Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Three courses with wine? For lunch?’ Candy squeaks.

  The younger woman nods and Monsieur Obels takes the broom from her and leans on it, nodding.

  ‘Of course,’ she smiles. ‘Or there is the café next door. They have a more . . . tourist menu. Omelettes, croque monsieur, chicken wings.’

  Madame Obels tosses apples from a nearly finished box into a full one. Big green and red apples, like cricket balls.

  ‘What’s a crap monsieur?’ Candy grimaces and Isabelle laughs. The rotund shopkeeper looks as bemused as his wife.

  ‘Actually,’ I cut across Candy with urgency, ‘I need to find the lady I was just telling you about. The one who was just in here. She left her purse.’ I hold it up.

  ‘Oh, Madame Beaumont,’ Isabelle nods sagely.

  This time Monsieur and Madame Obels both raise their eyebrows and turn down their mouths disapprovingly.

  ‘She lives out at Clos Beaumont, on the road between here and Saint Enrique, the next town, up the hill.’ Isabelle looks to her father for confirmation. He nods.

  ‘I’d like to get it back to her,’ I tell her.

  ‘You won’t get any thanks from her,’ Madame Obels joins in, and sniffs disapprovingly.

  ‘She doesn’t speak to anyone really,’ explains Isabelle.

  A man in a suit comes into the shop and they all turn their attention to him, shaking his hand and kissing both cheeks.

  ‘From Featherstone’s . . .’ Monsieur gestures to us by way of explanation and then says something in French about the purse I’m holding and the man, in the cream trousers held with a leather belt, nods.

  ‘Monsieur le Maire,’ Monsieur Obels introduces him to us and the man shakes our hands.

  ‘I understand you’re looking for Madame Beaumont to give her back her purse,’ he says. ‘You won’t get a reward,’ he goes on, smiling widely. ‘She doesn’t mix with local people, let alone visitors.’

  I’m a little taken aback. Madame Obels picks up the empty apple box and sniffs loudly again. ‘It goes back a long way.’

  ‘You can leave it here, if you like,’ Isabelle offers with a shrug.

  It’s my turn to frown. ‘I don’t want a reward. I want to give her back her purse. She’ll need it.’ I feel hot and bothered as I turn back to Isabelle, who seems more help than the others. ‘Could you just tell me where to go? Actually, could you write it down?’ I ask her.

  ‘I’ll draw you a map,’ she says, and Monsieur le Maire agrees this is the best plan. She takes a pad and pen from behind the till and draws a little sketch. I take the paper and thank her.

  I know that I’d want someone to do this for my dad if he left his wallet behind.

  I look down at the old, cracked leather purse and take a deep breath.

  ‘OK, I’m going to go and give this back to her,’ I inform the others, now gathered here and looking at me like I’m crazy. Madame Obels tuts and Monsieur turns away. Monsieur le Maire shrugs with a knowing smile. How could they be so uncaring?

  ‘Just make sure you’re back by two. You don’t want to blow it on your first day,’ says Nick, arching an eyebrow.

  He’s right, of course. The last thing I should be doing on my first day here is scouring back roads for a house and a woman I’ve never met, and who may or may not thank me. I look at Madame Obels, who sniffs again, and with it my hackles rise higher. I may not know where this old lady lives, but I know I have to try to find her.

  I can’t believe that only two days ago I was standing at the cash machine just round the corner from work, watching it slowly whirring out my last tenner. Yesterday I was clinging on to my job by my fingernails and now I’m here. I look around the town square as I turn to walk down towards the wide, fast-moving river. The trees along each riverbank bend their long branches into the water. Birds dip in and out of the trees, or dive across the river like little bomber planes. Swans gather and mingle serenely. There is the occasional splosh in the water, and I’m thinking it’s a fish but it’s too quick for me to see.

  I really do feel like pinching myself. When we arrived first thing this morning we were met at the airport by Jean François, or Jeff, as he told us to call him.

  ‘Bonjour, bienvenue,’ he said, helping us with our cases, before rattling away, partly in French, partly in English, in a thick accent, very, very quickly. I could just manage to pick out the odd word, but between us we worked out he worked at Featherstone’s in la cave – the cellar – with the wines. He was ‘a vintner’, he said, grinning and showing dark purple teeth, responsible for the settling of the grape juice and the fermentation of the grapes.

  ‘Les raisins!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ze grapes!’ and laughed. As he drove us at speed from the airport, he talked, gesticulating with one hand, the other on the wheel. Sometimes he swapped them, and at some point I think he may have been talking with both hands off the wheel. Gloria sat next to him, nodding shyly but saying nothing, holding her fan close to her face for the entire journey.

  Nick, Candy and I were squashed into the back of an ancient Renault covered in dents, our cases on our laps, and Candy’s spilling over on to everyone else’s. As we left the town and Jeff slewed the car, together with us and our cases, along roads that became country lanes, small patches of vines began to appear, squeezed in between buildings. Even the roundabouts had vines growing on them! Then the closer we got to our destination of Petit Frère, the more vineyards there were. Rows and rows of twisted trunks, with large leaves and big bunches of grapes on them. Dotted along the sides of the road were big cream and terracotta-roofed properties, with ornate gates and majestic evergreens in the gardens.

  ‘Les châteaux.’ The big wine houses, Jeff told us. Then he pointed to a beautiful town on the hill ahead.

  ‘Saint Enrique, throwing its shadow over the smaller town at its feet,’ he said, gesticulating as if he were playing an elaborate game of charades. ‘Where wine lovers flock and tourists pay over-the-top prices when they could come to Petit Frère and have better wine,’ he said passionately. ‘Taking from us here . . .’

  ‘A bit like whoever took my engagement collection!’ Candy piped up.

  ‘Terrible,’ Nick said, tutting. ‘Who’d stoop that low?’

  Gloria dipped her head lower.

  My toes curled. My cheeks burned. I wondered, just for a second, whether to say something, get it out in the open, but decided against it, determined to put everything right in the end. I knew I couldn’t let them find out who I was: Emmy from cleaning products, the one who’d ‘borrowed’ the office collection last week. I needed to keep my head down and stay out of their way.

  I stared out the window, taking in the light brown soil, the rows of vines reaching far across the fields with the occasional tractor travelling up and down the rows, spraying the crops. I noticed, too, rows of cypress trees standing tall at every point on the skyline.

  Jeff swung his old Renault through the town, past the church and the fountain, giving a wave and a shout through his open window to friends sitting outside a café. He drove towards the river before veering off to the left and continuing along its banks, slowing briefly before swinging the car in through big stone gateposts and pulling up on a white gravel courtyard with a crunch and shower of little stones.

  Finally we arrived at Featherstone’s Wines, where Colette, the office manager, met us and introduced herself while Jeff deposited our cases in the courtyard. I looked around as if I were The Doctor’s assistant emerging from the Tardis, not knowing what to expect. Jeff bid us ‘au revoir’, wishing us a ‘bon après-midi’, before disappearing off with a toot of the horn and a wave through the window.

  All around the courtyard I noticed old, but smartly converted one-storey barn buildings that had been turned into a shop, offices, and a winery by the look of the barrels I could see through the open doors.<
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  There was an old and twisted wisteria tree right in the middle of the courtyard, with seats around its trunk, giving off a heady perfume in the heat of the day.

  Opposite the offices and shop was a smart house, made from cream stone. There were long-paned windows along the front with neatly tied-back bright white net curtains. Grey and white stone pillars stood either side of the grey front door. This, Colette told us, as she showed us to the gîte at the back of the house, was where the Featherstone family lived part of the year. The gîte was a smaller building attached to la grande maison. It had a small garden with a white metal table and chairs, next to a smart brick barbecue, and looked out on to the river. The gîte, Colette told us with lots of hand signals, and speaking slowly and loudly, was used for holidaymakers wanting wine tours in the season.

  But for the next twelve weeks it was to be our home.

  Candy was like a sprinter out of the starting blocks as she raced in through the gîte front door, ignoring the shabby chic living room, with its imposing stone fireplace, dark leather settees with soft grey throws draped over the arms, a big-screen TV and music system. This place had been done up like an interiors magazine set: rustic meets modern. Not like the rest of Petit Frère, which was exactly how I’d expected a traditional French town to look.

  Beyond the living room was the kitchen with a round table and chairs in the middle of the room, whitewashed dresser on one side with terracotta fruit bowl, full of apples and oranges, and a big gilt-edged mirror on the far wall. The place smelled overwhelmingly of lavender furniture polish. Candy had raced up the white-painted stairs, doing a quick recce of the rooms, before bagging the biggest twin at the front for herself. Then she had noisily banged her case up the stairs, taking paintwork with it.

  Gloria and Nick looked at each other with amused, raised eyebrows and then we all followed her. Whilst Candy was already unpacking her clothes all over the floor, we looked around the other rooms and then congregated on the landing.

  ‘How about you take the smaller double at the front, Gloria?’ Nick bossed us around, but actually I was quite grateful. Decision making never was my strong point. ‘Is that all right with you, Emmy?’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ Gloria said quietly.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, overbrightly.

  ‘I’ll take the attic room,’ Nick said, pointing to a narrow flight of stairs, ‘and you can have that one.’ He indicated the single room at the top of the stairs, with a small en-suite under the eaves. I could see why Trevor had picked Nick to come on this course. He had us all organised and happy, the perfect gentleman.

  It took Candy some time to decide what to wear before we headed into town for lunch. It was easy for me: I’d brought the only summer clothes I had in my wardrobe, a couple of pairs of knee-length cut-offs I’d customised from jeans I’d bought in my favourite charity shop round the corner from work. It supports a local dogs’ home where I help out every now and again with dog walking. I’d love a dog but I can’t have one while I’m out at work all day and Dad wouldn’t cope with the walking.

  I get most of my T-shirts in the shop, nipping round there in my lunch break when they have new donations in. I’ve brought my favourites with me, my faded and worn Nelson Mandela one, a Stereophonics one, my Take That one from after Robbie left the first time around, and another with the dogs’ home logo itself. I’ve got a couple of ones I’ve tie-dyed and my absolute favourite Live Aid one, even though I was only four when it took place. And my ‘I love Portugal’ one. It has holes it in now, and I’ve patched it with denim that doesn’t match. But I don’t care. I love that T-shirt. It was my Mum’s. I live in T-shirts – the bigger the better. They hide the fact that I’ve got practically no boobs and I’m pear shaped. And as I’m only five foot three they always cover said bottom. Apart from T-shirts there’s a pair of trainers I bought from the charity shop for dog walking. And the suits I bought from the big supermarket on the outskirts of town, as my boss, Trevor, told me to. ‘Be like the others, like Candy, be more business-like,’ he said to me before I left. I was determined to do that, even if it maxed out my credit card. I bought the two suits and had my curly blond hair cut into a manageable short bob. Only problem is, instead of being manageable, it seems to have gone even curlier. One of the new suits I was wearing and finding unbearably hot. The other was packed. I had certainly brought a micro wardrobe. Unlike Candy, who seemed to have brought an entire one.

  ‘Is that all you’ve brought?’ Candy had sneered at the airport. My case was dwarfed by her large case on wheels, which matched her travel bag and make-up bag. I’d only brought my mascara, eyeliner and lipstick. I don’t really wear that much make-up.

  ‘Travelling light,’ I’d told her. ‘I plan to buy what I need while I’m out here.’ That was a lie. Any wages I had coming my way would have to go straight into the bank account back home to start chipping into the mortgage arrears. There wouldn’t be any money left over for shopping.

  I slipped off my black waist-length jacket and put it over my arm, revealing a short-sleeved cream blouse I’d bought at the same time as the suit, catching my little silver neck-lace as I did. It’s a tiny silver curvy letter ‘E’ I had from Mum when I finished my A levels. I can remember my mum’s proud expression when I opened the box and held it up. I patted it back down now, and wished I could have slipped my sparkly flip-flops on, another of my charity shop finds, but instead stuck to the new court shoes instead, to try to give the right impression. Then I attempted to tie my wilful hair back, but it was too short. I tried to pin it in at the sides, but it just sprung out from different places, refusing to comply, and I kept having to tuck it behind my ears.

  Nick had changed and was suitably dressed in light chinos, deck shoes and a light pink polo shirt with the collar turned up, a lightweight sweater draped around his shoulders. Gloria was wearing a large, voluminous kaftan-like dress and a huge sun hat and big sunglasses, hiding any expression, fanning herself. She looked like a woman on holiday. But this wasn’t a holiday, I reminded myself, it was work. I blew out my hot red cheeks, remembering the promise I’d made to myself and Trevor that I wouldn’t mess this up.

  Of all the sales agents at Cadwallader’s, I am the very last person he would have chosen to send here. When I arrived at the call centre yesterday morning without the usual Friday cava and cream buns, Trevor called me into his office.

  ‘What do you mean, no cream buns?’

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ I stammered, and then blurted out, ‘I had to borrow the collection money.’ Much as I would have liked to have come up with an excuse, I couldn’t. I’ve never been very good at lying.

  ‘What?’ Trevor loosened his tie, outraged. ‘They’ll have your guts for garters out there,’ he pointed to the sales room beyond his office window, ‘if they find out you’ve nicked the office collection. This isn’t like you. What’s got into you?’

  ‘It was important, an emergency.’ My dad’s face, pale at the prospect of losing his home, came into my mind.

  ‘Oh, Emmy, what am I going to do with you?’ Trevor ran his hands down his face. ‘Your sales are terrible. Listen to this.’ He pressed play on his iPad, and out of a loudspeaker came a recording of me making one of my weekly sales calls to one of my regular customers, asking how he is, asking how his wife is getting over her varicose veins operation and him telling me about his bumper runner bean crop this year. As the call went on Trevor covered his face with his hands and bent lower and lower on to the desk until his head was resting there.

  Humiliation burned my cheeks and my protests caught in my tight throat. Then fury flared up inside me.

  ‘Mr Jones didn’t need any more cleaning products. I wasn’t going to push them on him just to help me get some figures on my sale sheet.’

  ‘But that’s what we’re here to do, Emmy, sell things.’ He looked up, exasperated.

  ‘He has
an animal sanctuary. He needs all the help he can get,’ I argued back. Sometimes I sent him end of lines and free samples with his order, but I wasn’t going to tell Trevor that.

  ‘What exactly am I going to do with you, Emmy? You haven’t sold a thing all week.’

  I knew I should just be quiet, but my mouth kept going, arguing my point.

  ‘But I just don’t think we should encourage our customers to buy stock they don’t need,’ I protested. ‘Surely it’s better to sell something to someone who wants it. You shouldn’t force people into parting with their hard-earned money, you know.’

  ‘But that’s the point, Emmy, we’re here to sell stock. If we don’t sell, we go out of business. You’re too . . . what’s the word? Too kind.’

  I began to panic. What if this was it? What if he was fed up of giving me warnings to step up my game? What if he really was going to sack me?

  ‘Please, Trev, I really need this job. I need the money right now.’ Although my basic wage was very basic, it was better than nothing. ‘I’ll try harder, I really will.’

  ‘You can’t let your emotions get in the way. You have to visualise your goals in life. What do you want for yourself? A new car, a holiday, a penthouse apartment down the Bay? You need to be more like some of the other agents. You’re bright. Look and learn from them.’

  ‘Trevor, I’m thirty-five.’ I looked at him incredulously. Most of the agents at Cadwallader’s, like Candy and Dean, and Candy’s best friend, Harmony, are still in their twenties with all of life’s steps to take. All I wanted was enough money to pay off my mortgage arrears and the electricity bill. With Dad being at home all day, it’s a big house to heat. Too big for the two of us really, but that’s how it is.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘There must be something?’

  How could I tell him? The thing I’d love is so far from where I’m at. I want to be like the other women here, like my sister, climbing up life’s ladder, getting engaged, married. Share my life with someone. Start a business together – a B&B by the sea, maybe. Be like my best friend, Layla. We used to work together, but she’s running a seafood restaurant in West Wales now, The Lobster Pot. It’s beautiful there. I really miss her. But she’s found her place in life and someone to share it with. I’d like anything rather than having to phone people up and trying to sell them more of what they already have or don’t need. More than anything, I’d like a family of my own, children. But time is running out for me on that one. Right now, it’s just me and Dad, and what I really want is for the red bills to stop falling through the door. I just want to stop worrying about the electricity being cut off before my pay cheque comes in and that I can keep the bailiffs from taking the house on my pathetic basic salary.