. ‘So are you more like your father or your mother, do you think?’ she asked, sipping her wine.

  He sighed. ‘Honestly? In my heart of hearts I suspect there’s a lot of her in me. My brother, Robert, is just like our father. He’s a wine farmer through and through. Papa always says wine runs in our veins in the Cortini family. His own father came here from Italy to work in the vineyard and then fell in love with the daughter of the owner of Château de la Chapelle. So our family’s link with winemaking goes back generations. But I don’t think I have the same commitment to it that Robert does.’

  ‘But you don’t enjoy your job? You’re very good at it.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. Just that...’ he paused, and threw a few crumbs of bread-crust into the water, enticing a flurry of tiny silver fishes to the surface.

  Sara sat still, gazing at the river, giving him time.

  ‘Well, it’s just that I feel there’s a whole wide world out there that I’d like to explore.’ His eyes shone as he turned to look at her, his face lighting up. ‘I have—how do you say it in English?—the feet that itch. Up until now, though, I’ve always been tied to the farm, having to be there to support my brother, who loves his vines and making the wine, but detests having to sell it.’

  He offered Sara a creamy triangle of Brie and topped up her glass.

  ‘But now things are changing,’ he continued, his eyes still shining with a new expression of hope. ‘Gina Thibault, the wife of a friend of mine, is helping to sell our wines and she has good links to the UK market. Sales are booming, so my job is much easier. With more money coming in, I may be able to start making some trips abroad. Try to develop new markets. And, if it continues to go well, I could take time off to go travelling. I’m planning on starting early next year. By next spring I should be out of here. Who knows, I might even find somewhere I love and live overseas for a while. It will broaden my horizons, for sure.’

  ‘Sounds great!’ Sara grinned at him. ‘It’s funny... Your dream is to leave here to travel the world. And my dream was to move here to see a bit more of the world. I suppose adventures must always depend on your starting point in life.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Thomas handed Sara a perfectly ripe peach and she sliced into it, the sweet juice pooling on her plate. ‘Will you continue with your business here in France on your own?’

  Sara shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. All I can think about at the moment is getting through the next few weeks to the end of the season. Once the weddings are finished for the year, I should have more time to take stock. It’ll depend, too, on what Gavin does next. If he wants his money out of the business then I’ll have no choice but to sell the château.’ She was careful to keep her tone light, but surprised herself with the dawning realisation that she didn’t want to have to sell after all.

  ‘And how would you feel about that?’ What was it with this man? He seemed to be able to read her thoughts; the real, deep-down, essence-of-Sara thoughts, not just the ones she chose to present on the surface.

  She hesitated, watching a leaf swirl slowly by on the surface of the water, considering another throwaway reply to try to deflect him. But something about Thomas’s own honesty made her decide to let down her guard.

  ‘Actually, I’d be gutted. At first I thought I just wanted rid of it—too many associations with Gavin and the way he’s treated me. But it’s funny, having got through that last wedding without him, I now realise how much I love this place: too much to give it up without a fight. All that hard work... and I still have plans for the garden that I’d like to see through. I feel Château Bellevue somehow deserves to be given an elegant setting that’s worthy of its history—not that I know much about it, but, living there, I get the sense that very many lives lived before us and, hopefully, many more to come down the years. I suppose it makes me aware of how transient we are, while the rocks and the stones remain. I’d like to make my mark here. Leave something behind when I’m gone.’ She turned and smiled at him. ‘Sorry, I’m wittering. That’s what comes of plying me with wine at lunchtime!’

  He shook his head. ‘No. It makes sense. And you’re right; rumour has it that all sorts of things have taken place there over the centuries. The previous owners claimed just about every king and queen from Henri the second and Eleanor of Aquitaine onwards slept there at one time or another. There’s even rumoured to be a secret tunnel, full of ghosts, that runs from this very mill up to the cellars of the château!’ He opened his eyes wide, in mock fear.

  ‘How exciting. I’ll have to look out for that,’ Sara laughed.

  ‘Actually there could be some truth in it. The limestone around here is honeycombed with caves. In Saint Emilion they’ve got a whole church underground. And you’ve probably heard of Lascaux, over past Bergerac, where there are caverns full of fabulous prehistoric cave paintings. Look,’ he pointed to where a small stable-door was set into the rock face behind them. ‘They’ve even got their own small cave here. There are no prehistoric paintings in it though, just their lawnmower!’

  Sara told him about finding the Nazi jacket in the wall at the cottage (although she carefully edited out the bit about throwing the wrench at Gavin’s head) and he nodded slowly, thinking. ‘I did hear something about the château being occupied by Germans in the war. There are many such stories around here, although they are seldom told. It is really a time that people would rather forget. So many terrible things happened. It was complicated, being an occupied country, and it tore communities apart. You English have the luxury of not having been subjected to that. It’s probably difficult for you to understand.’ Thomas shrugged and smiled, signifying a change of subject, closing down that particular conversation in the way people usually did around these parts.

  He clambered to his feet, brushing off a few crumbs, and held out a hand to her. ‘Come! It’s time to have a go at walking on water.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sara looked towards the top of the weir, a line along which the deep-flowing brown river water suddenly transformed itself into a rushing sheet of shallow white rapids which swept down the slope into the more peaceful pool in front of them. ‘You surely don’t think I’m going to walk across that?’

  He grinned, hauling her to her feet. ‘Come on, it’s perfectly safe.’

  He led her across a little bridge of turf-capped stones and on to a small island between the sluice channel and the river. They kicked off their shoes, l
eaving them at the foot of a broad-trunked oak tree, and Thomas stepped down onto the top of the weir. Long strands of golden-green weed trailed just under the surface of the water like mermaids’ hair. Sara hesitated, then took the hand Thomas was holding out to her and stepped, gingerly, into the water. She’d expected the stones to be slippery, but the weed formed a rough mat which her feet gripped easily. The rushing water was shallow, scarcely up to her ankles, and refreshingly cool. She relished the feeling of the hot sun on her arms and the cold, clear water flowing over her feet.

  They walked out, slowly, into the middle of the stream, titanium-blue dragonflies hovering about them. One landed on her bare shoulder, light as a wish, resting there for a moment before launching itself once more into the rainbow-filled air over the weir.

  In the centre of the river, they stopped, the stones firm under their feet, a deep brown pool on one side of them and the frothing slope on the other, where the mermaids’ hair disappeared beneath a foaming bridal veil. As the water gushed around them and under them, Sara turned to face Thomas with an expression of pure delight. ‘Oh! It’s wonderful! Thank you for showing me this.’

  He looked into her eyes. ‘Here’s to adventures, wherever we may find them.’ And then, for a fleeting second, his lips brushed hers, as light as the touch of a dragonfly’s wing.

  Before she had time to respond (or even to think what the correct response should be) he turned and, with a whoop, leapt into the deep brown pool above the weir, disappearing beneath the water.

  ‘Thomas!’ she cried, frantically scanning the river. ‘Thomas!’

  He resurfaced upstream, five long seconds later, his hair sleek as an otter’s, grinning broadly.

  ‘Dive in, Sara!’ he called. ‘Push away from the wall towards me and pull hard; that way you’ll be safely clear of the faster flow.’ She hesitated and he beckoned, treading water. ‘Allez, viens! It’s wonderful!’

  Oh well, what the hell, she thought, and leapt, diving smoothly into the unknown depths and pulling against the drag of the river’s powerful embrace. She too resurfaced, gasping at the combined effects of the chill of the deeper water and the flood of adrenaline that coursed through her body like quicksilver.

  Side by side, they struck out for the bank, hauling themselves onto the grass on the far side of the river. They collapsed, gasping and laughing, the sun immediately starting to warm their goose-pimpled skin and dry their wet T-shirts and shorts.

  Sara sat up. ‘Thomas Cortini! Isn’t it dangerous to swim near a weir?’

  ‘Of course. You have to know what you’re doing. But this river is small and slow-flowing enough, as long as you’re over this side and keep away from the sluice.’ He sat up beside her, hugging his knees, and gave her a sideways grin. ‘Anyway, you jumped too. You obviously trusted me!’

  ‘It wasn’t that at all; it was just because I thought you might need saving,’ she retorted, mock primly. She combed her fingers through her wet hair. ‘Lucky my watch is waterproof.’ She glanced at the time. Gone half past two. But suddenly she found she didn’t care about the time for once, and she flopped back onto the grass, closing her eyes against the bright sunshine. On this side of the river, the roar of the sluice was hushed. Fluting, liquid birdsong floated through the canopy of branches above them. They stayed like that for a while, side by side, in companionable silence, allowing the warmth of the dappled sunlight to soak into their skin.

  Finally Thomas got to his feet and offered her his hand. ‘Ready to walk back across?’

  As they packed up the picnic things, Sara shooed a couple of wasps away from the sticky plates. Thomas winced defensively as one flew in his direction. She laughed. ‘Not scared to dive into a fast-flowing river, but frightened of a tiny wasp?’

  He grinned at her again. ‘Ah, you’ve discovered my Achilles’ heel, I am indeed a coward. But with good reason. I’m allergic to their stings.’

  ‘Better stand back then and let me do this.’

  He sighed. ‘Are you always so independent and capable?’

  ‘When I have to be, yes.’

  ‘In that case, I have no doubt that you are going to stay on at Château Bellevue and make your business a huge success,’ said Thomas, suddenly serious.

  ‘Well, I shall expect you to send me postcards from all over the world,’ Sara replied. ‘And Thomas? Thanks for today. For sharing this beautiful place with me. It was just what I needed.’

  Matthew & Hamish

  Matthew and Hamish

  invite you to come and help celebrate their union

  on Saturday, the 11th of August at 4.30 p.m

  at Château Bellevue de Coulliac, France

  RSVP

  55 Northumberland Place, Edinburgh EH3 5LR

  * * *

  Thomas looked bemused. The team was assembled around the kitchen table for the Tuesday morning briefing and Sara had just handed him the request list for Saturday’s event.

  ‘What is “The Gay Gordons”? And “Strip the Willow”? And then we have a “Foursome”. And then, mon Dieu, an “Eightsome”! When I signed up to be your DJ I didn’t think I’d have to get involved in anything like that. Oh là-là, there have been rumours about what you English get up to at these parties at Château Bellevue, but I never imagined they were really true!’

  Antoine and the Héls Belles were also looking a little alarmed.

  Karen guffawed. ‘Never been to a gay wedding before then, Tommy-boy?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Thomas,’ Sara patted his hand comfortingly. ‘It’s Scottish dancing. Hamish and Matthew want to kick off the party with some reels. It’s fantastic; you’re going to love it. One of their friends is going to be the caller, to tell everyone the steps. All we have to do is download some Scottish dance music. I’ll help you find what we need.’

  Sara scanned her notes. ‘Hamish and Matthew are entering into a Civil Partnership in Edinburgh. But because that’s not exactly romantic, they’re also having a short, unofficial ceremony in the garden here, to re-exchange their vows in front of their friends. It’ll be about as close as you can get to a wedding without it actually being one. Then it’s drinks, dinner, dancing, as usual.

  ‘Antoine, could you go and collect the champagne this morning?’ she continued. ‘They’ve ordered the very best, Louis Roederer Crystal, 2004. And vast quantities as well. Matthew Humphreys is an up-and-coming fashion designer and he evidently has an eye for perfection. Everything about this party is going to be stunning. Right, everyone happy with their shifts for the weekend? Then let’s get to work.’

  As Karen and Sara stripped beds, bundling the linens into big canvas laundry bags, Karen asked nonchalantly, ‘So, Sara, what did you get up to on your day off yesterday?’

  Sara smiled, remembering. She kept her voice deliberately casual. ‘Oh, nothing much. You know. The usual.’

  Karen nodded. ‘The usual. Hmm. That’s very interesting because my husband saw you and Thomas Cortini turning in at the old mill when he was on his way home for lunch. So if that’s the “usual” then I think there’s something you need to tell me.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s always the quiet ones... And as they say, still waters really do run deep.’

  ‘Oh, my God! Can’t a girl get away with anything around here?’

  ‘Nope. If you so much as sneeze, people will be calling round with their own special cold remedies and a pot of chicken soup. Especially an Anglaise who’s been recently abandoned in her hilltop château, which happens to be one of the most prominent landmarks around these parts. You are currently the source of much local entertainment and speculation in Coulliac. Of course, it’s lucky for you that I am the soul of discretion and loyalty and would never divulge to the gossips a word of what really goes on up here.’

  ‘Well, unfortunately for me, very little does go on up here.’ Sara peeled off a pillowcase and plumped the pillow emphatically, adding it to the pile of bedding airing on a chair before the open windows.

  Karen raised an eyebrow, pr
essing her lips together tightly.

  ‘What’s that look for?’ demanded Sara.

  ‘I’m saying nothing. Like I said, I’m the soul of discretion, me...’

  Sara looked at her suspiciously, thinking. ‘Well it’s not me. And the only other person up here is Antoine.’

  Karen pressed her lips together even harder, suppressing a smile.

  ‘You don’t mean...? But who...?’

  ‘All I’m saying is you’re not the only one to have romantic assignations with members of the opposite sex.’

  Just then, Héloise popped her head round the bedroom door. ‘Sara, is it okay if I accompany Antoine to the wine merchant’s to help him carry the champagne? I’ve finished stripping the beds in the three end rooms and the laundry van will only be here with the clean linen in an hour.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Héloise. That’s fine.’ Sara kept a straight face until Héloise’s footsteps had clattered safely down the stairs and then she and Karen burst out laughing.

  ‘My goodness,’ said Sara, weakly, ‘it must be all this exposure to weddings. Love certainly is in the air.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a confession then,’ grinned Karen.

  ‘I was talking about Antoine and Héloise... Oh! You are impossible!’ Sara flung the other pillow at Karen.

  ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much. All I’m saying.’

  Just then, Thomas popped his head round the doorway. ‘Can you come and help me choose the Scottish music, Sara?’ He grinned. ‘I have found something called a Highland Fling!’

  He turned to go, and Karen pulled a feather duster from her bucket of cleaning things and brandished it triumphantly at Sara, as though it were her magic wand. ‘Just you keep on kissing those frogs, Sara! Sooner or later one of them’s going to turn into a prince, mark my words.’

  * * *