Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  Rounding another corner I see two crumbling stone gateposts and feel a little skip of hope. Either side of the gateposts there is a low, crumbling wall, overgrown with ivy. Big round moss-covered stones sit where they have fallen in long grass, either side of the wall and at the foot of the posts. I’m in the middle of nowhere, away from Petit Frère and nowhere near Saint Enrique yet. There is a cooling breeze up here that I’m grateful for. Behind the gateposts, through the trees, I can see a sorry-looking farmhouse. I’m not even sure it’s inhabited.

  I push the bike up the track, the smell of lavender and wild herbs even stronger here.

  ‘Hello! Bonjour!’ I call, leaning the bike gently up against the wall of the house, and little pieces of stone fall away. ‘Bonjour!’ I call again but no one answers. There is a distant hum in the air, of tractors in the fields. Perhaps everyone is out there working. Apart from the hum, there’s no other sign of life at all, nothing.

  ‘Hello!’ I try for a third time.

  Suddenly I hear a deep, lazy ‘woof’ and then a huge, terracotta-red dog, with wrinkles around his face and with skin way too big for his body, like he’s wearing a onesie two sizes too big, lumbers to his feet and throws himself towards me. I stand still and put out a hand. He holds his head up and lets out a long, low howl, and long strings of drool start to slide from his mouth. Realising the dog is far more effective as a front doorbell than an actual threat, I hold out my hand again, inviting him to sniff it.

  ‘Hey there, bonjour,’ I say, letting him sniff my hand and then rubbing his red and greying head. He stops barking and sniffs some more. Then, without warning, he shakes his massive head and before I can back away, the strings of drool fly up into the air and off his jowls, like rubber bands from a band gun, released into the air and landing right on target, all down my trouser leg.

  ‘Ew!’ I look at the streak of slime. Holding out my hands, I have no idea how to get it off but I can’t help but laugh and I rub the dog’s head again. Then I walk, stiff legged, hoping the slime won’t seep through the fabric, looking for a leaf or something to wipe it with and hoping the dog will lead me to his owner. The dog, however, just flops back down to where he was in the middle of the yard. I walk across the yard, behind the farmhouse, and there in front of me, dropping away down a steep slope, are rows and rows of vines. The wind blows and strands of my hair fly across my face. I wish I hadn’t had it cut short now. At least if it was longer I’d be able to tie it back. I hold it away from my face. In the distance on the other side of the valley, towards Saint Enrique, is a large imposing château with a tractor and sprayer working just below it. Here, however, there are no tractors working the fields, spraying the vines either side with long arms stretched out. There is no sound nearby at all other than the occasional baa from the sheep in amongst the vines, obviously escaped from somewhere, the rush of wind in the leaves.

  ‘Hello, bonjour?’ I call again.

  Suddenly I hear a clanking noise coming from one of the barns. I turn away from the escaped sheep and retrace my steps towards the barn on the far side of the house. The big faded red dog lets out a gravelly bark once more but this time I manage to swerve him with a skip and laugh to avoid being slimed on again.

  The black wooden barn door is ajar. I can definitely hear clanking. Inside the long barn, to the left, are rows and rows of dark, aged barrels. In front of me are what look like concrete tanks. I push the door open and creep into the cool shadows, and then I see her – Madame Beaumont, the woman from the square – sitting on a small three-legged stool, cloth in one hand, large bowl of soapy water at her feet. She appears to be washing a huge quantity of green bottles. She lifts one from a bowl of soapy water and puts it next to some others. There are rows of them, set up like a ten-pin bowling alley. I step forward, and she looks up at me startled. I try to smile.

  ‘Madame Beaumont?’

  She frowns, deeply. ‘Oui?’ she says gruffly. ‘I am Adele Beaumont.’ I think she’s about to throw me off her land, recognising me as the hooligan who insulted her in the town square earlier.

  In the distance I hear the church bell strike. It’s a different bell from the one in Petit Frère. It must be Saint Enrique’s. Then it rings again and I’m not sure whether that means it’s one o’clock or two. But I know I have to get back. I can’t be late. I think about Charlie and those sparkling green eyes and my tummy gives another little squeeze of excitement even though I tell it to stop being silly. But I have to get back and cleaned up. I look down at the drool smeared across my trouser leg. I have bits of the hedgerow in my hair and my blouse is sticking to my back. I tuck another loose strand of hair back behind my ear. I can’t turn up for my first meeting looking like this!

  Madame Beaumont is still frowning and I need to make this as simple as possible. She is now more suspicious than ever. I grapple for the purse in my pocket and pull it out. Recognising it, she looks up at me in horror. Oh God! Now she thinks I’ve stolen it from her.

  ‘Votre . . .’ I can’t think of the word for purse. ‘Um, oh, what’s the word?’ I hold it out.

  ‘My purse,’ she finally says in clear English.

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ Thank God she speaks English, I think, relieved I’m not about to insult her again with my bad French. But she’s still not looking very pleased that I’ve cycled all this way to bring it back to her.

  ‘How did you come to have it?’ She gives me a sideways suspicious stare.

  ‘You left it behind, in the square. I tried to call to you, but you . . .’ How do I tell her she looked at me as if I was a yob, shouting and insulting her.

  ‘You?’ Realisation is slowly seeping over her face. ‘It was you calling me?’ She rummages in the pocket of her blue and white overall, over her black dress and cardigan, despite the heat outside. Here in the barn it’s very cool but I’m still very warm and feeling slightly light headed. She pulls out some small wire specs and rests them on her nose; they settle at an angle.

  She looks at the purse and then back at me. I shift awkwardly from foot to foot, hoping to shake the dots that keep popping up in front of my eyes.

  ‘I couldn’t catch up with you, so I cycled here.’

  She slowly stands stiffly from her low milking stool. She pulls herself to her full height and still only reaches my chest. She has a slight stoop. Her long grey hair is pulled back in a bun. She puts out her thin, knobbly arthritic hand slowly towards the purse. She has dark brown eyes, bright like a vole’s, and actually quite a whiskery chin, too. She is small, neat but plain.

  ‘Merci,’ she says with a nod and a look of disbelief and, frankly, mistrust.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I hurry. ‘Like I say, you left it when you were sorting out your bags and I ran after you but couldn’t catch you. I asked in the shop where you lived.’

  She looks down at the purse as if only believing it’s hers now it’s in her hand.

  ‘You are . . .’ still with some hesitation, ‘très gentile. Very kind. I’m sorry, I must have seemed very rude.’ But she doesn’t explain any further. Then she opens the purse up, checking I haven’t robbed her, I suppose. My shoulders droop. I’m suddenly exhausted from the ride. I turn to leave. I need to get back. Hopefully the wind outside will help this blurriness I’m feeling.

  ‘Please,’ Madame Beaumont says suddenly, and I turn back to her. She’s holding out a worn note. ‘Take this, for your kindness.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ I hold up a hand. ‘I don’t want your money. I just wanted you to have your purse back.’ Oh Lor’, now I’ve probably offended her. She stares at me, still holding out the note. I back off, my hands up.

  ‘Really, it’s not necessary.’ I wave my hands some more, backing away. ‘I just came with the purse.’ I suddenly feel even more light headed, my head starting to spin, but carry on still backing away. ‘I have to get back.’ My head then dips and spins so much tha
t I throw my hand out to steady myself, and my head does cartwheels and I feel hot, then cold and very sick. I back into whatever’s behind me, grabbing for something to steady me.

  ‘Oh shit!’ Dark spots dance before my eyes. Suddenly bottles are crashing around my feet as I back into them and I try to turn in the right direction to stop myself, but end up knocking over more. Madame Beaumont is still staring at me as I spin this way and that, trying to right the fallen bottles. Then everything goes black and I tumble to the floor, barely noticing the rest of the bottles as they fall like skittles around me.

  I come round to the sound of church bells ringing in the distance. I look down at my watch and try to focus on the hands, try to remember if it was an hour ahead or an hour slow.

  ‘I’m going to be late.’ I panic and try to stand, but the spots are there like space invaders descending before my eyes again and I sit down heavily.

  ‘Take your time. Nothing is so important it can’t wait a little.’ Madame Beaumont is handing me water in a small worn blue glass.

  Then she leads me across the courtyard and into her kitchen. At least I think it’s her kitchen. It seems to be her kitchen, sitting room and, if I’m not mistaken, bedroom as well. It’s dark. The shutters on one wall aren’t open. But it’s also very cool, which is such a relief.

  There is a large wood burner on one side and a selection of Formica units on the other. There are hanging wires down the wall and in the middle is a blue 1950s Formica table. Madame Beaumont gestures for me to sit and I sip the cup of cold water on a small Formica-covered chair. The room is disorganised, to say the least. There are piles of papers everywhere and she had to move a pile just to let me sit down. She puts down a little plate with a worn, gold edge with a cut-up orange on it.

  ‘It is very hot. You have heat exhaustion. You must stay out of the sun in the midday and take plenty of liquids. Try to eat something.’

  I nod. Heat exhaustion – of course – I think, feeling foolish, and tentatively suck on the orange, though I really need to get on my way. Its juice suddenly squirts into every corner of my mouth, taking me by surprise, filling my taste buds with flavour. Wow! It’s amazing. Strangely, I’m starting to feel a lot better. The spots begin to fade and I help myself to another piece of orange and it does the same thing again. I finish the water and Madame Beaumont refills the glass.

  An elderly black and white cat sits on a pile of unsteady newspapers, eyeing me suspiciously, much like Madame Beaumont did when I first arrived. But this woman seems very different from the one the shopkeepers and the mayor were talking about. They said she had a reputation for being stand-offish and unfriendly. Admittedly she was fairly stand-offish when I first arrived but once she realised I was just doing something kind, she seemed surprised and now she couldn’t be more helpful and welcoming. I can’t help but wonder what’s happened to make her that suspicious to start with.

  ‘Thank you so much, I’m feeling much better now,’ I say, trying to stand again. ‘I really must get back. I have to be at Featherstone’s by two.’

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Featherstone. How is he?’

  For a moment I think she’s talking about Charlie and then I realise she must mean Charlie’s father, the Mr Featherstone.

  ‘Um, I’m not sure. I haven’t met him.’

  She nods. ‘He was a businessman in the UK. An accountant, I believe. But then he had a health scare and he decided to follow his true passion in life: wine. So he started to buy wine from small buyers out here and import it to the UK in his van. He worked hard and now . . . well, he has a big business. But I understand he’s been unwell.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ I say truthfully, but I’m pleased to hear that the company sounds like a caring, family-run one. ‘It’s his son I’m working for. I have a meeting at two.’ I must get back.

  ‘Can I get you something else to eat?’ Madame Beaumont turns stiffly, pulls opens a small fridge and peers inside. The light is on, but it seems to be empty. I’m guessing she probably doesn’t eat that much herself, judging by her birdlike frame.

  ‘Really, I’m fine.’ I stand and push the chair under the table. A pile of papers wobbles but doesn’t fall. Madame Beaumont looks around for something. I follow her eyes.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t give you something for your trouble? Where did I put my purse?’ She looks around and I point to it in the nearly empty fruit bowl.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And, no. I really don’t want anything.’

  Her eyes narrow again and there’s a hint of suspicion still there.

  ‘It’s me that’s caused you trouble. Let me return later to help put right the mess I made of the bottles in your barn.’

  ‘Le chai?’

  ‘Le . . . ?’

  ‘Shay,’ she says slowly.

  ‘Shay,’ I repeat.

  ‘Good,’ she smiles. ‘It means a wine-making barn, or cellar.’

  ‘I’ll come and help put right the mess,’ I tell her again.

  ‘Puh . . .’ She waves a hand. ‘It’s no problem. I’ll get it sorted. Don’t worry.’

  ‘No, please, I’d like to.’ I can’t bear the thought of giving this old lady extra work though I can’t imagine she’s running this place on her own; there’s no way she could.

  ‘Don’t you have a machine to do the bottling?’ I ask politely as she walks me to my bike. I bend and pat the fading red dog as we pass, moving on quickly before he swings his head again.

  ‘A machine? Pah! Machines are only as good as the men who work them,’ she says. ‘Tell Mr Featherstone I’ll have my wine ready to collect in a few weeks.’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply.

  All the more reason to help put right the mess I’ve caused, I think. This lady is clearly one of Featherstone’s suppliers and I don’t want her talking badly about the new staff, saying we turned up and created a riot and left her to clean up the mess. That won’t help my time here, or ensure I keep my job with Trevor. She walks with me to the road, where she sticks a hand straight out and I look down at it and realise I’m to shake it.

  ‘Au revoir,’ she says, encouraging me with a smile to reply in French.

  ‘Au revoir,’ I say, shaking her hand, up and down twice. She nods again. ‘But I insist on coming back to help.’ And with that I swing my leg over the bike saddle, and my thigh and buttock muscles cry out in pain. I’m going to be stiff later. I turn the bike down the hill and, with a wave to Madame Beaumont, I pedal off, hoping my journey back will be a lot quicker.

  It is. And a lot less controlled. I zip past the busy vineyards, the nodding sunflowers, my loose curls flying across my face and the smell of wild thyme and lavender all around me. I shut my eyes and hug the hedgerow when a tractor passes and, with the stone bridge now in sight, head back towards the Featherstone’s Wines headquarters. I am hot, sweating and my bum and thighs ache so much I may never be able to sit down again. I should just have enough time to wash my face in the toilets and try to tidy my hair as best I can. I dump the bike against the gîte wall and limp past the wisteria tree towards the big glass double doors where Candy, Nick and Gloria are standing together with a familiar figure in the cool shadows. My heart stops. It’s Charlie.

  ‘Ah, I thought we’d lost one already,’ he says, smiling good-naturedly, and I blush and breathe a sigh of relief he’s not cross. Then I try to sidle in behind the others so as to cover up my messy appearance. My heart is racing and I’m slightly out of breath. Nick gives me a raised eyebrow and Candy is practically repulsed.

  ‘Sorry, I got lost . . . and hot. Hot and lost, sorry.’

  ‘Easily done on a first day,’ he says quickly, and then pulls back a big, friendly smile. ‘But let’s try and be on time from now on.’ Charlie’s obviously keen on punctuality, which usually I would be too. ‘Well, if we’re all here now, we’ll make a start.�
�� I take a deep breath, relieved I’m not getting a bollocking on my first day. That really would prove Trevor right. I put my hands together and listen, ignoring the looks up and down from Candy, the little snigger from Nick and the tiny sidestep away from Gloria. Charlie Featherstone is a very nice man, I decide, a very nice one indeed, and I allow myself a tiny smile.

  Just then my phone rings.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mouth, and glance at the screen. Charlie, who is about to start his welcome speech, raises an eyebrow and is obviously expecting me to ignore it. But I can’t. I put up a hand by way of apology.

  ‘Hello, Dad?’ I answer, and turn away from the others while I tell him where to find the tin opener and listen to him telling me how much colder it’s getting.

  ‘I’m in a meeting, Dad. With my new boss, Charlie Featherstone.’

  ‘Oh! Right. Are they OK, the new people?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Lovely, Dad, really great, but I have to go.’ I quickly press the off button and finish my call, my heart racing. I don’t want to push my luck. ‘Oh, by the way,’ I tell Charlie as I’m putting my phone into my pocket and tucking another loose strand of hair behind my ear, ‘I nearly forgot. I have a message for you. The Clos Beaumont wine will be ready for collection in a few weeks.’ Then I catch sight of the slime stain on my thigh and a small twig falls from my hair on to the floor, and I hope with all my heart he hasn’t noticed. But as I look up slowly, Charlie is no longer smiling. In fact, his face has very much darkened and I have no idea why.