by Jo Thomas
‘Well, when I was married, we drank wine, of course, but my husband always chose it.’
‘What?’ Isaac flashes his lazy smile. ‘He never said, “Do you want red or white, darling?”’ Gloria looks up at Isaac and swallows and I suddenly feel we’ve touched a nerve. She picks up her hand-held battery-operated fan and holds it to her reddening face.
‘No,’ she replies flatly. There’s a moment’s silence.
‘Emmy,’ Isaac moves on quickly, turning and staring at me with his dark eyes, and my tongue suddenly feels like it’s been tied in a bow again.
‘Oh,’ Gloria raises her hand as if in a classroom, suddenly remembering something she wanted to say and saving me from the humiliation that’s inevitably about to follow.
‘Yes, Gloria?’ Isaac asks without a hint of his usual banter or so-called humour, and I’m not sure if he’s dismissing her as useless or actually being kind, sensing her discomfort. I can’t work him out. I hope it’s the latter.
‘I do speak French,’ she says. ‘Part of my college course. Always came in useful when we holidayed, down South,’ she adds with a pained smile.
‘Did you both speak French?’ Isaac asks encouragingly, and Gloria’s smile slips again.
‘No, Paul didn’t see any point, seeing as I could speak it.’ She swallows hard again. I suddenly feel uncomfortable for Gloria. There’s a sadness there. Despite being painfully shy, Gloria stands out. She’s one of the few people in their fifties at the call centre, apart from Trevor. I wonder what’s brought Gloria to the call centre working alongside agents half her age. For a moment, I wonder if that will be me in another twenty years. The only one who didn’t move on, get promoted, head hunted, married or have a family. Will I still be sitting in the same chair, clinging on to my job and never making my targets and bonuses? Maybe Trevor will get me to lead the Monday morning sing-along. Somehow, I can’t see that ever happening. But is that it? My future? Sing-alongs and a collection for long service to bleach and disinfectant to look forward to . . . if I can keep my job, that is.
I glance at Gloria; she has a look in her eye that seems to be replaying an unwanted memory and I want to ask if she’s OK.
‘OK, thanks, Gloria.’ Isaac turns back to me with a deep breath. ‘Emmy!’
I feel myself jump and my cheeks blush, remembering that I’m supposed to be coming up with something informative. I see Gloria out the corner of my eye, discreetly dabbing the corner of her own with her chubby finger. I’m suddenly keen to move the attention away from her.
‘Well, I know wine comes in bottles with screw caps and corks,’ I suddenly find myself rambling and nervously laughing. I’m keen to keep the group looking at me but am not able to think of anything useful to say about wine at all. Suddenly I have on-the-spot stage fright, and an image of my dad in his Christmas cracker crown suddenly flashes into my mind: him, Mum, me and Jody, all sitting round, hats at jaunty angles, reading our Christmas jokes out. ‘What did the grape say when it got stepped on?’ I remember Dad saying and laughing, and hear myself saying it now whilst a voice in my head is shouting, No! don’t do it! But I’m determined to brighten things and keep attention from Gloria so my runaway mouth carries on. ‘Nothing!’ I pause for dramatic effect, just like Dad did. Even Gloria seems to have brightened. ‘But it did let out a little whine,’ I finish. There’s stunned silence and I look at Nick, then Candy and Gloria and, finally, Isaac.
‘I don’t get it,’ says Candy with a down-turned mouth. A smile is creeping across Gloria’s face and Isaac is clutching his head in his hands in despair before announcing it’s time for a coffee break.
I shoot off my chair and rush to the loos, where I throw cold water on my burning cheeks. Gloria slips into the cubicle where I hear her sniff and blow.
‘Gloria, you all right?’ I tap on the door gently.
‘Yes, fine,’ I hear her say, though clearly she’s not. She clears her throat.
‘Anything I can do?’ I ask.
‘Um, you couldn’t get my handbag, could you? From the office? I could do with some new batteries for my fan.’
‘Of course,’ I say, happy to help.
I pull back the door to outside. Candy and Nick are in the kitchen, just by the toilets, making coffee. Well, Candy’s asking about teabags and complaining about ‘the funny-tasting milk’.
‘My Dean is a coffee drinker – likes it really strong. I prefer tea.’
I take the wooden steps quickly up to the call centre room where we’ve been sitting. Isaac is standing by the window with Charlie, both drinking coffee.
‘Jeez! Charlie! I don’t know where you got such a bunch of losers from. There’s not a bit of wine knowledge between them.’
I stop and stand stock-still, realising I’m now walking in on the middle of a private conversation – very private, it would seem.
‘You’d be better off ditching them and starting again. They’re like a pack of seagulls standing round looking at a cigarette butt, wondering how to eat it!’
My hackles shoot up, my cheeks flare with fury. How dare he? I stand rooted to the spot, not sure whether to make my presence known or to leave as quickly as possible without being seen and wondering whether the floorboards under my feet will squeak and give me away.
‘Let’s just say the deal with Cadwallader’s was the best around. So, it’s down to you to train them up. That’s what you’re hired for. It’s in the contract. To make wine and train up the seagulls!’ And Charlie slaps him on the back and they both laugh. ‘You do a good job and I’ll see you’re well rewarded.’ I make a sudden lunge forward, grab Gloria’s bag, and then turn, but the floorboards give me away. I stop and face them as both Isaac and Charlie turn to stare at me. Neither says a thing. So I slowly lift my chin and walk out of the office and down the stairs to Gloria, who is waiting by the loo door for me.
‘Thank you,’ she says with a sniff, taking the bag and pulling out her powder compact. ‘By the way,’ she says with a watery smile, whilst I’m deciding whether to tell her about Isaac’s comments. He clearly doesn’t want us here. ‘I liked your joke,’ she smiles at me for what feels like the first time since we’ve been here.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and touch her elbow and decide to say nothing more. Isaac may not want us here, but suddenly I want to prove him wrong, very wrong indeed. I want to wipe that lazy Californian smile right off his face and I may just have an idea of how.
‘So, let’s start by talking about where we are, in south-west France. I’m going to talk you through the wines of the region,’ says Isaac after our coffee break.
Isaac occasionally catches my eye and then looks away, uncomfortably. He knows I heard him. He obviously doesn’t want to be doing this. And neither do I. But the offer of a good bonus from Charlie was clearly enough incentive for him to keep ploughing on with us.
My mind begins to wander and I stare out of the window, much like I used to do in school. Only today I’m looking out on vines and towards the cemetery, not the school car park, when I see a small figure dressed in black that I recognise. It’s Madame Beaumont. She’s working her way through the cemetery, slowly and surefootedly, just like when she walks through the vineyard, with slow, purposeful determination. She has a basket with her, over her arm, the other hand touching it.
Try as I might I can’t keep what Isaac is saying in my head. It’s all just gobbledegook to me. Nick is taking notes and Candy is staring at him, swirling her chewing gum from her mouth round her finger; it’s apparently the only thing she’s discovered in France that she prefers the taste of to the British. Gloria is holding her pencil in one hand, her fan in the other is buzzing and she’s concentrating very hard. I turn back to the window and watch Madame Beaumont. She stops by a gravestone. It’s big, black and shiny. She places her hand on it and bows her head. Then she drops to her knees, slowly but confid
ently. She pulls back the cover over her basket. First she takes out a duster and polishes the headstone, all over, as if it’s a big window. Then she takes out the flowers from the vase at the base and goes off to refill the vase with water from a nearby standpipe and then rearranges the flowers. When she’s done she pulls out some fruit from her basket – a peach, I think – and with a small knife sits and cuts it into pieces and eats it in silence and solitude. Having finished the peach she folds up the tea towel and repacks her basket. Then she drops her head again, touches the headstone, and prays. Prayers said, she gets to her feet without looking round, turns and makes her way back out of the cemetery and through the vineyard in the direction of Clos Beaumont.
‘Emmy? Emmy?’ I suddenly realise someone’s saying my name. Isaac is looking at me like a disappointed teacher, head tilted, arms folded.
‘Sorry, what was that you said?’ I say, trying to look interested, picking up my pen and poising it.
‘I said, lunchtime, but I see you’ve already decided to excuse yourself from this session.’ He raises an eyebrow.
Candy sniggers and the others stand and make their way out. My phone rings. It’s Dad, explaining the boiler won’t work. I finish my call and Gloria is waiting to walk into town with me to get a ‘sandwich’ from the boulangerie.
After lunch Charlie comes into the office with Isaac and my heart gives a sudden lurch. He smiles and hands us a contact list each. ‘Contact each name and number, tell them who we are, what we’re doing. Learn the scripts I gave you, or rather the information booklets. And send out brochures or direct them to the website.’
Candy leans over to look at my sheet. ‘Just making sure we’ve all got the same number of contacts,’ she says, eyeing me carefully.
‘Yes, Candy, they’re all the same length,’ Charlie smiles, and I shove my head lower to study them. ‘Contact them. Then make follow-up calls and secure an order. If they introduce you to a friend, there’s a discount, so hopefully you can generate some more business that way. Remember,’ he waves a copy of the heavy document we’re supposed to be learning, ‘this is your bible. It contains descriptions of all the wines, tasting notes, what they should be paired with, what the vineyard and wine-makers are like.’ He waves the document. ‘Learn it, inside out. You’ll be tested.’
And I intend to, I do. But, my thoughts turn back to Madame Beaumont earlier, in the graveyard. I can’t help but wonder whose grave she was visiting and why she’s all alone.
Later that afternoon we spend some time helping out in the shop, well, lingering by the till, and the same in la cave itself, where the wine is made, watching Jeff at work and handing him the watering can as he syphons off and tastes the wine from the barrels and then tops them up, telling us what he’s doing and laughing at his own jokes. At five, we finish. I could go with the others for dinner, but instead I decide to run back to the gîte and grab the bike. If I’m going to prove Isaac wrong – and I’d very much like to – I’m going to need Madame Beaumont’s help. Hoping her offer is still open, I set out for Clos Beaumont, a tiny bit less wobbly than before.
‘Madame Beaumont!’ I call, and wave, stooping to pat Cecil on the head as I pass, and he lifts his weary head and gives a lazy, welcome bark. I look first in the barn where all the vats and barrels are and where I knocked over all the bottles. She’s not there. So I run round to the back of the farmhouse and look. It’s Henri, the horse, I see first, standing in between the vines waiting for his instruction. The sun is like a huge orange ball on the horizon, slowly starting to set. The breeze up here is cool and refreshing after a hot day inside.
‘En avant,’ I hear, and then I see Madame Beaumont, standing up from where she’s been using the handspray. Across the way, at Château Lavigne, a tractor is going up and down with its two big scarecrow-like arms spraying the vines, thoroughly and completely.
‘Madame Beaumont!’ I call again.
‘Arrête,’ she calls to Henri and stands to watch as I make my way through the vines towards her.
‘Bon . . . soir, Madame Beaumont,’ I plump for, looking at the setting sun again.
‘Bonsoir,’ she smiles and nods her head confirming my use of words and puts out her bony, gnarled hand to shake mine. I smile as I stand in front of her and shake her hand.
‘You came back.’
I nod. ‘Yes, please, you said you could help me, show me about the vines and wine,’ I say, hoping she meant what she said.
She looks at me and then nods gently and I breathe a sigh of relief.
‘What can I do? Do you want me to start bottling in the barn or shall I spray?’ I’m eager to get stuck in.
‘Le chai,’ she says.
‘Sorry?’
‘Le chai, where I make the wine. You will need to start using the French words,’ she says as if starting her teaching.
‘Le chai,’ I repeat. ‘So, what would you like me to do?’
‘Walk with me. Come and introduce yourself to the vines. Make friends, get to know them.’
I laugh.
‘Only when you know them will you know if they are sick or need help. These are the Cabernet Sauvignon, a common grape, hardy, thick skinned. Gives full body to wine. It ages well,’ she smiles, and holds out a hand and raises an eyebrow and I realise she’s serious. I have to get to know the vines.
And I do, each evening after work, as the others head for the bar at Le Papillon, led by Isaac. He is now being welcomed there like a local, shaking hands and greeting regulars, joking with them, Gloria tells me. She tries to tempt me to join them, but I always turn her down.
‘Learning her bible,’ I overheard Nick telling the others. ‘I swear she’s suddenly full of wine knowledge. Cramming, that’s what she’s doing.’
‘I bet she’s seeing Charlie. I swear she fancies him,’ I heard Candy saying, and I blushed, not wanting to hear any more. She’s right, of course. I do fancy Charlie, not that there’s been a repeat of our early morning coffee.
‘Avoiding me,’ Isaac said. And he’s not wrong. The less time I have to spend with Isaac, the better. Instead I head out on the rusting bike to Madame Beaumont, Henri, Cecil and the vines, where we are getting to know each other very well indeed. A little haven far away from the stresses of daily life at Featherstone’s. I do the same thing every evening for the next two weeks. There, I find myself bringing them up to date with my dad, the difficult situation with my sister; with Candy and the missing collection money, her Dean, Gloria and Nick, life at the gîte and about the bet. As the weeks go on I tell them something of what I remember about life in my house, the house I’m about to lose, with my mum, Christmases growing up, birthdays . . . but not that Christmas. We don’t know each other well enough for me to talk about that Christmas. I tell them about the good times we spent together, the smell of shepherd’s pie cooking when I walked in the front door from school, the Saturday nights together in the front room watching TV, the three-tiered birthday cakes she’d make. As I talk, Madame Beaumont points out the grapes that are doing well, shows me where to trim leaves, pick out weeds, pick off bugs, and where to spray if needed. Every now and again, the tractor next door drives close along the boundary and Madame Beaumont shouts and shakes her fist as it sprays everything in its path regardless.
‘Sometimes it is better to let the vines find their own way. Otherwise, they will all end up the same . . . and taste the same,’ she tells me crossly, watching the tractor and the vineyard worker, Bernard, pass. Neither acknowledges the other.
Each night after being at Clos Beaumont I go home to the gîte, exhausted, get into bed, pick up the Featherstone’s bible . . . and wake up with it on my face, not having made it past page two.
Just as next door’s vineyard owner and Madame Beaumont have skilfully spent the years ignoring each other, despite working beside each other every day, so Isaac and I have managed to ig
nore each other pretty successfully for the last fortnight in the gîte – ever since I walked in on his conversation with Charlie.
It’s Saturday morning, two weeks on from when we first arrived here in Petit Frère, and September is now making way for October. The bells ring out with gusto at seven to tell us to get up. What I really want to do is roll over and go back to sleep but instead, as the second lot of bells ring out, I throw back the covers with effort. Candy grunts and I make my way to the bathroom to wash and dress, quietly leave the gîte, stopping off in the square for my pain aux raisins with a nod and a ‘bonjour’, and then on to Monsieur and Madame Obels to buy some strawberries and peaches to share with Madame Beaumont.
Then I cycle to Clos Beaumont. I even manage to cycle with the pain aux raisins in my hand, taking mouthfuls as I go, and hardly a wobble as cars pass me.
I stop halfway up the hill and text Layla, sending her a picture of the rows of vines.
Two weeks in and I’m learning to talk to the vines! The harvest is about to begin and soon these babies will be turned into wine! À bientôt (as they say in France!).
I sign off with a kiss and get another quick OMG! in reply. I smile, put my phone away, and cycle on.
‘So where do we start this morning? Shall I go and talk to the vines or get Henri out?’ I ask Madame Beaumont, keen to show her I’m learning.
‘Non,’ she says, holding up a hand and then presents her cheek for me to kiss, and then the other one.
‘Bonjour, Emmy,’ she insists.
‘Oh, sorry, I mean, pardon. Bonjour, Madame Beaumont,’ I say, and kiss her on each cheek. ‘Comment allez-vous ce matin?’ Slowly but surely my school French is returning to me.
‘You must make time to greet people, show them respect, so they in turn respect you,’ she scolds. ‘Plus it uses your French.’ Then with formalities over she allows me to start the conversation over again.