Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Don’t mind him. He’s just taking a little time adjusting to the idea that Charlie wants to take things in a new direction. Out with the old, in with the new.’ She gives a light-hearted laugh, like a school teacher calming a playground spat. Mr Featherstone harrumphs again.

  ‘Do you have family of your own?’ Lena Featherstone smiles and asks.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘just my dad. Well, and my sister. But we don’t see her much. She has a family of her own. Two boys. She’s very busy. But Dad, well, he needs . . . looking after . . .’ I can’t really say anything else. I can’t tell this lady we don’t see my sister because she’s the reason we’re in this mess. And I can’t tell her I care for my dad because he’s ill. He’s not ill like Mr Featherstone – there’s nothing physically wrong with him – he just doesn’t cope. He hasn’t coped for years now. I check my phone and notice three missed calls from him.

  ‘You live with your dad?’

  ‘Yup,’ I try to nod enthusiastically.

  ‘Not married or engaged then?’

  ‘Nope.’ I still try to keep it light, wishing I could add something more interesting other than I have a serious charity shop habit, an addiction to Location, Location, Location, and my regular Saturday night date on the sofa is with Strictly Come Dancing and a packet of HobNobs.

  Across the table Candy is describing the new car she’s just bought and the apartment she lives in that she’s going to rent out when she moves in with her fiancé, Dean.

  At our side of the table conversation has run dry. I don’t have a new car or place of my own or fiancé or family to talk about. The truth is, I have a rubbish job that barely covers the bills because I never make my bonuses, I’ve had a string of unsuccessful boyfriends. A small string. But then it’s not easy bringing a new boyfriend home when your sixty-five-year-old father is waiting up with Horlicks and garibaldis.

  I see Mr Featherstone looking at Charlie and Isaac, heads together talking intently. Mrs Featherstone is breaking up some bread for him. He seems to be able to use his left hand. In the corner of the restaurant, before a doorway to the toilets, I see a wheelchair and realise it’s his. Thank goodness he has Mrs Featherstone by his side, and again I feel for my dad, who has no one. That’s why I have to stay at home. There are candles along the table that light up Charlie’s tanned face. Isaac picks up a glass of wine by the stem and swirls it round, sniffing before taking a sip.

  Our starters arrive. The woman I think is the proprietress and two waitresses appear with plates and bowls. Mine is French onion soup, dark brown, with little clear glossy pools dotted across the surface from the melting cheese, on a round of toasted French bread sitting like an island in the middle of the deep white bowl. I breathe in and get a hit of garlic and brandy, if I’m not mistaken. Candy’s is crevettes – prawns – orange and pink in yellow melted garlic butter, sprinkled with garlic. But I’m guessing it’s not quite what Candy was expecting or what Nick had described.

  ‘I thought you said it was like a prawn cocktail!’

  ‘Oh, give it here.’ Nick leans over and cracks off the crevette heads and peels off the shells and legs for her, rinsing his hands in the finger bowl with a slice of lemon in it. But Candy just grimaces and eats bread laden with white butter.

  ‘Urgh! I think they forget to put the salt in this butter,’ she moans, whilst trying to listen in on Isaac and Charlie’s conversation, ignoring Nick’s efforts.

  With Candy’s starter untouched – and I can’t help thinking what a waste – the plates are cleared from behind us. I hear Mr Featherstone harrumph again in Charlie’s direction. Charlie, realising what his father is expecting of him, drags himself from his conversation with Isaac and raises his glass.

  ‘I’d like to take this opportunity to welcome you all on behalf of the Featherstone family,’ he lifts his glass to his father and mother, ‘to our town of Petit Frère and to Featherstone’s Wines. Perhaps we could take a moment to introduce ourselves. I’m Charlie Featherstone. I have a track record in sales, mostly food and drink, and I’m happy to now be joining the family business. My father,’ he indicates Mr Featherstone, ‘and my mother, Lena,’ he nods again at her and smiles ensuring he hadn’t forgotten her part in things, ‘set up this business together. Petit Frère has long been seen as the town living in the shadows of the well-known wine destination of Saint Enrique next door, on the hill. But it is my aim to take the Featherstone’s business forward and with it give Petit Frère the reputation it deserves in its own right. We will be one of the biggest wine distributors around, a household name. Now then, who’s next?’

  We go around the table introducing ourselves and raise our glasses to ‘the Featherstone team’.

  ‘So, single, you say?’ Lena turns and asks me.

  ‘Oh, er, yes.’

  ‘No, I can’t think we’ve ever had an office collection for you, have we, Emmy?’ Candy pulls down her mouth and cocks her head on one side. ‘Best sales agent of the week? Engagement? House warming? Can’t think I’ve seen you get anything.’ She shakes her head, teasing me, and I want to say, ‘That’s because you had my share!’ but I can’t. I still have to find a way of getting her latest collection back to her.

  ‘Of course, as I’ve said, Charlie is single,’ Lena says with a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Mother!’ Charlie warns, and Lena shrugs apologetically and laughs, and I squirm a little. Is it that obvious I find him attractive?

  ‘Just saying,’ Lean teases with a pink flush in her cheeks, which could be the white wine. But Candy narrows her eyes as if new possibilities and horizons are opening up in front of her eyes.

  ‘He’s always telling me off for trying to find him a –’ Lena looks at Candy and then back at me – ‘suitable girl.’

  ‘If someone calls you “suitable”, it means you’re sensible and boring,’ Candy says behind her hand, and I smart as if she’s slapped me. ‘I told you to ditch the nanny look.’ And of course, she’s right. I know full well I’d never be in the running with someone like Charlie. Although, I think ‘suitable’ is a good thing. It means you’re dependable, constant. I know my dad would think Charlie very ‘suitable’ and frankly, so would I. Candy, on the other hand, would never be described as that.

  ‘Of course, we want an even playing field for this job, Mrs Featherstone. No favouritism!’ Candy jokes with what feels like an iron fist in her velvet glove. She looks at Charlie and then back at me, then takes another swig of white wine from her glass before helping herself to the bottle on the table and topping it up.

  ‘Not that you’re really in the running, are you, Emmy?’ Candy continues, and I feel like the stooge on stage beside her. ‘I mean, the nearest you get to salesperson of the month is handing round the cakes and cava! Our own little Mrs Overall, like in Acorn Antiques!’

  She squawks with laughter and Isaac throws his head back and laughs too, and asks, ‘Who’s Mrs Overall? Sounds dreadful!’ The only one who isn’t smiling is Gloria, but she looks sorry for me, which is even worse. I want to throttle them both, Candy and Isaac. Candy juts out her chin at me, like she’s already grabbed the trophy. ‘In fact, if you get that job I’ll run naked down the street throwing toffees to children, and whistling the National Anthem.’

  I pick up my glass and sip at my wine, and suddenly something inside me snaps. I may not be the obvious choice for this job. I may not speak much French or be a top sales person, or a bookworm, but I do want this job more than anything. I’m fed up with being Emmy from cleaning products, who does the collections. I want to be something more. I’d give anything to take that job from underneath Candy’s nose, I really would.

  ‘Really?’ I say calmly. ‘I’d like to see that.’

  ‘So would I!’ pipes up Isaac flirtatiously, and Candy shrieks with laughter all over again.

  ‘OK, how about a bet?’ shrieks Candy with deligh
t. ‘Winner takes all.’

  ‘Now hang on . . .’ Nick tries to step in.

  ‘Tell you what. Seeing as you’ve never had a collection before, how about I bet you my engagement collection. Trevor’s bound to have found out where it’s gone by the time we get back. You win, I’ll give you the collection. You lose, you pay me the same amount again.’

  So, that will be double or quits then, I think, and swallow hard.

  ‘Really, you don’t have to,’ Nick tries again. Charlie is sitting back, mildly impressed.

  Candy is staring at me, challenging me. She licks her lips and her eyes dance with excitement. She looks like a cat toying with a mouse. Emmy Bridges from cleaning products, world’s worst sales agent. I look at Isaac. He’s smiling lazily. I know I shouldn’t be bothered but something in me wants to show him what Goldilocks can do.

  ‘You’re on!’ I say to the sound of little gasps, in particular from Gloria.

  Candy shrieks with delight and sticks out a hand and, as I shake it, I know I’ve just got myself into a whole lot more bother. So much for keeping my head down.

  The next morning is Sunday and I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus. I don’t think I’ve had a wink of sleep. Nick, Candy and Isaac stayed up late last night drinking in the kitchen. At one point I’m sure Candy was singing Meghan Trainor’s ‘All About That Base’ at the top of her voice. I’m pretty sure I heard Nick joining in, too, or maybe it was Isaac. Beside that, the bells from the church rang every hour throughout the night, twice. Just to be sure you knew what the time was. And then, of course, there was Candy. I look over at her now, still sleeping. Her bed has actually moved from the wall, she is lying face down and one leg is hanging out, still with a high-heeled slingback shoe hanging off the big toe.

  The noise she’s made all night! It was like something in between snoring and a squealing piglet. I listen again now.

  ‘Snurrrrr, weeeeee, snurrrrr, weeeeee . . .’

  The church bell strikes seven but it’s not just seven chimes this time. It rings like billyo, a peel of bells, no doubt letting us all know it’s time we were up and going to church. The light is streaming in through the shutters in front of the big long windows, which open with a twist of the handle and a clunk. New windows made to look like the old ones, I suspect. It’s warm already outside.

  ‘Snurrrrr, weeeeee, snurrrrr, weeeeee . . .’

  I throw back the sheet that covered me and pick up my clothes from on top of my case – so old and faded in comparison to Candy’s bright new one taking up most of the floor space. I pad over the wooden floor boards to the en suite, wash, then get dressed silently and slip out into the morning. I breathe in the fresh, warm air. A cycle into town and a little exploring will clear my head, I think. I pick up the bike and head for the town square and Monsieur and Madame Obels’ épicerie for a banana and maybe one of the peaches. The hot sun is pushing its way up into the sky. I can smell the comforting, heady aroma of baking bread. A young boy runs out of the boulangerie, holding a long French stick in one hand and a half-moon croissant in the other. He smiles, holds his face to the sun, and then bites into the croissant, crumbs tumbling to the ground from his mouth and hand, before running home with the rest.

  I can’t resist any longer. I rest the bike outside, nodding my good mornings to Monsieur and Madame Obels, outside their shop, as I do so. The smells and sight of all the different pastries behind the glass at the back of the boulangerie make me feel like a child in a sweet shop. But eventually I settle on a croissant, like the boy; big, fat, layered and flaky. I point to a bottle of water, too, pay and manage a ‘merci’. As I come out of the shop, the bells ring from church and older men, and women dressed smartly in dark dresses and low heels, begin to make their way across the square and up the church steps.

  It’s a far cry from Sunday mornings back home, where the streets are mostly full of debris and detritus from the Saturday night before. There is a flower stall beside the church. I decide to buy a bunch of gerberas, bright and cheerful daisy-like flowers in purples, yellows and oranges. I can see down the bend in the river, past la mairie, the town hall, to Le Tire-bouchon – the restaurant from last night – closed now, chairs resting against tables – and think about what a lovely place it is. I pull out my phone, photograph it and text it to Layla.

  Hi Layla. You’ll never believe it. I’m in France! Trevor’s sent me on a training course with a new client. Weather is hot, hot, hot. My French is dreadful and my roommate a nightmare! Still, it’s only twelve weeks. That’s 84 sleeps, right?! Miss you! X

  Actually, I miss everything about home, I think, as I press send. Eighty-four sleeps, I tell myself, just like when we were kids, and my heart dips. Eighty-four sleeps seems like for ever.

  OMG! She texts back, almost immediately. Wish I was there with you!

  I wish she was here too. That way I may not have got myself into such a stupid bet with Candy last night. If I lose, which I’m likely to, I’m now going to have to pay back twice the collection money I borrowed. What on earth was going through my mind? I just wanted to wipe the smile off her and that Isaac’s faces and now I’ve gone and got myself into even deeper debt than before.

  I look back at the gîte. I’m not going back there yet, I think. There’s somewhere else I should be. I cycle on, wobbling and swerving, and I don’t think my flip-flops are helping. I try to avoid a battered old Renault coming towards me in the middle of the road and find myself veering to the left instead of the right, and getting a blast on the horn from the passing car, driven by a man in blue overalls, cigarette in mouth, flat cap. My nerves take time to settle again but by the time I get to the stone bridge I’m feeling a little more in control, other than when cars overtake me and I still wobble, hold my breath and screw up my eyes.

  I make my way out of town and back up the hill, the same as yesterday, on the road to Saint Enrique. This time I’m more prepared, with the large bottle of water I bought in the boulangerie, the bunch of gerberas balanced across the handle bars.

  By the time I reach the crumbling gateposts of Clos Beaumont, though, I’m hot, really hot. My thighs are screaming in pain. I put the bike against the post and little bits of mortar and stone fall away as I finish off the water. Swinging the empty bottle by my side and holding the bunch of gerberas in the other, I walk down the lane that opens up on to the yard, taking in the smell of thyme and lavender.

  The big, reddish dog lets out a bark and slowly staggers to his feet, as if it’s all too much effort, and I don’t blame him. I bend to pat his head and as the slithers of slime start to form, sidestep him and he takes that as a sign that his work is done and lies back down with a phump.

  ‘Hello? Madame? Bonjour!’ I call, just like yesterday. I stick my head into the barn where there are big concrete vats at either side, and another long barn with rows of old wooden barrels along one very long wall.

  The bottles I knocked over yesterday are all washed and stacked neatly once more and I want to kick myself for not getting back to help sooner.

  ‘Allo,’ I say, trying it out with a little bit of a French accent. I turn out of the barn and walk towards the opening to the vineyard that drops away from behind the house. There is a tiny little haze of mist lifting off the vines that spread down the hillside and, beyond, up towards the château on the hill opposite. There is an orange and yellow hue across the skyline. At the end of every third or so line of vines is a beautiful yellow rose bush with bees contentedly buzzing around it, just like I’ve seen on the vines on my ride up here.

  There is no sign of Madame Beaumont. Maybe she isn’t up. I go to the French doors at the back of the house. I knock and try the handle. It’s open. I stick my head in tentatively and call, ‘Allo’ again. The dark room is as chock-a-block as yesterday: piles of papers, washing hanging across the room, a pile of muddy vegetables on the table waiting for attention. Again, I can’t
help but wonder why everything happens in this room, despite it being quite a large house from the outside.

  ‘Allo?’ I call, this time more confidently. There’s no reply. I turn away and look back at the sloping hillside. Then I see the small, bent figure walking up between the vines. It’s Madame Beaumont. She’s smartly dressed in a black dress and cardigan, despite the increasing heat of the day, and carrying a basket. Her grey hair is scraped back into a bun and she has a hairband across the middle of her head. As she walks she is talking, softly and constantly, running her hand through the leaves of the vines. She hasn’t seen me and I don’t want to spook her. So I move away from the house and stand in an obvious place and just watch. She’s still talking, stopping every now and again to touch a bunch of grapes, inspect it, or study a large leaf and maybe break it off. If I’m not very much mistaken, she talking to the vines, like she’s catching up with old friends, smiling fondly as if she’s praising a small child, and I find myself smiling back.

  I’m so lost in the scene in front of me I’m suddenly shocked when she sees me. She looks up and I remember I’m standing in her back garden, staring.

  ‘Oh, excusez-moi,’ I say as she approaches. She looks at me with narrowing eyes and a slight tilt of the head that says she’s not that pleased to see me. ‘I was here yesterday,’ I remind her.

  ‘Yes, you brought me my purse. Have you come back for the reward?’ she asks me directly, and I’m a little taken aback.

  ‘No. Not at all.’ My tongue ties itself in knots. ‘I, er, I knocked over the bottles. I said I’d return to help out, put right the mess. Typical me. Clumsy.’ My tongue is still not working with my brain.

  Madame Beaumont says nothing and I get the impression she doesn’t believe me.

  ‘Really, I just wanted to put right the mess I made.’