Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Non. Today we stop spraying. We’ll pick after the full moon, so now there must be no more spraying. Now we wait and we must let the vines do their thing on their own. We must let them find their own way and hope we have brought them up to be strong enough to do that. In two weeks we pick. Now we wait.’

  ‘Really?’ I look out at the vines. ‘Is that it? We just wait?’

  ‘We do. We still talk to the vines, let them know we are here for them, but they are on their own now.’ She nods firmly, like a head teacher watching her pupils go to their exams.

  ‘Gosh, like letting them go to their first nightclub . . .’ I joke but trail off.

  ‘Yes, I will feel happier when they are safely in,’ Madame Beaumont nods towards le chai and breaks into a smile.

  ‘Do you have any children, Madame Beaumont?’ I ask as we walk towards le chai companionably.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she tells me. ‘It was just me here. My mother and grandparents lived here too. But no, I never met anyone. It wasn’t really possible. We didn’t mix with the town people. These are my family now.’ She waves towards the vines before pulling back the door of le chai. I wonder if that’s who she visits in the graveyard every day. But I don’t ask.

  ‘So, if we’re not spraying this week, what are we doing?’

  ‘We must bottle last year’s vintage.’ Her eyes sparkle with excitement. ‘And when we have bottled the wine, we must clean le chai, ready for the new arrival, God willing.’

  I ache from head to toe from sitting on the floor of le chai, filling each bottle by hand and then putting in corks. It’s a tiring week, spending my days in Featherstone’s and each evening bottling at Clos Beaumont. As the weekend comes round, I’m exhausted. But Madame Beaumont and I will be labelling all the bottles and it wouldn’t surprise me if we were doing that with a quill and ink!

  Regardless of this, tonight is Friday evening and I’m going to try to relax. Clutching two bottles of the wine we’ve bottled earlier today, which I’ve carried home in a basket balanced on the handle bars, I rest the bike against the wall of the gîte and plan to run straight in and up to the bathroom and grab a hot bath whilst the others are at Le Papillon and pour myself a glass of wine. Isaac and I have managed to avoid each other for another week – other than his lessons, of course – and I plan to keep it that way.

  But as I push open the front door I can hear a strange noise, like something’s in pain. I tuck the bottles under my arm and run straight to the kitchen where Candy is hunched over the table, head in hands, occasionally throwing it back and wailing. Her face is red and blotchy from her tears. There are balls of screwed-up toilet paper all around her. Nick has an arm around her, comforting her. Gloria is making tea.

  ‘It’s Dean,’ Gloria mouths to me.

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  Candy does the low moaning followed by the wail again. ‘Of all the people! Harmony!’ she wails.

  ‘Dean has decided that he couldn’t wait for Candy to get back from France and has . . .’ Nick clears his throat, ‘. . . moved on to pastures new,’ he finishes diplomatically.

  ‘He didn’t even like Harmony! Said her teeth needed sorting out,’ Candy wails.

  ‘Well, they say love is blind,’ I say helpfully, but Candy just scowls at me and then blows her nose loudly. Nick peels off more toilet roll and hands it to her, reaching out and holding her spare hand as she blows.

  ‘Um, wine, anyone?’ I hold up the bottles and, taking in the general agreement, look around for a corkscrew. Gloria hands one to me and I get to work opening the bottles that I’ve only just sealed. I pour the wine into short, stubby tumblers. Just as I’m handing them out Isaac arrives back at the gîte, obviously having stopped off for a few beers at Le Papillon, and my heart sinks. It’s amazing how some people can just fit in anywhere they go. I’d never be able to just arrive somewhere, start drinking in a bar and get talking to people. But in the short time we’ve been here Isaac seems to know everyone and everyone knows Isaac. He’s carrying two bottles of wine, as he is most evenings; apparently they are samples from the vineyard owners. I suspect they are to try to get him to buy bottles for himself from the back door.

  ‘Hey, great. Wine!’ He is full of bonhomie and then he spots Candy. ‘Candy, what’s up?’

  ‘It’s Dean, her fiancé,’ Nick fills in the gaps while Candy sobs. ‘It’s over. Harmony moved in on him,’ he mouths, handing her more loo roll and keeping a firm hold on her hand.

  ‘Ah, Candy. Well, he obviously wasn’t good enough for you,’ Isaac says, spinning round a chair and sitting back to front on it.

  ‘Really, you think?’ she sniffs and brightens, and Nick holds her hand even more firmly.

  ‘I know so. There’ll be someone much more suited to you out there.’ He takes a glass I’ve poured and sniffs it.

  Candy looks considerably brighter and pulls her hand away from Nick’s and he suddenly stiffens.

  ‘I think you might be right.’ She rubs her nose and picks up a glass and copies what Isaac does. He sniffs again, then swirls it, sniffs again and then he sips.

  ‘Hey, this is . . . good,’ he says, surprised. ‘Where’s it from?’

  ‘Clos Beaumont,’ I reply.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Towards Saint Enrique,’ I say matter-of-factly, but silently notching up a point to me. ‘It’s practically organic.’

  ‘How come you have it?’ he says, sniffing it again, tipping it to one side to see if it has ‘legs’. Nick and then Gloria copy him. Candy just takes a huge gulp. ‘You buying from the back door too, then?’ he grins, confirming what I thought about his bottles of fine wine he’s collecting in his room.

  ‘I’ve, erm,’ I wonder how to tell them all what I’ve been up to. ‘I’ve been helping her get this year’s vintage bottled. She was . . . she’s quite old, I was just helping her.’

  ‘Who?’ Isaac asks.

  ‘Madame Beaumont.’

  ‘What? The old lady with the purse?’ Nick screws up his nose. ‘That’s where you’ve been going all this time? Like when we ask you to come to the bar and you turn us down and we all thought you were learning your bible and being a right swot?’

  Candy stops sniffing. ‘You haven’t been with Charlie then?’ she asks directly.

  ‘No!’ I half laugh at the ridiculousness of it despite my cheeks burning.

  ‘I thought you two—’ she carries on.

  ‘No!’ I cut her off.

  ‘I thought you were just avoiding me,’ Isaac says as he leans over the glass, not looking at me, and puts his long nose into it and breathes in. Then he stands up, turns his chair round as if suddenly taking things seriously, looks at the wine again and then leans back in his chair, rests one foot on his knee and sips at the wine, making a kissing noise as he draws in air and swirls the wine round the glass, still studying it.

  ‘And you know nothing about wine?’ Isaac asks, finally looking at me and frowning. ‘Apart from bad wine jokes?’

  My throat closes. I don’t know what it is about this man that just infuriates me and makes me tongue-tied.

  ‘No, well, that’s the thing, when Trevor sent me out here. I hadn’t even put in for the job,’ my mouth starts running away with itself.

  ‘What? You didn’t even want to come? Why did he send you?’ Isaac asks.

  ‘Harmony was having her teeth done.’ I suddenly realise what I’ve said and look apologetically at Candy. ‘I was a last minute . . . stand-in. A sort of sideways shift.’ I take a big gulp of wine. ‘I’d done something . . . got into some bother . . . I’m trying to sort it out . . .’ I mumble, thinking about the bet, the wine slipping down quickly.

  ‘So who keeps ringing you? Is it Charlie?’ Candy asks in her direct way again, eyes narrowing, her nose red like Rudolf’s, and still slurping at the
wine.

  ‘My dad,’ I say quietly, wishing I wasn’t here and trying to convince people that I deserve to be, when I really don’t. I sigh, exhausted; tired of trying to hide what I’ve done.

  ‘Why did you get to come then?’ Nick looks at me. ‘You don’t strike me as being one of Trevor’s top sales team. I mean no offence.’

  I bite my lip and look down. There is an inevitability to this conversation, like a concrete wrecking ball careering towards me, about to blow apart my life, again.

  ‘You’re right, I am a fraud. I shouldn’t be here. I can’t even sell disinfectant to a boarding kennels.’ I take another big swig of wine, followed by another. Suddenly I feel far more relaxed, almost a little light headed.

  ‘Actually . . .’ I hear myself saying. They’re all looking at me. I should probably stop, say nothing. But I’m not sure I can keep up this charade any longer and the wine is making me feel like throwing caution to the wind. Getting it all out in the open.

  ‘Actually,’ I repeat, and I look round at them all staring at me. Don’t do it! a voice in my head says. You still have a chance to say, ‘Oh, nothing’! I take a deep breath and blow out. ‘It was me. I borrowed the office collection. Dean and Candy’s collection!’ There, I’ve said it. For a moment no one says anything. They all just stare at me, stunned.

  ‘Oh. My. God!’ Candy says as realisation starts to dawn on her face. ‘That was you!’ she shrieks. ‘You stole mine and Dean’s engagement collection?’

  ‘Borrowed. And yes, that was me,’ I say, pouring myself another glass. ‘And, Candy, I’m truly sorry. It’s just . . . I was desperate. And I know it’s no excuse, but I am sorry.’ Isaac is listening and sniffing his wine but saying nothing. ‘But just think, if I lose the bet, you’ll get twice the amount back!’ I take another slug of wine and suddenly my glass is empty.

  The others say nothing. I recklessly top up my empty glass. Well, why not? Looks like the shit has well and truly hit the fan. These guys aren’t going to want to work with me now they know who I am.

  ‘I’m in last-chance saloon here. If I don’t manage to make my targets, I’m out on my ear anyway.’

  ‘Well . . . looks like you knew it wasn’t going to work out with Dean, then.’ Candy sniffs and then adds with narrowing eyes, ‘I had you all wrong. I thought you were a right Goody Two-shoes. And you did, too, Nick, a right teacher’s pet. You said you thought she’d get the team leader’s job because she was having it away with Charlie and I said that would’ve been cheating, especially as we had a bet on it.’

  Nick squirms and so do I.

  ‘This wine is surprisingly good,’ Isaac suddenly cuts across the conversation and everyone turns from me, to him. ‘I mean, rustic, very rustic, real rough edges, but you could do something with this.’ He’s almost talking to himself, but everyone is listening to him now, relieved to have a distraction. He holds up the glass and tilts it. ‘It’s got legs. And a real punch. The tannins are great too. And it’s practically organic, you say?’

  Isaac raises an impressed eyebrow at me and suddenly I want to throw myself on him and hug him for taking the sting out of the situation. Isaac, whom I can’t usually stand, has just saved me from more humiliation.

  ‘She does it all herself, with sheep to keep the weeds down, a horse and cart . . .’ I say quietly, realising my time here still is probably done. ‘There’s a big château next door, desperate to buy her land, but she won’t sell to them.’

  ‘Wooh, really rustic.’ Isaac sips again. ‘In a good way.’

  ‘So, looks like the field’s wide open, then. And I’ve still got a bet to win!’ Candy suddenly brightens, pulling my attention back to her. ‘Good job I’m not the one who’s going to pay me back the office collection, twice!’ She tilts her head at me and looks like she’s sucking a lemon. ‘And Charlie’s single too, then?’

  Isaac splutters a laugh.

  ‘What about Dean?’ Isaac asks.

  ‘Looks like it was never meant to be.’ She wipes around the edges of her eyes, removing the smudged eyeliner and mascara.

  ‘Um, yes, he is single,’ I reply. Much as I wish he wasn’t, and that I’d been spending lots of time with him on secret dates, I haven’t. I’ve hardly seen him since that day in the market. In work he’s in the office or out on meetings with vineyard owners, and in the evenings I’m at Clos Beaumont. I’d love to have had more time to talk to him and tell him I understand how hard it is when your father needs your support.

  ‘I can see the signs. No wedding ring, but an indentation where one used to be. That car he drives. I’m very good at spotting the signs. I mean, take Nick, I knew you were gay from the day I saw you in that pink jumper,’ she says, stopping us in our tracks. Nick opens his mouth to speak. ‘Which is a shame because you’d make a fabulous boyfriend.’ He shuts his mouth, looks at me briefly and looks down. ‘And Charlie, well, he’s living out here, isn’t he? He’s got to be single. Let’s be honest, if any of us had family ties we wouldn’t be doing this would we?’

  Gloria takes a sip of her wine and swallows, hard. A stab of guilt twists through me as I think about my dad, on his own all day.

  ‘We all have a good chance of getting that job,’ says Gloria, patting my hand kindly as I catch a waft from her fan and I know if I look at her I might cry. ‘Don’t you think, Isaac?’

  ‘Don’t look at me. I’m just here to make the wine and then I’m off.’ He holds up his hand, returning to his irritating self, and I realise what I thought was an act of chivalry was probably just a fluke.

  ‘Where to?’ Nick asks.

  ‘Not sure yet. Depends. If I can get into one of the big wine houses as their chief wine-maker that would be good. There’s a couple of big ones I’m in contact with, so fingers crossed.’

  ‘Don’t you ever want to just stay put?’ Candy asks, wrinkling her nose at the wine.

  He throws his head back and laughs, his hair shaking. ‘Never!’

  Candy looks around the kitchen, narrowing her eyes at me, and why wouldn’t she? She didn’t like me before she knew I’d borrowed the office collection. She must hate me now.

  ‘So come on, who do you think is going to get the job? Would you say we all have a good chance?’ Candy asks.

  But I know exactly what Isaac thinks of the chances of one of us pulling off the team leader’s job and frankly, he’s probably right. After this couple of weeks with Madame Beaumont I realise how much there is to learn about wine, and I am no nearer knowing about it or learning my script. Cleaning barrels, filling bottles and telling the vines my worries I seem to be brilliant at, but learning about wine? Nothing! And time is running out.

  It’s Saturday morning and whilst Candy works hard topping up her tan on a towel on the tiny piece of lawn outside the gîte, only moving to turn in the direction of the sun, Nick devours A Year in Provence and Gloria has walked across the bridge towards the little abandoned café on the other side of the river. I, on the other hand, am spending the day bent over the old Formica table in Madame Beaumont’s cool kitchen. I’m using a stamp and ink pad, making hundreds of labels to go on the bottles. They simply say ‘Clos Beaumont 2015. Vin de France’, which means it’s a basic, table wine.

  Then we move into le chai to stick a label on each of the bottles. It’s back-breaking work, but it keeps me busy and stops me from worrying about Dad, who is still ringing at least six times a day.

  After lunch Madame Beaumont picks up her basket, puts on her headscarf and makes her daily visit to the cemetery whilst I carry on with the labels. I don’t ask whom she visits or why. But every day it’s the same. She looks up at the huge blue sky with its white cotton-wool clouds and checks for rain. She calls for Cecil and he comes out, whooping and woofing, slobber flying, seeing off the birds and anyone who comes within swinging distance of his drooling jowls.

  In a
nother week Madame Beaumont will start her new harvest and the grapes are swelling beautifully. I, on the other hand, having helped get last year’s vintage in, will be back in the sales room at Featherstone’s and listening to more of Isaac’s talks about changing tastes and modern techniques. I put the last label on the last bottle with a flourish and then stand up and stretch out my aching back like the old cat, who eyes me from afar but is never out of sight. Now the bottles are finally finished I can’t help but feel, well, actually very proud. I hold a bottle at arm’s length. I helped make this – bottle it, anyway. But it feels really good to have actually made something that people will buy and enjoy. I read the label, trying to remember what Isaac has told us about the information on them.

  ‘The label should tell you everything you need to know about the wine,’ I can hear him saying. The only thing I can actually remember is that most wines have an appellation, identifying the area, village or vineyard where the wine comes from. It guarantees the wine comes from a specific grape and region, even specifying the quantities of grapes used too.

  ‘Why don’t you have the appellation on these?’ I ask Madame Beaumont on her return, studying one of the bottles again as we put them into cardboard boxes.

  ‘Pah!’ Madame Beaumont replies in what has become her customary way when she disapproves of something, usually something I’ve told her that I’ve learned in our wine classes with Isaac at Featherstone’s. ‘Rules and regulations. Telling people how their wine should taste. They want you to use this amount of that grape, that amount of that grape,’ she’s making pouring actions, her mouth downcast, and I laugh. ‘Pah! I use the grapes I have from each harvest, see what mix tastes the best. Who wants to be like everyone else anyway?’ She looks sideways at me and I wonder if she’s talking about the wine or, in fact, me.

  I take a picture of the bottle on my phone and text it to Layla.

  Embouteillage! I type with a flourish, meaning ‘bottling’, which I’ve learned from Madame Beaumont, and send.