Return to the Olive Farm (The Olive Series Book 4)

by Carol Drinkwater

  It took all the strength of the pair of them, the driver with thick gloves, pushing and pulling, yelling, bawling instructions, to heave the asbestos on to the wheelie. Once achieved, they had to negotiate it down the drive. Its weight and wheels gave it the advantage. It took control. I had returned to a spot of chair-painting when I heard hollering and ran to take a look. The two men were literally being dragged down the hillside, zigzag fashion, as this mobile devil, with a frenzied life of its own, took off, careening towards an ancient olive tree. I pictured the smash, the asbestos within breaking up. Toxicity! Quashia put on some speed, champion that he is, and overtook the blasted pushcart. I feared it would splay him on the tarmac but somehow, don’t ask me how, he managed to break its impulsion. It spun almost in a circle as it slowed and Mr Q was hanging on for dear life, rather like one of those cartoons where someone grips a moving object with their hands while their legs are outstretched, four feet off the ground. The other man had let go altogether and only caught up with Quashia three-quarters of the way down the hill where the incline eased up. They were the masters of it now and slowly delivered it beyond the gates. At the rear of the van was a hydraulic lift to raise and disburden it within. The job was done. Those corrugated sheets were our responsibility no longer. We, the three of us, climbed to the table beneath the magnolia tree. I offered tea of freshly picked mint leaves, which brought smiles to their sweating faces. The chauffeur scribbled in the details of what he described as ‘This’ll be someone else’s Christmas present now’, drank his tisane, shook hands with our hero and handed me the pre-certificate, proof that the collection had finally been accomplished.

  ‘You are a star, Monsieur Quashia. Thank you.’

  ‘Well, if you left everything to me, Carol, this place would run like clockwork. And what’s the news on the bees you promised me?’

  After our excellent lesson from the tree surgeon the weekend before I was firing on all cylinders, raring to try my hand at sculpting our young beauties. I had no intention of attacking the ancients. Ascending a ladder, perched on high with a whirring chainsaw between my fingers was too daunting a prospect for me. Quashia and Michel could handle the collosi between them. I was perfectly happy to tame the entire younger brigade, if necessary, an ensemble of well over two hundred, but as soon as our gardener saw me ferreting about in the hangar, gathering utensils well hidden, unpacking boxes he had secreted there himself, he was after me, eager to know what I was about.

  ‘The young groves have never been pruned. It’s high time for their first cut,’ I announced.

  He agreed.

  I was also, a little cunningly, I confess, calculating that if all the trees on the estate were lopped hard, while remaining faithful to their graceful, billowing form and the structure our tree-cutter had shown us, then, while regaining ground, they would produce less fruits this upcoming summer. Less fruit would obviously mean that there would be a reduced harvest. If we stayed on course and kept the land free of chemicals, the trees, the fruits, would be unprotected. If they were preyed upon by flies, the likelihood was that we would lose the crop, just as we had done two autumns earlier. However, the loss would be easier to accept because fewer fruits had been produced to harvest.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Quashia said, grabbing both large and small chainsaws and various other hacking instruments that he kept buried in the boiler room, well out of everyone else’s reach. I explained patiently that he could continue with whatever he had been doing because I was intending to manage the younger groves myself. His initial doubt as to whether I was capable of the task vanquished, he suggested that while I was within range we should deal with the eucalyptus trees.

  On Appassionata’s hillside we have two tender-blue-leaved eucalyptus trees. Both were growing close to the house; both had been left to their own devices and soared vertically, but Quashia had a point: they lacked definition and were spindly.

  ‘They need trimming right back.’ He was pointing to their higher branches. ‘We should shorten them, chop them to the central trunk and then they’ll grow strong, less willowy.’

  ‘No, they’re fine. Eucalypts can grow to heights of up to one hundred metres, depending on the species, Monsieur Quashia. You cannot treat this genus as though it were an olive, an oleae. And, frankly, you gave them quite a haircut last summer before the party. I think it’s best to leave them.’

  ‘They’ll rejuvenate.’

  I preferred not to get caught in a debate. The day was calling. I had been considering taking the two eucalypts out altogether because their roots were voracious; they drained underground water sources and left surrounding plants in difficulties. I must have muttered my thoughts aloud because Quashia hotly disagreed. ‘We can’t lose them, we need them.’

  And he had a point. The other side of the coin was that the eucalypts were a rich source of pollen for honeybees as well as other pollinators.

  ‘You’re right, Mr Q. We will keep them and we’ll just gently prune them, but not today, eh? A nip and tuck later, nothing more.’

  He seemed convinced by my argument. I was delighted and set off to begin the awesome task of pruning two hundred and thirty young oliviers.

  ‘Bees, Carol.’ Quashia called after me. ‘Give me hives! What are you waiting for?’

  That evening I telephoned François and learned that he and Marie-Gabrielle were still attempting to sell all their materials associated with their honey business, but they had as yet received no serious offers.

  ‘People are nervous about the investment. News of the bee crises is spreading. There is little confidence left in it as an industry.’

  Still, they had managed to secure a bank loan and had begun works on the conversion of two newly conceived chalet rooms. The gîte would supplement their pensions. It was a heart-rending situation for them, for bees, for the state of the world. Quashia had a point; we should find an alternative solution and so I proposed purchasing their hives, taking all their apiary equipment off their hands and funding new colonies, if they would agree to go into partnership with us.

  ‘We can keep everything down here on a permanent basis,’ I said, offering François the role of Olive Farm Beekeeper if Qashia could be his assistant and I might play the part of second assistant. This arrangement would involve François driving from his mountain home once every two or three weeks to check up on the girls, housekeep the hives, teach our gardener.

  ‘Quashia is all for the plan and I miss the bees hopelessly,’ I added.

  It was the truth. I longed to sit crosslegged on the grass, gazing at them. Hours I used to while away, entranced by their comings and goings. I found it therapeutic, meditative and I was never once stung. They were usually harmless and gentle and they delivered us delicious honey. In the spirit of business, I suggested to our friend that we split whatever honey was produced on a fifty-fifty basis.

  I detected from his responses that he was tempted. However, I also detected a new strain, a thinning in the timbre of his voice and a breathlessness. It suggested to me that his health was deteriorating. His words revealed disillusionment; he sounded aged. Still, I was hoping that such a proposition, one that released him of all financial risk, would reinvigorate him, offer him a new lease of life as well as providing us with the company of bees again, but I was honest and admitted that my one nagging concern, the worry that had been staying my hand, was the chemical spray.

  ‘I do intend to put a stop to it, though,’ I promised.

  ‘But what alternatives do you have, Carol? There is nothing else out there.’

  ‘Nothing concrete yet,’ was my answer, ‘but I am determined to find a way forward.’

  François promised to mull it over and get back to me.

  After months of toing and froing, the Portuguese eventually undercut Bolmusso’s quote by more than 50 per cent, bringing the overall figure in at a snip over thirty thousand plus VAT on condition that a reasonable percentage of the total was handed over in undeclared cash and the rest was drawn
up as restoration work.

  ‘But it is restoration,’ I insisted.

  ‘Ah, but there’s to be an extension.’

  ‘Yes, but not on this contract. We haven’t applied for planning permission for that section yet.’

  Still they were insisting on 60 per cent in cash. And, in return, ‘We will agree not to describe the works on the final statement as a “new extension to the garage”, but simply as “repairs to the older part of the house”. That’ll lessen the final figure.’

  This differentiation meant that the overall total qualified for lower VAT rates. Five point five per cent instead of nineteen point six. Older properties benefited in such cases. It had been an initiative by one or other of the French governments to boost the number of restorations on innumerable listed or historically interesting properties rather than encouraging the French habit of rejecting the old and constantly throwing up new chunks of brickwork.

  The finer details of the sums to be paid in cash and what was to be declared proved to be so complicated and time-consuming, delaying the decision, that Michel proposed he draw up a plan and they thrash it out when the men had set to work.

  ‘Any idea how long the job might take?’ I thought we should know.

  ‘Four weeks, maximum five. It’s not complicated.’

  ‘When can you start?’ I asked, when everyone had shaken hands on a marginally illegal arrangement.

  ‘Monday,’ replied the short one with the lustrously husky voice.

  ‘Goodness, so soon. Well, it needs to be done, so, all the better.’

  Marie-Gabrielle, instrumental in her husband’s decision, I felt sure, returned my call early the following morning.

  ‘I think we must refuse the offer, Carol. My love is getting on,’ she confided to me, ‘and his heart has been broken by the loss of so many girls. I fear he has not the strength to go through it all again. You know, he has suffered a minor stroke since I spoke to you last, once he fully comprehended that we had lost everything. It wasn’t about the money, well, partially, yes, of course – both of us had invested our life’s savings. It was the destruction of his dream. All his life he had planned for such a retirement: our chalet in the mountains and a hundred hives.’

  I graciously accepted their refusal, of course, but I was disappointed and at a loss as to where we might find a replacement for our previous arrangement. On a human level, I was saddened by the tragedy our friends were enduring. Quashia was also not delighted when I relayed the news to him.

  ‘Well, if they don’t want to come back, why don’t we buy our own hives? I’ll look after them. We can place them over on the Second Plot, out of harm’s way, behind the oaks, backing on to the extended wall I have rebuilt. It’s a dead space. We have nothing growing there but weeds.’

  He had a point. It was a leafy and protected position.

  ‘Look at this.’ I had found a grey caterpillar. It was attached to the olive branch I had just severed. I lifted the insect from the tree, turning it over; its soft underbelly was a light silvery blue. Its upper body was identical to the colouring of the tree’s wood.

  ‘What kind of caterpillar is this?’

  Quashia shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen one like it before.’

  I placed it carefully back into the small pruned tree and left it there, watching as it resettled and all but disappeared before my eyes. An Alice-in-Wonderland camouflage.

  ‘What about our own bees?’ he nagged again.

  ‘I am considering the idea, Mr Quashia, but, you know, bees and pesticides are not compatible.’

  ‘Carol, bees have been around since forever and folk have been spraying for centuries. You worry too much about nothing. But if you’re really concerned, take the hives off the estate in the late spring, drive them high into the mountains and settle them where they can pollinate the wild flowers of the Mercantour National Park, beyond a risk zone, up where François was transferring all his?’

  Ah, the ancient practice of transhumance. That was not a bad idea.

  ‘To accomplish that, we would need a licence to install them within the protected park.’

  But I felt sure that François, who had placed many of his hives there and always boasted proudly about the fine quality of his wild rhododendron honey, would agree to assist me with the bureaucracy involved in attaining a permit. ‘Yes, that’s a possibility.’

  ‘I told you, I’ll take care of them.’

  But what if Quashia should leave for months on end as he had threatened, burying himself deep in the deserts of Algeria, replacing his teeth, or because my farming methods had driven him away? Who would care for the hives then?

  Since the earliest of times, the fairs down our way have been a cause for celebration. For a brief spell, the hardships of the earth were set aside, the skin was washed of soil, glad rags were donned and everybody danced, flirted, entertained their children and carried home some hard-earned cash. These rural gatherings were markets, each selling his wares, but they also provided lively social occasions. Even in their twenty-first-century guise, I always thoroughly enjoy them, particularly when I encounter locals conversing in Provençal dialects.

  This year, the first of the annual olive fairs, dubbed ‘Feast Day of Recently Pressed Olive Oils’, a celebration of the latest vintage, was to be held on the second Sunday in March, a little later than usual, in the village closest to our farm. It was billed as a one-day event. I had expected that it would be laid out along the central boulevard that climbed, not quite straight, up from the coast, sliced through the toes of our medieval village and was lined with lofty plane and eucalyptus trees. Its principal square, a veritable dustbowl opposite a dry cleaner’s, indifferent baker’s and tabac, where boules tournaments were regularly held, was some way south of the town hall and was used on market days for itinerant commerce and other activities such as the reparation of cane chairs, a service frequently offered by local gypsies. Here was the place that every December welcomed our eternally waving Father Christmas. Here, outside the old town, was where the action in the village took place and it struck me as the perfect location for the olive fair. Or, if not here, then why not in the historic heart of the village with its terraced houses, cobblestone streets and extensive views out to sea? However, neither spot had been selected. The appointed locality was a short drive beyond the village’s outskirts in an urbanised district where a series of rather ugly apartment blocks had been thrown up. Fortunately for all concerned, it was a glorious early spring day and at half past nine on the designated Sunday morning we set off down the hill, hoping to arrive ahead of the crowds. No such luck! The stalls must have been rigged up soon after sunrise, for a jolly throng was already wandering among them, chatting (in French), socialising, shopping, while the vendors were busily replenishing their displays. The mood was cheerful. We were not there to purchase olive oil or its products. My purpose was to meet with one or two producers, if any should be present, who were farming organically. Before we had strolled more than a few steps, we bumped into friends, Bridget and Luigi. They were brandishing a jar of black tapénade and another crammed with large green olives soaked in brine.

  ‘There are several organic stands. See, these!’ she cried approaching, knowing for sure what I would be after. ‘Further down there on the left and another on the right, and their oils look good, too. Take a look, why don’t you?’

  ‘We will, we will,’ I answered. ‘Have you been here long?’

  Like us, they had just arrived but she suggested the festivities had begun somewhere around seven.

  ‘As in earlier times with the descent to market from the hill villages,’ I remarked to Michel as we negotiated the length of the exhibitions, through the growing press of people.

  ‘In bygone days, the producers sometimes journeyed all night with their crops on horseback or donkey and cart, descending from the hills, in the hope of earning the cash they needed to feed their families, restock their farms with seeds and replace their worn-out tools
.’

  My attention was drawn to a stall where a silver-haired lady, accompanied by a middle-aged man with mutton chop whiskers sitting quietly behind her smoking a large-bowled pipe, was selling copies of her own books. We paused to browse. Her husband was her publisher, she informed us. He had given up his career to support her. Her works, les œuvres, were local tales and these usually held an interest for me. Extracts had been painstakingly copied out by hand with a nibbed pen on to lengths of paper and pinned to a burgundy velvet curtain engirding three sides of their stall. The language of her literature was French not Provençal. Posted there were sepia photographs of shepherds, stone côtes, wind-blustered hamlets high in the middle of nowhere, images from the late nineteenth century up to pre-Second World War. My imagination was fired and she sensed a sale in the offing.

  Somewhere behind us a loudspeaker was spluttering out some information that was almost impossible to decipher. A child had been found, was that it? He – or was it a little girl? – could not remember his name, or that of his parents.

  ‘Such a shame!’ strolling ladies in summery frocks and cardigans commented.

  ‘If you have lost your offspring’ – a crackly description followed of a small boy – ‘please come to Marcel’s bar-tabac alongside the long table where the complimentary drinks are being set up, next to where the dancing is scheduled to take place.’

  A rise in the decibel level of excitement. ‘Dancing?!’ I heard from one or two of the passers-by.

  ‘Drinks, compliments of the mayor, will be served from eleven o’clock onwards. Chilled rosé awaits you.’ I glanced at my watch. It was not yet ten thirty, a little early for the first glass of the day, but not down our way. A perceptible shift in the flow of pedestrian traffic took place. About-turns and giggles at the prospect of complimentary wine. I was still with the books and the authoress was growing agitated. Free drinks elsewhere meant loss of sales.