by Sharon Maas
‘Oh my goodness! Did you not have any say in the matter at all?’
‘Remember, I was just a young girl. Grandpère was the head of the family – everyone did what he said, and it never even occurred to me to object. I sort of assumed that marriage automatically meant you fell in love with your husband and lived happily ever after. It was exciting! I let myself be swept up in the wedding preparations. I met Jean-Pierre of course, in Paris, and he treated me well. I saw no reason not to marry him, and if it would save the vineyard – well. Of course I was willing. All this was arranged when I was only sixteen.’
‘But then – why did you even bother to attend a Swiss finishing school? If it was already planned that you should marry?’
‘Ah, but you see, I was just a simple country girl. I grew up running around this place, mostly barefoot, at least in summer. Gorging myself on grapes. A little wild thing, very crude. And of course I spoke Alcasien, nineteen to the dozen! The Laroches were quite posh. Upper class wine people. They wanted me to be an acceptable bride, with good manners, speaking really excellent French. To be a suitable Laroche bride, a bride they could show around at Paris soirées and so on. You see, they were absentee winegrowers. They were never really involved. They’d never even picked grapes at harvest: imagine that!’
She shook her head and refilled both glasses.
‘So finishing school it had to be. I had to be polished off. I had to learn manners, good French and English. A suitable Laroche bride. All my rough edges rubbed away to make me nice and shiny. But at least I met you there. My best friend ever, even though I had a secret I kept from you: that I was already engaged to be married. Frankly, I was a bit ashamed of it: you were such a softy, with all your dreams of falling in love one day and getting married, of meeting some Prince Charming who would sweep you off your feet! How could I tell you about my own very business-like marriage arrangement! So I left Montrouge all shiny and refined and all my rough edges removed and married Jean-Pierre in a fantastic, elegant wedding. After that they installed me in a mansion in Paris, and that’s where I was supposed to live out my days. It was horrible!’
Margaux took a big gulp of wine, as if to cope with the very memory of that horror.
‘Horrible!’ she repeated as she refilled her glass, and tried to do the same to Kathleen’s. Kathleen, unaccustomed to wine, her head already spinning, placed a hand over her glass and shook her head.
‘I can imagine,’ she said.
‘Anyway. I soon found my spark. And my feet and my tongue. I refused to live in Paris. I insisted on moving back to Alsace, to this house, the house where I grew up. Luckily, Grandpère had made sure there were clauses in my marriage contract that said I could live here whenever I wanted and I dug in my heels. I knew I would raise my children here, and I did. So this is my home.’
‘And Jean-Pierre? Does he mind? I mean, doesn’t he prefer Paris?’
‘Oh, Jean-Pierre! He doesn’t matter. He takes care of the business, and he’s good at it. He makes money. He lives here, in Paris, in Strasbourg. He comes and goes. He has his mistress in Paris and he’s welcome to her. Marriage was a business arrangement for him and it remains that way.’
‘That’s so – sad!’
Margaux shrugged. ‘Not really. I don’t mind. I am very busy here and just being able to live in my own home, and watch my children grow, that is happiness enough for me. I am happy in my own skin, and Jean-Pierre – he can do as he pleases.’
‘I cannot imagine being married to a man I did not love.’
‘Ah – but you see, you are English. You dream of romance, of fairy tales and happy endings. We French are more practical.’
‘I always thought it was the other way around – you know: Paris, the city of love, dashing Frenchmen, elegant Frenchwomen, romance, courtship…’
Margaux chuckled. ‘And that is what we have done well! Sold you the fantasy, so that you English will keep coming to France! And now I have you here, I will keep you captive for as long as I can! As long as you want to stay! Come, have some more wine! No? Very well. I won’t force you. Not tonight at least.’
‘But, Margaux – I feel bad. I can’t let Jean-Pierre support me. I mean, I will sell my jewellery and contribute to my maintenance, but there are three of us, and…’
‘Pah! My husband will not be supporting you. I will. Grandpère’s lawyer arranged the contract so that not only does the house remain solely in my name; I also get a good fair share of the profit from the vineyard. So I have my own income, and I can spend it however I want. I am queen of this house, and if I choose to embrace a homeless family of three, then Jean-Pierre cannot say a word! Didn’t I tell you that what I say goes, inside this house and regarding domestic arrangements? Jean-Pierre does the business, but I am the heart and soul of this place and I want you here. Compris?’
Kathleen laughed. ‘Compris.’
Chapter 7
Kathleen awoke to sunlight pouring through her half-open window. The curtains fluttered in a cool breeze, and birds twittered in the trees outside. Margaux had given her an east-facing room and for the first time since Mervyn’s death she had slept a whole night through, soundly, deeply, instead of tossing and turning the hours away. She stretched, got out of bed and walked over to the window and looked out. She could see activity among the vines and realised that everyone else must have been up for ages. She longed to crawl back into bed, enjoy more of that luxury sleep – but no, Elena and Sibyl were probably up as well, and she was a mother.
Washed and dressed, she made her way down to the kitchen. Margaux was clearing away the remains of breakfast, leaving one place setting.
‘Güete Morge! I won’t even ask if you slept well! The girls are up and out in the vines, helping out. I thought I’d take you out after breakfast, show you around?’
‘That would be lovely! Thank you for taking care of the girls. I overslept – that never happens usually! I’ve been sleeping so badly, since…’
‘It’s a very good sign. Sleep is what you need. Sleep heals. Take as much of it as you need, for as long as you want. The girls are safe and happy. They were both smiling and even laughing at breakfast.’
‘That’s a miracle! They have been walking around with such long faces. I can’t thank you enough, Margaux!’
‘They are on the road to recovery. It is hard to lose a beloved Papa – I know it myself. You never really get over it and they are so young! I was fifteen and that was bad enough. So it is good that they are settling in. Come, have some tea – it’s what you English like for breakfast, isn’t it? And the jam is home-made with my own strawberries. I will show you my little garden first and then we will go into the vines. I grow almost all my own vegetables. And we have some fruit as well and lots of flowers. Gardening is what I do best, what I love. What do you call it: my hobby, but it is a useful hobby, and very healthy. It keeps me fit in every way – it is good to work with the earth, with plants! I will show you. We have all day. I am not going to do any housework today because a girl from the village is coming in to help, Leah. And you can tell me more about your life in England since Montrouge, and I will tell you all about growing wine.’
‘Your story is much more interesting than mine,’ said Kathleen, spreading a slice of bread with butter. ‘I can tell you in one sentence: I met Mervyn, got married, had babies. But, you know, I was happy. I loved him. But it was a fool’s paradise. I had no idea he was up to his neck in a financial mess and there was no way out, except – except the way he chose, which left a worse mess for me.’
Tears gathered in her eyes. Margaux said, ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. Maybe we should not speak of these things just yet if they make you cry. I am just going upstairs for a minute and I’ll be back and then we’ll go out and I will show you around and we will find the children.’
* * *
‘We in Alsace produce the best wine in all of France,’ said Margaux. She led the way along a long row of vines. ‘It is because the location is truly exc
eptional, perfect for making wine. It is a blessed land; everything is perfect for producing the best grapes. Perfect soils, noble, wonderful climate – one of the driest in France, which means so much sunshine. These here are our riesling grapes; the leaves have been removed so that they can bask in our delicious sunlight and absorb it. See how plump they are! Go ahead, pick one and taste!’
The grapes indeed were plump, hanging in succulent bunches on the vines on either side of her. She picked one, put it in her mouth, bit into it. The grape burst open. Its flavour exploded into her mouth. Her eyes lit up.
‘Oh! Oh Margaux, that was the most delicious grape I have ever tasted!’
Margaux giggled. ‘Go on, have some more! But don’t gorge too much because we have other grapes for you to try. Gewürztraminer, pinot gris, muscat, and also crémant d’Alsace which is a sparkling wine, and a basic blend. We only make white wine; most Alsace wine is white, but some wineries also make pinot noir, but we don’t. Come along, don’t devour all of our riesling otherwise there will be none left for the harvest! Come on, down the hill, this is where… oh!’
A man had suddenly popped up from behind a row of vines, and stood before them, grinning. Looking at Kathleen, he removed his beret with an exaggerated sweep and bow.
‘Bonjour, Mesdames! Bonjour, Margaux! You have not yet introduced me to your beautiful guest!’
‘Max! Max, you scared me, you could have been anyone hiding down there in the vines! What are you doing there?’
‘Who did you think I was, a murderer escaped from prison? And since you are not going to introduce me, I will introduce myself. Maxence Dolch. Call me Max.’
He replaced his beret and held out a gnarled, weather-beaten hand to Kathleen, his grip firm but fleeting.
‘Kathleen Lake,’ she said.
‘Ah! She is English. That girl you told me about, the one from that posh school?’
‘Indeed. She is visiting for a while and I am showing her around.’
‘I believe my son Jacques met your daughters yesterday? And they are all working in the vines this morning. Removing leaves from the pinot gris. And I – I am just inspecting. We expect to start the harvest on Wednesday. The weather is stable and everything is perfect. You will stay for the harvest, Madame Lake? Help with it, perhaps? We need all hands.’
‘Yes, I’ll be here and I’ll be helping. I really look forward to it.’
‘Then I will help show you around, and tell you something about our grapes, so you will know them when the time comes. You must talk to them when you are picking, you know. That is the secret of my excellent wines. My grapes are living beings and they understand every word, in any language. They want to be loved, and if you love them enough they will reward you with a wine that tastes like nectar of the gods. Is it not true, Margaux?’
‘I’d say that’s a good enough description.’
‘Indeed. With every bunch you cut from the vine you must tell the vine thank you, and apologise for hurting it, and explain that the wound will heal and that it is going to give great joy to many people. You must be grateful and humble to the vine, understand that it is listening, that it is alive and quite willing to give you its best. See, I have revealed the great secret of the Domaine Laroche-Gauthier!’
‘Max, you are drôle!’
‘No, it is not funny. It is the truth. I know you are too practical to engage in such conversations with grapes, Margaux; I know you don’t believe me and you refuse. But maybe your lovely guest will oblige. Will you, Madame?’
Kathleen couldn’t help laughing. ‘I certainly will, if you say so! I can’t wait to start!’
‘Then come along and let me introduce you to my grapes. They will be delighted to make your acquaintance. You have met my rieslings; now I shall take you to my gewürztraminers. This way, if you please.’
Chapter 8
And then the harvest was upon them. Jacques Dolch had been right; Wednesday was the perfect day to start, the grapes at maximum sweetness and just waiting to be plucked. Max gave the order. Grape pickers poured in, from Ribeauvillé and other villages and even further afield, including a group of young people from Paris who came every year because this was a time of celebration and great joy. They swarmed through the vines, armed with knives and other sharp tools and buckets, wearing bright head scarves (women) and floppy straw hats (men) against the still-hot late September sun. And as they worked they laughed and chatted and flirted, and in the evenings they sat around in the paddock next to the house and lit fires for cooking sausages and drank wine and sang and even danced.
And the Lakes were all a part of it; Kathleen out in the vines from early morning with Margaux, and Jacques taking charge of the girls. The moment they were home from school, their harvest began, Jacques collecting them at the kitchen door, waiting impatiently as they changed out of their school clothes, leading them off down the rows, standing by their sides to make sure they did it right. He was blunt and bossy but kind at the same time, the kindness swelling just below the surface of the blunt bossiness so that anyone with an ear for the subtleties of human interaction could feel it in the touch of his fingers, hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes.
‘An extraordinary boy!’ said Kathleen at the end of the first day. ‘I am quite in awe of him! So mature for his age – not like a child at all.’
‘He had to grow up quickly, not having a mother – she died in childbirth. Max did his best to be both mother and father to him, and he certainly succeeded. He can be a little rough around the edges but he has a good heart. He reminds me a little of myself as a girl – running barefoot all over the place, in love with the country, with the vines, with the grapes. But he is more mature than I was. If it is still warm after the harvest I’m sure he will take the girls camping. He has a little place in the Vosges mountains, a little cabin he built by himself next to a stream, and the children like to play there together.’
‘You are not afraid, to let them go off on their own?’
‘Me? Afraid? Mais non. For one, they are off my hands, and for another, they must learn to be independent and not afraid of the things of the countryside.’
‘I could not let my girls go off on their own in London.’
‘Well, that is why I did not want to live in Paris. One of the reasons, the other being that I am completely incompatible with big city life and I missed my home, this place, my beloved Alsace. The vines – oh, the vines! It is intoxicating, is it not? This is the best time of year. It is like the very air is filled with the spirit of wine; she floats invisible through it and whispers in our ears and fills out hearts with such joy. Do you feel it?’
‘Yes – yes I do!’
‘The patina of grief, that I saw in your eyes when you first arrived, it is slowly fading, Kathleen, and I am glad. You will always have good memories of your dear husband but he is gone and you must return to life. It is what he would have wanted. I am sure that he has found a happy place and you must too.’
Kathleen sighed. ‘You’re right. The sharp edge of grief has gone; it’s still there, but it’s no longer the black abyss it was when I first came. And I am not in any danger of falling into the abyss. I could even say that I am at peace now. In a way.’
‘And your girls are recovering too. Did you see them laughing and dancing after supper, with those students from Paris? That girl, playing the guitar and singing?’
‘I did! And Sibyl is delighted with the dogs, the puppies. It’s what she always wanted, you know. It’s like a dream come true, and Mervyn’s death no longer haunts her. It’s as though they have found the cure just by being here.’
‘Children can bounce back quickly, under the right circumstances. And we have the right circumstances. Just us mothers; no Jean-Pierre to lecture us about politics and scare us about war.’
Jean-Pierre had returned to Paris; he had disappeared early one morning.
‘I don’t know why he does that. Every year it is the same. The moment harvest begins he is off like
a hare, to the city. He is a winegrower with his cheque book, not with his hands. He does love to drink it, though, and he has an excellent palate – he knows his wines. People respect him for that.’
‘Margaux, would you mind if I ask you something a little private?’
‘Ask away! You can ask me anything you want. How often we sleep together, or even if we sleep together, and if he is a good lover!’
She chuckled, and so did Kathleen, who replied,
‘No – nothing like that, but, well. I suppose it’s none of my business, but I did wonder… you and Max… are you…?’
‘Are we lovers? You mean, it shows?’
‘Yes… I’m afraid it does. Your eyes light up when he appears. I noticed it the very first time we met.’
‘Even though he was flirting with you!’
‘Oh, I didn’t take the flirting seriously. He was just being a typical Frenchman. But, the way you looked at each other; that was something beyond flirting. So – you are having an affair, right under Jean-Pierre’s nose?’
‘Well, Jean-Pierre has his mistress in Paris so why shouldn’t I… but, Kathleen, you know, this is more than an affair, more than just a little amour fou, a little passion. Max and I were childhood friends, you know. We are deeply connected. And we are no longer lovers. That stopped with the birth of Victoire.’
‘You mean… Victoire is…’
‘Yes, she is. But then we realised we had to keep a physical distance. It is for the best. It is not a problem, for he lives here.’ She clutched her heart.
‘But… if you were childhood friends, why did you not marry?’
‘We were childhood friends, not lovers. Marriage didn’t occur to us. And we did not know we loved each other until we were both married with children and it was too late. Anyway I could not have married Max. We both had failing vineyards… it was not expedient. Max married a friend of mine and when she died, soon after Juliette’s birth – well, I went to comfort Max and somehow love grew from that.’