My Grape Escape

by Laura Bradbury

  Tomorrow we’d be leaving for Oxford to attend my graduation ceremony with my parents. I would find myself on that same TGV I had arrived on back in June, winding its way North through the French countryside. My graduation was on May 1st and Franck and I had already planned to wake up early that day and go to listen to the choir singing at the top of Magdalen tower at six o’clock in the morning, something I had always wanted to do but had never managed in our two years living there.

  I was surprised to find myself looking forward to returning to Oxford. I thought I would be haunted forever by the confusion and despair that had circled within me as I climbed those stairs of the Examination Schools to write my final exams. Yet sometime over the past several months - even though I couldn’t for the life of me pinpoint exactly when - a sense of pride had taken their place. I was proud of the fact that I had survived my two years at Oxford, but I was prouder still of the little voice inside me that had told me to say “non!” to Mr. Partridge. That voice had gotten louder over the past little while, perhaps a bit cocky even. After all, the house was finished. We had done it.

  The freshly painted metal door of the veranda opened behind me. I turned around to see Franck dressed in a paint splattered T-shirt and a ratty pair of cut-offs. We had hardly brought any nice clothes when we had come here to do the renovations and both of our wardrobes had been reduced to dirty tatters.

  “Do you think we have enough Merguez?” he asked, sounding worried. We had bought about sixty merguez sausages as well as sixty chipolatas which amounted to about five a person but still, Franck had inherited his Mémé’s terror of inviting people over to dinner and not having enough to eat.

  “Definitely,” I said, patting the stone step beside me. “Come sit with me.”

  “When I get back. I have to go and get the cases of wine for Gégé and Antoine.” He bounced down the steps in the morning sun, the cold in his stomach a distant memory. “Then I have to pick up the baguettes.”

  We had ordered twenty baguettes for our celebratory barbeque at noon that day. It was absolutely essential, according to Gégé and Franck, that we baptize the house with a copious amount of eating and drinking. To miss this crucial step, apparently, would be cursing our home for years to come.

  I reluctantly picked up my empty bowl and stood up. “I guess I’d better get back to work.” I blew Franck a kiss that he lifted up his hand and caught with quick fingers. “A toute à l’heure.”

  I wandered into the living room and sat down in front of the computer that I had set up on the dining room table. Some last minute touches still had to be completed; I had about twenty more pages to add before the information binder I was leaving for our guests was complete. I had to pack up my computer and the clothes and the remnant detritus we weren’t taking with us and put them in a box in the basement…

  My fingers lifted up from the keyboard and I drank in the room around me. There was no denying it – the dream of our French house that had flitted in and out of my mind’s eye this past year had become a reality. The crooked walls were freshly plastered and painted with fresh ivory paint, my cheese cabinet had been pampered and cleaned and oiled into its former glory, the ancient concrete tiles at my feet were maybe not stain free – given that they were over one hundred years old I doubted they would ever be that again – but they were gleaming from yesterday’s cleaning.

  All this had been accomplished even though most of the time I hadn’t been able to see anything past my next breath, let alone any grand vision. Yet this potential had been in this house all along and the potential for unlocking it had been in us all along, even during those days when we felt lost and like we had made a huge mistake. We hadn’t known where we were going but we still ended up somewhere wonderful in the end.

  I shook my head at the miracle that surrounded me and got back to work.

  Later on the sun had risen even higher and hotter when I carried the last box of our personal items down to the cellar. In the cellar’s cool air I moved a pair of peeling shutters that leaned against the wall to make space to put down my box. Behind them was not a wall as I had expected, but a door. It was very old with battered wood and “Café” painted in large black letters. I opened it up to reveal a wall of stone between the street and me. How odd. This house hadn’t finished sharing its quirks and mysteries with us.

  I grabbed two garden chairs for our soon-to-be-arriving guests and manoeuvred through the cellar door that led out to the passageway, silently thanking the forward thinking stonemason who had carved the stone a little wider to be able to roll the wine barrels in and out of the cellar. Turned out it was handy for garden chairs as well.

  “La Lolo!” Gégé called out as he crunched his way across the pea gravel towards me. I put my chairs down and we gave each other affectionate bises. I caught a whiff of Savon de Marseille in his freshly pressed shirt collar and tears welled up in my eyes. I would miss having Gégé arrive on our doorstep almost every morning with his wry smile and his insatiable appetite for lost causes (not to mention the pains au chocolat).

  “Let me help you.” He took the chairs I was carrying. I wrestled one back from him and he rolled his eyes at me.

  “You know Gégé,” I said, “we couldn’t have done this without - ”

  “Is that showerhead working better now?” he interrupted, blushing garnet. “Maybe I should go and have a look at - ”

  “It’s working perfectly,” I said. “I checked it this morning. Today you’re supposed to just relax and let us serve you food and wine.”

  Gégé looked distinctly unseduced by this prospect. I laughed.

  “Can you believe we actually did it?”

  “Non,” Gégé said, with more than a tinge of regret in his voice. I truly think that although he was happy for us, he was already nostalgic for our permanent state of crisis.

  “It seemed impossible, didn’t it?”

  “Completely.” We picked up our chairs and walked out from under the passageway into the sunshine. Gégé stopped by the foot of the stairs and took a moment to take in the thriving heads of lavender and the freshly painted shutters flung open to allow a peek of the bright white paint on the walls of the veranda.

  Gégé let out an epic sigh. “I guess there really isn’t anything else for me to do.”

  “Until we buy our next ruin over here,” I joked.

  “Are you going to do that?” he asked, his eyes shining.

  I blinked. The words had just popped out, kind of like my “non” to Mr. Partridge, my Oxford tutor. I hadn’t ever contemplated having more than one house over here before.

  “Who knows?” I shrugged, and in an instant a hundred new possibilities unfolded in front of me.

  The barbeque was turning out to be a huge success. All the key elements to a good French party were there: multiple generations, copious amounts of food, and delicious local wine.

  Tom crawled around underfoot in brightly striped red and blue overalls, making a determined effort to put as many pieces of pea gravel in his mouth as possible. Mémé was there too. She couldn’t stop exclaiming over the transformation of our house and revelled in the brilliance of Franck, one of her favourite grandsons. There were more than enough merguez and chipolatas for everyone, even though they were being devoured as soon as Franck took them off the barbeque. I served them up on old metal serving platters of Marthe’s that I had unearthed (and thoroughly washed, not forgetting those quips about her love of rat poison) from the attic.

  Bottle after bottle of Claire’s sublime Hautes Côte de Nuits and Hautes Côte de Beaune were opened. My father – who had arrived with my mother a week before to help us down the final stretch - in particular seemed to be enjoying the beverage selection. He radiated relief that we had actually pulled through and celebrated with glass after delicious glass… maybe not such a good idea under the beating afternoon sun.

  We all took turns taking Tom and Marcel, Olivier’s son, for circular rides around the courtyard in an old blue wo
oden cart that Franck had found tucked in a little empty space under the stone stairs. Then we would collapse back down again and nibble on the platter of Époisses and Cîteaux and Comté that I had set out on Marthe’s wooden cutting board polished with years of use.

  Just as I was ready to take the cheese course back into the kitchen, my dad offered to do it and didn’t come out of the house again. When I eventually went back inside to fetch the pear and apple tarts that Mémé had made for us, I found him in a snoring lump on one of the twin beds in the now blue bedroom. I couldn’t believe that neither Franck nor I had collapsed yet – we had been working day and night to reach the finish line of our French House. Still, our house seemed to give back every ounce of our energy and love that we poured into it, buoying both of us above mundane considerations of fatigue.

  As we were sipping our after-lunch espresso, various members of Franck’s family began to drop by and Mémé would whisk them off to give them a tour of La Maison des Deux Clochers. She would twinkle up the stone stairs with her latest batch of visitors in tow, and then proceed to lead them from room to room, pointing out Franck’s expert plastering job and the regal buffet in the living room that we had decided to keep after all, and which she had spent hours polishing until it appeared to gleam with a light of its own. On the way back outside she would point out my father – snoring on the bed in the blue bedroom because “he had worked so hard and perhaps had drunk a bit too much wine”.

  At the end of the day we all gathered back in the garden, made a toast with flutes of Claire’s crémant, and planted the beautiful clematis that Antoine had brought us as a housewarming gift in the old stone border at the back of the garden.

  We had done it.

  It had seemed impossible, but somehow we had stumbled along and showed up every day, even on the days (and there were many) when we were feeling tired and disheartened. Just the act of continuing at the times when I felt utterly paralysed by doubt…wasn’t that a kind of faith in and of itself? It was definitely not as picturesque as Franck’s panoply of guardian angels, but I held on to it like a turquoise cat’s eye marble that I had once discovered mysteriously in my pocket when I was eight. I didn’t know how it got there. I didn’t know where it came from. I did know, however, that it was precious and that it was mine.

  That evening, once my parents had gone to bed, Franck and I snuck outside for one last moment to savor the warmth of the evening. The stone steps cooled the back of my thighs. Franck settled beside me and his arm stole around my shoulder. A wave of joy swept over me, so powerful that I had to wrap my fingers around the freshly painted lavender banister to steady myself.

  “It’s funny,” I said to Franck in a low voice so as not to waken my exhausted parents. “Since I can remember, I’ve always felt as though I needed to know where I was headed. I don’t feel that way anymore.”

  “What’s changed?”

  “This house. Us.” I nestled my head in the crook of his neck. “All these months, I didn’t know where I was going. Most of the time I felt completely lost, but it turned out that didn’t matter in the end. We still ended up here. We still ended up in this moment, right now.”

  Franck twirled my ponytail around his finger. “How would you describe this moment?”

  I soaked in the orange evening sky and the smell of the fresh leaves on the grapevine growing beside me on the railing and the solid stone of our house underneath me.

  “Perfect.”

  Even though life was never perfect, certain moments were.

  The clock on the church tower began to ring out the Angelus. I kissed Franck. The powerful notes made the metal vibrate under my fingertips. If life hadn’t been so complicated and messy I would never have stumbled my way here.

  “I think I’m ready to have a baby,” I blurted out.

  Franck laughed. “Since when?”

  I kissed him again, more soundly this time. “Since right this instant.”

  Merci

  My Grape Escape is the result of the help and support from so many wonderful people. First of all, un énorme merci to my wonderful husband who puts up with me writing about him. He has never sought the spotlight but loves me enough to allow me to shine it on him regardless. He swept me off my feet twenty-two years ago and continues to do so every day.

  Thanks to my girls for never doubting for a second that I would publish my book in the end and for always asking me how it was coming along, even on days when it felt like a distant pipe dream. Charlotte, Camille, and Clémentine are, without a doubt, my finest and most miraculous creations.

  An enormous bisous to Pam and Lisa, the best editors and cheerleaders a writer could ever wish for and to Daisy for all her savvy design expertise. Merci to all my beloved girlfriends and family members for always having my back.

  Thank you so much to mon amie Marjorie Taylor of The Cook’s Atelier in Beaune for allowing me to use a photo of her vintage Citroën (named ‘Madeleine’) for my cover. If you ever want a sublime cooking course or market tour in Beaune, look up Marjorie at www.thecooksatelier.com or visit her Epicurean center at 42, rue de Lorraine.

  I truly owe a debt to Nicolas for telling me I just needed to finish one – any one - of my putains de livres so I could learn how to let go. Also, to Sukumar who got me unstuck by suggesting that I start at the end, and to all the writers who participate in the Surrey International Writer’s Conference for being such an inspiring, crazy, and supportive tribe.

  “Cheers” to my Oxford tutor who told me that my writing was lovely, even though my legal reasoning was utter rubbish.

  A huge thanks to all my friends at the PSC Partners Facebook forum. You have made the path of being diagnosed with a rare and unpredictable disease so much more bearable. To Philip Burke and Sandi Pearlman – I feel so fortunate that I was able to benefit from your caring, warmth, and knowledge before you passed over. Rest in Peace mes amis – you made a difference in some of the darkest days of my life that will never be forgotten. Ten per cent of the royalties from this and any of my future books will be donated back to PSC Partners Seeking A Cure and earmarked for research. Everybody, please sign up to be an organ donor and campaign to have “opt-out” organ donation policies adopted throughout the world. Too many precious lives like Philip’s and Sandi’s are being lost every day due to inertia.

  Lastly, merci, merci, merci to all our guests who have stayed at La Maison des Deux Clochers over the past fourteen years. Your enthusiasm for Burgundy, your love for the authentic, and your appreciation for the simple pleasures of life in France are the reason why Franck and I love what we do and the inspiration for us to continue to grow our vacation rental network in Burgundy (www.graperentals.com). You inspired me to write this book and you are and always will be an integral part of our story.