by Jo Thomas
Copyright © 2016 Jo Thomas
Map © Shutterstock (alicedaniel, Katya Bogina, Catherine Glazkova); additional illustrations © Caroline Young
The right of Jo Thomas to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Cover illustration © Lucy Davey. Title lettering © Kate Forrester
eISBN: 978 1 4722 2371 5
Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Also by Jo Thomas
Praise for Jo Thomas
Dedication
Letter to Readers
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Epilogue
Bonus Material
About the Author
Jo Thomas worked for many years as a reporter and producer, first for BBC Radio 5, before moving on to Radio 2’s The Steve Wright Show. In 2013 Jo won the RNA Katie Fforde Bursary. Her debut novel, The Oyster Catcher, was a runaway bestseller in ebook and was awarded the 2014 RNA Joan Hessayon Award and the 2014 Festival of Romance Best Ebook Award. Her follow-up novel, The Olive Branch, is also highly acclaimed. Jo lives in the Vale of Glamorgan with her husband and three children.
You can keep in touch with Jo through her website at www.jothomasauthor.com, or via @Jo_Thomas01 on Twitter and JoThomasAuthor on Facebook.
By Jo Thomas
The Oyster Catcher
The Olive Branch
Late Summer in the Vineyard
Digital Novellas
The Chestnut Tree
The Red Sky At Night
Praise for Jo Thomas’s novels:
‘Warm, funny, romantic with a terrific sense of place. I loved it!’ Katie Fforde
‘Romantic and funny, this is a great addition to any bookshelf’ The Sun
‘A warm and witty debut novel with an unusual story and characters. Well worth a read’ Carole Matthews
‘A perfect pearl of a story. I loved it’ Milly Johnson
‘A heart-warming tale full of Celtic charm, set against a beautiful landscape. What more could you wish for?’ Ali McNamara
‘Captures the essence of France from the vineyards and chateaux to the glorious sunshine’ Cathy Bramley
‘This is a lovely book with likeable characters that you’ll finish in one sitting’ Bella
‘So vivid, it delighted all five of my senses – and then some . . . I loved it!’ Christina Jones, Kindle bestselling author of Tickled Pink
‘A fantastic debut novel . . . the perfect escapism read’ Shaz’s Book Blog
‘This is just a beautiful story . . . a great book to curl up with’ The Dark Dictator
‘It is escapism at its best’ Book Addict Shaun
‘Lots of twists and turns along the way and a couple of huge surprises, go ahead and treat yourself’ Nat’s Reading Cloud
For Dad.
A classic vintage with unique character
that stays with you forever.
Dear Reader,
Bonjour! Bienvenue! Hello and welcome to my latest world in Late Summer in the Vineyard.
I love France. As a child, I holidayed in France every year with my family, mostly in the Ardèche region, the Rhône Valley and, later, further south in the Côte D’Azur. Funnily enough, I later discovered that they are all big wine regions! My parents adored the French way of life, as I do; the food, the wine, the markets, the language . . . and the manners. I love the way the French greet each other. As a teenager, I went back to the French Riviera and found myself a job there, waitressing in a restaurant on a campsite. I spent long, hot, sunny days and balmy nights serving steak-frites and plats du jour to holidaymakers. It was a fantastic time in my life.
These days, I visit France because a couple of my friends did the very thing I dream of doing. They found a house, fell in love with it and moved out to Castillon-la-Bataille, about an hour’s drive from both Bordeaux and Bergerac, and they started a new life and business. They run writers’ retreats and courses so, lucky for me, I get to go and write in this wonderful place, which is just down the road from the beautiful Saint-Émilion. It was here that, like the grapes on the vines, the idea for Late Summer in the Vineyard began to grow. Who would move here, to the historic wine country, and why? They’d have to know all about wine, wouldn’t they? Or else they’d have a heck of lot to learn . . . just like Emmy Bridges – the heroine in this novel. I hope, like a good vintage, you’ll enjoy it, remember it and tell your friends. À votre santé!
Jo x
A big, big thank you to my friends Janie and Mike Wilson who made a life-changing move and bought a house in France, in between Bordeaux and Bergerac, where they now run writing and painting courses and writing retreats (w
ww.chez-castillon.com). It’s because I started to visit them that I began to get to know the area, and I’ve loved watching their business go from strength to strength. If you’re looking for a course or want some time away to write, look no further. It is a beautiful place on the banks of the Dordogne and set in amongst the vineyards of south-west France.
Thank you, Janie, for organising our trip to the wine school at Saint-Émilion and our wine-blending evening with a professional wine maker, the early morning swims, tea, cheeky glasses of rosé and of course for all the many early morning emails.
Big thanks to Basil and Julie at La Maison de la Rivière for talking me through the wine-making process and helping me understand it. They have a fabulous gîte and B&B there (www.lamaison-riviere.com).
And thank you, Basil, for putting me in touch with Nick at Château de Claribès, who showed me round his fabulous organic vineyard and chai and helped me out with my wine-making queries. Do have a look at their website: www.claribes.com. Any discrepancies in the wine-making process in this book are entirely of my own making!
And a huge thank you to David Headley from Goldsboro Books who was a fabulous companion and help to me on my last research trip. You were brilliant!
And big hugs and thanks to wonderful friend and travelling companion Katie Fforde and my Chez Castillon writing buddies for all the support, fun and friendship.
I can feel the big, brown envelope, full of odd coins – copper, silver and gold – weighing down the bag on my shoulder. It feels like the weight of the world as I tentatively step through my open front door, heart banging, mouth as dry as sand.
I hear a strange voice from the front room: ‘Just look for anything that might sell for a few quid.’
My heart lurches and I instinctively draw my shoulder bag closer to me, gripping it tightly with both hands as my worst fears are confirmed and I see the big, broad shoulders in a worn leather jacket filling the space in the middle of the living room. The wearer picks up a framed photo of my mum from the mantelpiece and studies it.
‘There’s not much here worth anything,’ he tells my dad.
‘It’s the memories that count,’ I hear Dad say in a thin shaking voice.
‘If you could just put your hands on some cash . . . I could drive you to the cash point, if you like,’ the man says, putting the picture back.
My cheeks burn with rage. My heart beats so loudly in my chest and a noise like a train in a tunnel whooshes in my ears blocking out any other sounds. How dare he? The cheek of it. A burglar in broad daylight, offering a chauffeur service! I look from him to my dad, terrified and pale, sitting in his chair, just like he had all those years ago. A filthy dark night sixteen years ago, to be precise. Only back then, it was a man and a woman in black police uniforms standing in front of him, delivering in gentle, even tones the devastating news that would change our lives for ever. I remember their kindness and the concern in their eyes. Not like now: some low-life chancer in our home, helping himself to whatever takes his fancy, by the looks of it. But Dad looks just as terrified now as he did then, and my thundering heart squeezes and twists.
‘What about jewellery or medals . . . Premium Bonds, stamps, even?’
Dad shakes his head.
I slide the heavy bag off my shoulder, careful not to let it fall to the ground with a thud. With effort I raise it above my head, aiming it at the mountain of man with long wavy hair picking over the ornaments along the mantelpiece.
‘Hey!’ The word is out of my mouth before I can even think about the consequences.
‘No, Emmy, just leave him.’ Dad puts out a shaking hand, clutching a piece of scrunched-up paper, as I attempt to swing the weighty bag at the back of the intruder’s head, but my aim falls short because the bag’s so heavy. I let it fall to my side and step up to the giant of a thug.
‘Emmy, leave it!’ Dad says again, but I ignore him.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing in my house? Get out!’ I shout.
‘Your house?’ The burglar replaces an Ikea candlestick and turns to me, looking like Hagrid from the Harry Potter films: huge bulk of body, ruddy cheeks, slightly sweating forehead and a beard you could knit a jumper from. ‘I was under the impression it was Mr Bridges’ house,’ he says in a hard local accent, and I get a sudden flicker of recognition. His voice, his eyes . . . I shake my head, determined not to be distracted from getting this chancer out of our house.
‘Oh, what? And that makes it OK, does it? To go around robbing old men’s houses in broad daylight?’ I’m bouncing with anger now, all my earlier nerves running for cover. I can’t believe he hasn’t made a run for it.
‘I’ll go up here,’ a smaller, wiry man with a missing front tooth appears, walking past the front room from the kitchen, pointing a pen and holding a clipboard. Oh God! There’s another one.
‘Hey,’ I shout, pointing at him. ‘What the . . . ? You! Get out! I’m calling the police.’
‘Any chance of a cup of tea, love?’ he replies from halfway up the stairs, and now my patience is stretched like a piece of well-chewed Hubba Bubba.
‘Get out!’ I shout again, dropping the heavy bag at my feet, picking up a cushion from the settee, aiming it and throwing it at him. He bats it off with one arm and Hagrid laughs.
‘Emmy, leave it. Let them do what they have to do,’ Dad tries again, attempting to stand but failing, weak with the shock.
‘Emmy?’ Hagrid frowns suddenly and looks at me. ‘Emmy Bridges?’
I notice a roll of orange stickers protruding from his jacket pocket and that he’s stuck some on the television, the DVD player and the old piano that hasn’t been opened in years.
‘What do you mean, let them rob us blind in broad daylight?’ I say to Dad, and then turn back to Hagrid.
‘And how do you know my name?’
‘I’m sorry, love, I should have told you.’ Dad shakes his head, beaten.
‘Told me what?’ I fold my arms and frown at Hagrid, who really does seem vaguely familiar.
‘I can’t believe it.’ Hagrid suddenly grins broadly. ‘It’s Graham . . . Graham Bingley.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’
‘Graham Bingley. We were at primary school together. You took me home that day that I got picked on by Louis Tudor and his mates. They took my cookery homework. Mini sponge cakes. They crumbled them up, chucked them on the floor and stamped on them. Then they started on me,’ he says more quietly. ‘You were walking home with your mate, Layla. You came running across the park, told them to bugger off. You put your arm round me and walked me home. My mum was so grateful.’
A vague memory starts to wind its way into my mind.
‘She made me make more cakes and brought them round as a thank you.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ I say, nodding. ‘So you went on to become a career burglar, terrorising old men. She must be really proud.’
He laughs again. ‘No, actually, I’m a . . .’ He looks at his hands for a moment. ‘Mum died, a year ago.’
I say nothing but swallow hard, feeling my cheeks flush.
‘I’m giving this up, actually. Off to college. You’re one of my last jobs,’ he says brightly.
I let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I’m sorry, I’m still not getting this.’ This man is robbing our house and I’m getting sucked into a schooldays catch-up. I look at Graham Bingley, baffled, and then at Dad.
‘He’s a bailiff, love. He’s come to mark up what they can take if we don’t pay off the mortgage arrears.’ Dad flops back in his worn green wing-back chair. ‘He’s just doing his job.’
Graham Bingley grins at me, waiting for my delighted response.
I can hear the other man walking about upstairs, in our bedrooms, mine and Dad’s, whistling as he rifles through our drawers. I shut my eyes. This ca
n’t be happening. I mean, we’ve never got any money but I had no idea things had got this bad.
‘I just got a bit behind, love. My savings ran out and then . . . well, I just couldn’t stretch what we had coming in.’
‘Why didn’t you ask me for more, Dad?’
‘I couldn’t, love. You already give me nearly everything you earn.’ He drops his head into his hands. I turn back to the bailiff.
‘Graham,’ playing on our schooldays connection now, ‘please . . .’ I hold out a hand towards Dad, imploring the big man.
Graham’s smile drops and he looks as if he’s thinking very hard. I hold my breath.
‘Look,’ he says finally, ‘I just have to take them something . . . anything. Can you make the last payment?’ He picks up and holds out a clipboard with some figures in red on it and with a sharp intake of breath I read the list of missed payments. I look at him, shaking my head slowly.
‘To be honest, like I say, there’s not a lot here of value,’ he says gently. Then he looks at me very seriously. ‘If you don’t do something, they’ll take the house, Emmy.’
‘What? They can’t!’ I reel back. ‘This is our home.’ I look around the 1950s three-bedroom semi that has been my family’s since I was in secondary school.
‘But you don’t own it. You still have a mortgage. They can,’ he says, more like a gentle giant now. ‘Look, like I say, I’m leaving the job, going to catering college. Mum passing over made me realise, you’ve got to go out there and grab life.’ He gives a little grin as if I’d understand. ‘Let me take them back something, then I’ll put the paperwork to the bottom of the pile, buy you some time so you can start to get a handle on this.’ He glances from Dad to me, and I realise I have to take this offer. It’s that or they’ll be back for the house in next to no time. I nod quickly.
‘Thank you,’ I stammer.
‘What can you give me to take back to the office?’ He looks around for something of value.
I think about the money in my bag, for the collection I’ve just organised in the office for another worker, Candy, and her new fiancé’s engagement. Trevor, my boss, always gives me the job of looking after the collection and then buying cava and cakes on the way into work on a Friday.