Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Perhaps he’s out?’ she shrugs.

  ‘Dad never goes out. Not since Mum died. He took early retirement after gardening leave at fifty-two and, well, he’s never done anything since.’ I think about the difference in my dad and Madame Beaumont, who must be seventy, if not more. ‘He used to be a really gregarious man. And great at DIY – he’d take on anything.’

  ‘It must be where you get it from,’ she smiles, and I feel a little surge of pride.

  ‘He was so proud of me when I got just enough GCSEs to go to college and do A levels. He knew how hard I found it.’

  ‘Some people are just more practical, others think they can learn all they need from books . . . like that friend of yours.’ For a moment I think she means Charlie and then realise she actually means Isaac. ‘You have to feel and understand your vines to make good wine,’ she grins.

  ‘Actually . . .’ I go to say. I have to tell her that Isaac’s not really my friend, close or otherwise.

  ‘I didn’t know my father.’ She looks straight ahead as we head up to the farmhouse and I stop what I was about to say. I get the feeling it has been a very long time since Madame Beaumont has talked about this, to anyone.

  ‘He planted these vines.’ She is running her hands over their big green leaves as if rubbing the heads of children and in some way connecting her to her father. The wind is lifting the corners of their leaves. Where leaves have fallen she picks them up. The bunches of grapes are hanging low, now full and fat. We look back at the farmhouse on the other side of the bowl. ‘He loved it here.’

  ‘Was he a wine-maker too?’

  She shakes her head. ‘He was a young German soldier, stationed here in the war.’

  It takes a moment or two for it to sink in.

  ‘That’s why your first name is German – Adele?’

  She gives a gentle nod and a smile.

  ‘But why Beaumont?’

  She takes a deep breath and I realise this Pandora’s Box has been tightly shut for some time.

  ‘They weren’t married. After the war my father returned to Germany, before I was born, vowing to return. In neighbouring villages, women who had become close with the German soldiers, collaborated,’ she looks at me, ‘were lined up and had their heads shaved, shaming them. In other towns, they were shot. Here, we were just shunned.’

  I think about the townspeople: Monsieur and Madame Obels, the mayor. Looks like she’s been an outsider for a very long time.

  ‘But my grandparents and my mother brought me up to be proud of who I am. Hence my German name.’

  I feel a tennis ball in my throat and my eyes prickle.

  ‘My mother and father loved each other very much.’

  A single tear slides down my cheek and I brush it away quickly.

  Slowly, we walk back towards Clos Beaumont turning our attention back to the vines.

  ‘See here, just about ready.’ She points to the big fat bunches of grapes as we reach her land. We both wave away the gathering birds on the telephone wire, Madame Beaumont with her thumbstick – ‘Allez, allez, allez . . .’ – and me swinging my arms around like great big windmills, as if I was six again, and feeling the same sense of freedom and joy. Out of breath and both of us laughing at our exertions, we walk back towards the farmhouse. As we get closer I can see a dark silver Audi and the familiar figure of Charlie standing by the door looking like Simon Cowell in his aviator sunglasses. Instead of my heart lifting at the sight of him, it dips. I know exactly why he’s here.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Madame Beaumont returns to the scowl. ‘Not another visitor from the château?’

  ‘No, it’s Charlie Featherstone. Mr Featherstone’s son,’ I explain.

  She seems to relax a little, but I don’t. Why is he here? Does he want to just take over, like the château, without thinking about Madame Beaumont? He said he’d leave it to me. Forgetting our kiss and how attractive I found him last night, I start to march towards him. This is not what we agreed. I need him to let me do this my own way.

  ‘Why is he here? We have delivered all last year’s vintage, non?’ she asks.

  ‘Non, I mean, oui. We have. He probably just wants a word with me.’

  As we reach the top of the hill and the end of the vines, Charlie steps out to walk towards us, but Cecil has other ideas.

  ‘Woooo, woooo, woooooooo.’ He stands up, front feet first, pulling himself to all fours as if his old joints really are finding it all too much like hard work these days. But his efforts are enough to stop Charlie from getting any closer. He stops and Cecil’s jowls wobble, a long slick of drool starts to grow and Charlie backs away.

  ‘Hi, Charlie,’ I say as brightly as I can, patting Cecil and expertly swerving his drool.

  ‘Great, you’re here! So how are things going?’ he says charmingly but also briskly, flashing one of his big white smiles, fixing me with his eyes. ‘It’s harvest time.’ He looks around, frowning. ‘It would be great to know that we’re in here, y’know, bringing in some of the Featherstone’s team to oversee things,’ he says pointedly to me.

  Madame Beaumont joins me by my side.

  ‘Ah, Madame Beaumont, I was just saying to Emmy—’ But he’s stopped in his tracks by Madame Beaumont.

  ‘Monsieur.’ She nods and puts out her hand to shake. ‘Enchanté.’

  ‘S’cuse em moi,’ he nods his apology and acknowledges his schoolboy error. ‘Madame Beaumont. Je suis Charlie Featherstone, fils Eric Featherstone, mon père,’ he says by way of introduction, slowing the whole conversation down, which quite possibly was Madame Beaumont’s intention as she sizes him up and I seize the opportunity to take control of the situation.

  ‘Charlie is just here to see how your harvest is coming along, isn’t that right, Charlie?’

  Madame Beaumont gives a little laugh. ‘The harvest will happen when it’s ready to happen. These things mustn’t be rushed. Mother Nature knows what she’s doing.’ She smiles, and so do I, feeling I’ve held him off.

  ‘I’m just about to make my way back to the office,’ I say trying to push things along and get him to leave.

  ‘The thing is . . .’ he starts again, and I suddenly feel a little flare of anger. Just like when my sister was bullied at school, when Trevor wanted me to sell to older clients who didn’t need or couldn’t afford any more stock, when the bailiffs were in our house, looking through our belongings. I can’t bear seeing people railroaded. It really would be better if I told her about the supermarket buyer and Charlie wanting to bring in his own wine-maker, Isaac.

  ‘The thing is!’ I say loudly to stop Charlie in his tracks. He looks at me in surprise. ‘Charlie is really pleased with this year’s vintage, aren’t you?’ I’m nodding at him slowly, eyes narrowed and glaring, in order to get him to leave me to this. He promised! Pushing her like this is not the way.

  ‘Yes, I am. Delighted in fact . . .’

  ‘Bon. Maintenant, du café?’ Madame Beaumont says, turning towards the French doors.

  ‘No, no, we must be going.’ I go to stand in front of Charlie, blocking his way, but before I know it, he’s sidestepped me.

  ‘Actually, Madame Beaumont—’ he carries on.

  ‘No, Charlie!’ I blurt out and grab his wrist. He will totally blow this if he goes in like this. She’ll never agree to having Isaac here or selling to the supermarkets like this. Especially after what she’s just told me about her parents and how much the vines mean to her. They’re . . . well, they’re more than just grapes to her. She’ll need time to come round to the idea of having strangers here.

  ‘Excuse us,’ he says to Madame Beaumont, who is looking at us in bewilderment, and steers me towards his car, talking quietly to me.

  ‘Leave this to me, Emmy. Really, I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Charlie, I hate
to disagree, but you really don’t . . .’

  ‘Emmy, I’m still your boss,’ he reminds me, silencing me as I smart. ‘Now, we need to get organised. It works for everyone. Madame Beaumont has a good but rustic wine. I have an interested buyer and a wine-maker who can smooth it out.’

  Strip it of its character, I think. ‘Leave it to me. Let me make her understand how we’ll work with her. She won’t want you to take over. This is her family’s vineyard, it’s as precious to her as her actual family.’ I try to persuade him, but he’s not listening.

  ‘With the harvest upon us –’ he looks around, noting that nothing is happening in Clos Beaumont – ‘I need to have our team in here, getting the grapes in. I’m helping. Leave this to me now, Emmy.’

  ‘Leave what?’ We turn. Madame Beaumont is frowning and she looks at Charlie, then at me and back again, raising a grey eyebrow.

  ‘The thing is, Madame Beaumont . . .’ Charlie’s voice drops as he starts to deliver his pitch.

  Don’t do it, Charlie! a voice is shouting in my head. It’s like I’m listening to the sat-nav going down the wrong route and heading for disaster.

  ‘. . . Your wine is good, but you don’t make enough of it for me to continue selling it next year.’

  Madame Beaumont’s face doesn’t move. I’m frozen to the spot; there’s nothing I can do. He’s going to completely ruin everything.

  ‘But,’ he says, as if delivering her a golden ticket, ‘there is a buyer, from the UK, a supermarket buyer . . .’

  ‘Nooo,’ I try but know my words are now falling on deaf ears.

  ‘. . . who loves your wine. She wants to take it and turn it into a blend, a “good, basic claret”, and roll it out to all her stores. So, what we want is to work out your blend. We’ll bring in pickers and a wine-maker, get it all done for you, and blend your grapes with other grapes from the area.’ He smiles.

  She still says nothing, just stares at him. In the distance is the hum of tractors in the neighbouring fields, harvesting.

  ‘Oh, and one last thing, we need to make your vines as high yielding as possible. Obviously your terroir is fantastic. That’s what makes this wine so special. But I understand they’re quite old. So I suggest ripping out the vines you have here and we’ll replant them up with new high-yielding ones. We’ll do it in stages, parcelle by parcelle.’ He’s beaming now, like he’s delivered the winning lottery cheque right to her front door and waved away all her worries with his magic wand. My hands fly up to clutch my head.

  My toes curl and I’m praying for the dusty ground to open up and swallow me. Standing here, watching him come in here like a wrecking ball, I’m actually beginning to wonder what exactly it was that I found so attractive about Charlie last night. Thank God I didn’t go to bed with him. A flush rushes up my chest and into the tips of my ears, making them feel like they’re on fire as I wait for Madame Beaumont’s response. The silence is deafening.

  Still she says nothing. Slowly I raise my eyes from where I’ve been staring at my toe making circles in the dusty ground. Her face is set.

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ The right words won’t come. I want to tell her it’s not as drastic as it sounds, he’s just trying to help, that without this lifeline she’ll have no income at all next year and I didn’t want her to have to sell out to the château.

  ‘You knew about this . . . this plan?’ she says slowly, and despite us being outside on a glorious autumn day, with the birds singing and the hum of tractors, you could hear a pin drop. My throat goes dry, my eyes prickle and sting, my ears still burn.

  ‘Yes,’ I croak.

  ‘Well, we just thought that with Emmy here helping you, she’d be the best one to tell you the good news.’ Charlie’s smile slips slightly, letting on that this hasn’t quite gone according to plan. Uncertainty is circling us like the Mistral wind.

  Madame Beaumont’s eyes dim, the sparkle gone. Her nostrils flare a little, her back stiffens. Her eyes darken further. Where there was friendship and an understanding, now there is hurt. I feel terrible. I can feel her hurt. She thinks I’ve betrayed her. The bond we’ve built over the past few weeks, and the closeness we experienced in the graveyard has been well and truly broken.

  ‘I think you’d better leave,’ she says to me finally, and turns towards the French doors.

  ‘Madame Beaumont, please.’ I put out a hand and run to follow her.

  She turns back and says sharply, ‘And this supermarket buyer, how did she come to learn of my wine? How did she get the idea I would like it turned into a supermarket blend to sit on the shelves and be like all those other wines that have no character or soul?’

  ‘I only had your best interests at heart, you have to believe me.’ There is a crack in my voice.

  She nods stiffly, slowly meeting my eyes. ‘Then you obviously have no understanding about me or my wine.’ I can feel the anger in her measured words. ‘You would have me be like everyone else, pretending that each vintage is the same.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘I find myself feeling very disappointed.’ And I swear there’s a crack in her voice, too.

  ‘Madame Beaumont!’ I go to run after her again. I just can’t bear the thought of her believing I was here to deceive her. ‘Please, I just wanted to give you time to come round to the idea.’

  ‘I will never come round to that idea. I trusted you. Now, please, leave,’ she says sharply. ‘Just go.’

  She turns and steps into the house, slamming the door firmly behind her and swishing the curtain across.

  I hiccup, trying to stifle a sob, biting my top lip, trying not to let the tears fall. Cecil barks and looks at me, making me need to fight back the tears even more. I run past Charlie, out of the gates and as I do, I swear I hear a raised voice and a clatter of pans from Madame Beaumont’s front room. I have to get out of here as quickly as I can. I pick up my bike from the wall, barely able to see through the tears swimming in my eyes now. I swing my leg over and mount, but wobble this way and that down the hill, sniffing and trying to wipe my nose with my sleeve, and every time I take my hand off one of the handle bars, the bike wobbles violently across the road, just as it had when I first arrived. It takes a while for me to realise Charlie is following behind me. When the road widens, he draws up beside me.

  ‘Would you like a lift? You don’t look very safe,’ he asks out the window. I see my reflection in his aviator sunglasses.

  ‘I’m fine!’ I snap back, nearly going head first into a ditch to my right as a tractor comes up the hill towards Saint Enrique. My heart squeezes thinking of Madame Beaumont living in the shadow of that château and having fought for so long not to be swallowed up by it. And now, here am I suggesting exactly the same thing! I don’t think I could ever feel much worse than I do right now.

  The phone at the other end rings and rings and I’m about to give up when it rattles out of its cradle as it’s finally picked up.

  ‘Dad?’ I say, unable to stop the catch in my throat.

  ‘Emmy?’ I’m stopped in my tracks when I hear the familiar voice, as familiar as if we’ve spoken only yesterday. Only we haven’t, it’s been years. My beating heart suddenly goes from walk to gallop.

  ‘It’s me, Jody,’ she says tentatively. Why on earth is Jody in our house? I pull the phone away from my ear and double-check I’ve dialled home. I have. What on earth can have happened? Something dreadful, if Jody’s been called to there.

  ‘Jody? Where’s Dad? Is everything OK?’ My mouth is dry, my head banging and I look down and try to focus on the uneaten salade niçoise next to the small glass of rosé that’s now only half full. I seem to be taking little sips, little and often. Charlie told me to go straight to lunch when we got back to Featherstone’s and he marched off to see Isaac about ‘the Madame B problem’. So I’m sitting at a small round table outside Le Papillon. The owner is kind and polite, and realis
es I’d like to be left alone. But still I turn my back on the other lunchtime diners coming in from the vines for their two-hour break.

  ‘Yes, there’s no problem. Dad’s fine,’ Jody says quickly to reassure me. Is she lying, trying to ease my guilt about leaving him? But then why would Jody do that? I can’t find any words. Where do you start with someone you’ve loved your whole life who ripped out your heart and stamped all over it?

  ‘Just thought I’d visit. See how things are.’ I hear her try to clear her tight throat. I can hear her two boys arguing in the background.

  ‘When did you get there?’ I finally manage, wondering what it is she wants and wishing I was there to find out. There’s no more money, that’s for sure. She’s had everything. Not that she’d need money, what with her husband being a big property investor these days.

  ‘Last night,’ she replies, and then with forced cheerfulness: ‘Dad made us macaroni cheese and bacon, just like when we were kids . . .’ She trails off.

  ‘Dad made macaroni cheese?’ I say, astounded. ‘With bacon?’ He struggles to boil an egg on his own! Which is why I spent all my time filling the freezer with ready meals for one before I left.

  The noise from the children is getting louder and I’m not sure if they’re playing or starting a war.

  ‘Is Dad there? Can I speak to him?’ I ask, my heart twisting, wanting to ask how she is, how the boys are, but something’s stopping me.

  ‘Dad’s gone to the pub, The Castle, with his mate,’ Jody says, almost matter-of-factly.

  ‘Sorry? Did you say . . . Dad’s gone to the pub? What mate?’ Now I’m really worried. What is going on? I push the tuna around my plate and Jeff passes, waving a cheery greeting on his way for his lunchtime aperitif. I wave back and call ‘Salut’ without thinking.

  ‘Gosh, you really are getting to grips with the lingo, aren’t you? Dad says you’re doing really well out there. You always were the clever one,’ I hear my sister say, and there’s a slight shake in her voice.

  This is all a bit surreal. My sister, whom I haven’t seen for four years, is in my house, visiting. And my dad is in the pub, somewhere he hasn’t been in fifteen years. And he certainly hasn’t got any mates.