Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  First thing Monday morning I cross the white stone courtyard at Featherstone’s to find Charlie in his office. He’s looking out the window, his back to me, and is on the phone. He’s in shirtsleeves, but not casually dressed, despite the hot day. I look at his muscular shoulders under his sharply pressed shirt as he looks out of the window, one hand in his pocket, holding the phone in the other, and my stomach flips over and back again with a flick-flack of excitement.

  ‘Great, look forward to seeing you then.’ He finishes the call.

  He suddenly turns and sees me, beaming, those mesmerising green eyes fixing on me.

  ‘Oh, Emma,’ he carries on beaming, which is a good sign I think, even if he still hasn’t quite got my name right yet.

  ‘Emmy,’ I correct him, and smile back widely.

  ‘Of course, yes.’ He gives a little cough to clear his throat.

  ‘How’s your dad?’ I ask brightly.

  ‘Oh, you know, good days, bad days.’ His smile drops a little. ‘Yours?’

  ‘So-so . . .’ I reply.

  ‘Good, good. So, what can I do for you?’ His eyes have me in their sights, like a sniper focusing on its target – or should that be prey? I feel another flick-flack of excitement in my tummy. And he’s going to be even happier when he hears what I have to tell him.

  ‘Madame Beaumont’s wine, the one I was telling you about, it’s ready for collection.’ I deliver the news with an imaginary drum roll.

  ‘Whose?’ His smile drops for a moment.

  ‘Madame Beaumont’s. Clos Beaumont? You’re expecting it, remember?’ Suddenly my heart quickens to the beat of a minor panic.

  ‘Ah, yes, Clos Beaumont, one of my father’s small artisan producers,’ he says as if indulging his father in a hobby like record collecting or train sets. I feel a tiny surge of irritation, but maybe he’s just joking, I think, and I chastise myself for being so scratchy. I’m just tired after all the hard work at Madame Beaumont’s and I guess I just wanted him to be as excited as I am about it.

  ‘Great. Well, it’s ready to pick up from her chai whenever you’re free,’ I tell him with a smile, and turn to leave and join the others in the salesroom where I have some catching up to do on the phones.

  ‘Actually, Emma – Emmy,’ he corrects himself quickly, frowning at his computer screen. ‘Is that the old lady who lives up the lane, Clos . . .’ he peers at the screen, ‘. . . Beaumont? Last house before Saint Enrique?’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod enthusiastically and breathe a sigh of relief. Thank God, he’s realised who I’m talking about. ‘Her wine is great. A real—’ I’m about to tell him it’s a rustic gem but he cuts me off.

  ‘Very small producer,’ he says, looking from a log book laid out on his desk, back to the computer screen; obviously referring to his father’s original books and his own updated records. ‘Dad had a habit of picking up . . . lame ducks.’ He glances up at me and his eyes have gone darker, like the sun has gone in over the lagoon. ‘Had a thing about sourcing small producers, cutting out the middle man and selling direct to the customers. I’m changing all that, of course. I want to get into the supermarkets, the restaurants, the big suppliers. Fewer small labels and more well-known affordable ones we can roll out.’ He pulls back into his wide smile again and my stomach does that flick-flacking thing, despite my head wanting to disagree.

  ‘Oh, but—’ I start to tell him that every vintage should be different and individual.

  ‘We’ll take this vintage. You obviously feel strongly about it.’ He gives me an encouraging smile. ‘But I’m not sure there’ll be a place for her wine in the shop next year. I’m looking for people who can produce consistent quality wines in quantity. I don’t think Madame Beaumont really fits into what we’re looking for now.’ He shrugs apologetically.

  ‘What? But you can’t do that!’ The panic flies back into my heart. ‘If Madame Beaumont doesn’t have Featherstone’s she won’t have any customers at all. She’ll have no choice but to sell to Château Lavigne.’

  Charlie’s eyes suddenly become very steely indeed.

  ‘Maybe it’s a good thing, if she’s on her own and getting older, and we know how age can suddenly catch up with us, don’t we?’ I think about Dad. ‘She can’t make wine for ever. This way she’ll sell and I’ll have more room for the stock we do want. It’s probably in her best interests,’ he says, suddenly pulling back one of his cheeky grins, and for a moment I wonder if he might be right. ‘Now, as I’ve said, we’ll take this vintage. I’ll send someone up for it when we’ve got a minute. This evening, OK?’ He raises his shoulders by way of apology. I can see the conversation is over. ‘I’m not a monster, Em-m . . .’

  ‘E,’ I finish for him.

  ‘I’m just trying to take Featherstone’s to the next level and hopefully you’ll be there with me. The fewer small wines we have, the more orders we can get for the bigger labels.’

  I understand his logic. If he expands like he says, the more work we’ll get, the more my money problems will be solved. And I do need to solve our problems: the mortgage arrears, the collection money.

  But where does that leave Madame Beaumont?

  ‘Actually, could you do it? Do you drive? You could take the van? You seem to have got some kind of rapport going on with this woman. From what I remember my dad saying, she’s a bit of a tricky one. Hard to get along with. Dad liked her, though. Liked her spirit.’

  ‘Yes, she’s very . . . independent. Fantastic spirit,’ I say, still hoping to win him round. ‘But no, I don’t drive.’

  ‘Sadly spirit alone isn’t going to take this business where I want it to go. Colette?’ he calls out, looking for her. ‘Oh, well, don’t worry, I’ll send someone up there,’ he says, but I have a weird feeling that I should worry. I should drive again, too. He gives me another killer smile but this time I can’t return it. ‘And leave it to me, I’ll make sure she knows that we won’t be taking her next vintage. She needs to look for a new market.’

  ‘But there aren’t any other buyers, not like Featherstone’s,’ I try once more.

  ‘No, and that’s exactly why we need to change.’

  ‘But her wine is individual, just as she is.’

  ‘It’s a good sales pitch, but it’s just a Vin de France. If she applied for the appellation at least we could ask a higher price.’

  ‘She won’t,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Then there’s nothing we can do. Now, we have a big buyer coming by tomorrow. I’ve just got off the phone to her. A supermarket buyer. She’s just made an appointment.’ His eyes are suddenly wide with excitement again and back to being speckled green. ‘She’s on a buying trip and we need to do everything we can to impress her. You couldn’t give Colette a hand getting the tasting room ready, could you? Organise some nibbles, that kind of thing, yes? I can see you’re quite resourceful.’

  ‘Of course,’ I sigh. Looks like I’m back on cake and cava duty all over again.

  ‘It was good to catch up. Give my best to your dad,’ and my spirits lift just a little from the floor though my head is in turmoil. On the one hand, I can’t help but find this man very attractive and what he’s saying makes a lot of sense, for all of us. But I’m just not sure Madame Beaumont would see it that way and I wouldn’t blame her.

  That afternoon Colette leaves me to set up the tasting room whilst she shows some passing tourists around the shop. Colette is wearing bright red lipstick and her scarf slung around her shoulders. She looks very efficient, in a Dolly Parton way, with pen in hand and leopard-print glasses firmly fixed on the end of her nose. I get the feeling that, like Isaac, she really can’t see the point of the trainees; that she thinks we’re all after her job, which, of course, we’re not.

  I lay out the glasses on a white, pressed tablecloth, having rinsed them in hot water, but no washing-up liquid, jus
t like Madame Beaumont told me. Hot water only. Washing-up liquid affects the taste of the wine. When the British buyers have left Colette comes in to check the room, with a critical eye. She walks over to the glasses, lifts one and holds it to the light. Then she smells it and runs a finger along the inside. She turns to me and lifts a pencilled eyebrow.

  ‘No washing-up liquid,’ I confirm, wagging a finger at the bottle.

  She nods slowly in agreement. After a final look around the tasting room she can’t find any reason to keep me so I’m free to go. I have a little glow of satisfaction as I get straight on the bike and ride up to Clos Beaumont. Because, if Madame Beaumont is going to have a future at all I need to make sure her wine gets to Featherstone’s, quickly.

  I can hear the commotion before I see it. There are raised voices, Madame Beaumont’s and a man’s. Cecil is barking. I can even hear Henri snorting. Hot and puffing, I push on to the top of the hill, the front wheel of the bike twisting this way and that as my legs run out of steam. I jump off, catching the leg of my cut-off jeans on the cracking saddle, nearly tumbling over but recovering and pushing the bike the last bit towards Clos Beaumont as fast as my aching thighs will let me.

  ‘Non! Allez! Allez-vous-en! Go away!’ I hear Madame Beaumont shout. My heart jumps into my mouth. What on earth is going on? I’m running as fast as I can as I reach the top of the plateau and see a little burgundy 2CV van parked on the roadside by the gateposts. Madame Beaumont is still shouting. I dump the bike somewhere in the direction of the posts and run round the van, spotting the Featherstone’s sign on the side. What on earth can the problem be?

  ‘Allo! Allo!’ I shout, running into the yard. The big orange ball of sun is setting on the other side of the valley, over Château Lavigne, momentarily blinding me. I get a hit of wild herbs and lavender as I always do when I arrive here and, holding my hand up to shield my eyes, I finally see her.

  Madame Beaumont is standing in front of the chai, frowning and waving her arms at the man in front of her, shaking at him the thumbstick she uses when she walks through the vines. I finally come to a stop and let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘Madame Beaumont!’ I call, trying to catch my breath in my burning lungs.

  ‘Just put down the weapon, for God’s sake, you mad woman!’

  She jabs in his direction again and he lifts his arms and jumps back, like the thumbstick is a fully loaded rifle.

  ‘Isaac?’

  ‘Ah, jeez! Thank God,’ he says, throwing his hands up in the air as he turns towards me, then putting his hands on his hips, just above his low-slung combats.

  ‘Isaac?’ I hold my chest. ‘What on earth is going on?’

  ‘I was told to come and find Madame Beaumont.’ Isaac rolls his eyes at me in despair, his back to her.

  Cecil is barking for all he’s worth, and drooling lots of drool, and I’m keeping my distance just in case he flicks his head.

  ‘You know this man?’ Madame Beaumont scowls, jabbing the thumbstick towards him.

  ‘She’s mad! See?’

  She narrows her eyes at me. Back to the mistrust of our first meeting.

  ‘No, no . . .’ I shake my head and hands, trying to tell her there’s nothing to worry about.

  Her grey eyes narrow further. ‘See, I knew it! He’s from the château. I came back from the cemetery to find him here, snooping around in my chai. Trying to see if I have made my vintage this year, no doubt; trying to find out what makes my vintage different from theirs.’

  ‘No.’ Isaac walks towards her, extending a hand. She lifts up the thumbstick and waves it at him again like a gun.

  ‘Whoa.’ He steps back quickly, holding up his hands, ducking behind me and I get a sudden urge to giggle. I cover my mouth. ‘Sort this out, will you?’ he says in my ear. ‘Please.’ Suddenly he is completely unarmed. Without his jokes, flirtation and bonhomie that have worked their charm on so many people he hasn’t a clue what to do and it’s like I’m finally meeting the real Isaac.

  ‘You two do know each other?’ Madame Beaumont waves the thumbstick between us.

  ‘Yes,’ I say firmly, stepping forwards, reaching out and taking hold of the end of the thumbstick. ‘He is a—’

  ‘Close personal friend!’ Isaac cuts across me loudly, and pointing between the two of us, still looking unsure of Madame Beaumont even though she’s been disarmed.

  I swing round and give him a hard stare, telling him to leave this to me. He’s done enough damage, by the looks of it. Close personal friend indeed! I need to calm everything down. If Madame Beaumont blows this with Featherstone’s, she’ll have to sell up and I can’t let her shoot herself in the foot like that.

  Isaac, on the other hand, steps forward and slings an arm around my shoulder, making me feel like I’ve stuck a fork into an electric toaster, sending a thousand volts round me. I freeze.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I hiss into his ear, smelling his pine-scented hair.

  ‘Trying to get on her good side. She’ll like me more if she thinks I’m with you. I need to get her to trust me so I can pick up the wine.’ He pulls me closer and I feel his breath on my neck, making me quiver in spite of myself, and I hold my breath. ‘I mean, it’s not like we haven’t shared a bed, now is it, Goldy?’ he whispers in my ear and grins. Infuriatingly, I shiver all over again.

  I move my foot over his toe and gently press on it to get him to move away. But nothing. I move my weight over his toes some more, then risk a glance down and see he’s wearing Caterpillar boots. He grins some more. I turn back to Madame Beaumont and attempt a calming smile.

  ‘Close friend? C’est vrai? I’ve never heard about a close friend,’ she says quizzically.

  That’s because I haven’t got one, I think, infuriated. If I didn’t need to calm this down I’d turn round and kick the idiot right in the shins and suggest another type of word beginning with F.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Great friends,’ he says, laughing now. Thankfully, Cecil muscles his way in between us and sniffs at Isaac’s leg.

  ‘He’s from Featherstone’s,’ I finally manage to offer sensibly. ‘He’s the Featherstone’s wine-maker.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to say. I’m here for the wine.’

  ‘You’re here from Featherstone’s? To pick up the wine?’

  ‘Yes,’ Isaac and I say simultaneously, and I almost laugh with him. Slowly Madame Beaumont lowers her thumbstick.

  ‘Are you Monsieur Featherstone’s son?’ she asks.

  He gives another laugh and shakes his head. ‘No, I’m just the hired hand,’ he says, finally taking his arm from my shoulder, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Madame Beaumont starts to nod.

  ‘He’s their travelling wine man. He’s Californian,’ I say, as if this explains everything, but of course it means nothing.

  ‘And you and he . . . he’s . . . you are . . . ?’ She points to me. I take a deep breath to explain he has a funny sense of humour, but before I can, he jumps in.

  ‘Yes,’ he beams. ‘Good friends, very good friends indeed.’ He’s wearing a white and blue bandana round his head. His small diamond earring flashes in the sunlight. ‘Now, where are these crates I’ve been sent to pick up?’ he says, rubbing his hands, seemingly happy that the misunderstanding is sorted, just as Cecil shakes his head and a large strip of drool lands across his thigh. This time it’s my turn to laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. But to my surprise and slight annoyance, he throws his head back and laughs too. Even Madame Beaumont seems to have thawed a little with that.

  He reverses the van down the lane, backing it up to the chai, neither of us saying much to each other, and then we all help to load the boxes of wine. Despite our protestations, Madame Beaumont helps, moving slowly but steadily, lifting boxes and carrying them to the van. One box to every three or four of ours.
I, of course, am determined not to be outdone by Isaac and make sure I’m carrying them as quickly as he is, and I’m sure he’s trying to push me, that lazy smile never far from his lips.

  He slams the van doors shut finally, pulls up the back of his slipping combats, dusts off his hands and looks around.

  ‘It’s an interesting place you have here, Madame Beaumont. Is that Saint Enrique over there?’ He points and I realise he probably hasn’t actually seen the area he’s been living in for the last few weeks. Too busy tucked away in his laboratory with books and test tubes or in Le Papillon with his new local friends.

  ‘Perhaps Emmy would like to show you,’ Madame Beaumont nods, showing she’s happy for him to come on to her land and I feel very privileged she’s taken that step because of me. I realise not many people get past Madame Beaumont and her ring of mistrust.

  I’d much rather Isaac just got on his way but I really don’t feel I can turn down Madame Beaumont’s offer. I don’t think it happens very often. ‘And please, accept my apology . . . for earlier. I didn’t realise you were . . . a friend of Emmy’s.’

  ‘Oh, forget it, no worries. Emmy’s explained about Château Lavigne. Been hassling you about selling your land. I don’t blame you for keeping up your guard.’ He waves a hand.

  ‘I didn’t put it quite like that.’ I try to remember what I did say in the kitchen the other night. But Madame Beaumont nods again and turns back down the steps into her big kitchen.

  I now have to show Isaac the vineyard.

  ‘So this is Henri. He does all the heavy work.’ I walk over and rub his nose and he snuffles and snorts, clearly recognising my voice.

  ‘Where’s the machinery kept?’ Isaac looks around.

  ‘No machinery, just Henri,’ I say and smile, scratching Henri’s chin and watching his top lip curl up in pleasure.

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘No, not kidding.’

  ‘Can he see?’ Isaac peers at the horse.