Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Jody? What’s up?’ I say, taking a firm hold of the situation. ‘Did Dad phone you about the water tank?’

  And she suddenly breaks down in tears.

  ‘I’ve left him, Emmy . . . Dion. I’ve left him.’ Her voice is thin and she’s taking big gulps through the strangled sobs.

  ‘Dion! What, husband Dion?’ I say loudly. Heads at the bar turn to look at me and I quickly lower my voice. ‘Jody?’

  She sniffs some more.

  ‘The two-timing shit!’ she spits out.

  ‘Oh, Jody . . .’ And no matter what’s happened, the years seem to melt away and I just want to be there and wrap my arms around her.

  ‘It’s been going on for ages. I just didn’t have the guts to leave. When he was still playing, there were always girls around, wanting to bag a footballer of their own, but I thought we were different.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ I ask, but I know why.

  ‘He’d pushed me away from you and Dad. Said it was him and the kids or you and Dad. Said he’d fight for custody. So I stayed. It felt like I didn’t have a family any more . . . and after what he’d done, I didn’t feel I could just pick up the phone.’

  There is a silence. I know we still have so much to talk about, but right now none of it seems to matter.

  ‘Well,’ I say, a crack in my voice, ‘I’m here now, whenever you need me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she practically whispers through the tears that I know are falling, and I want nothing more than to pull her to me and tell her everything will be OK.

  ‘Ssh, ssh,’ I tell her, just like I used to when she’d cry herself to sleep after Mum died. I’d crawl into bed with her, wrap my arms around her and rock slowly back and forth, just as I’m doing to the phone right now.

  ‘Oh, and Emmy?’ Jody says through the sniffs, just before I hang up. ‘It’s great to see Dad sleeping back in his and Mum’s old bedroom, really great.’

  ‘He isn’t,’ I reply, confused.

  ‘He is,’ she says more brightly. ‘Apparently after the tank burst and water came through the ceiling in his room, he moved back in there.’

  Dad’s been sleeping in Jody’s old room for several years. I’m stunned. ‘Oh, and he’s cooking toad-in-the-hole tonight, too. My favourite. Love you loads, sis,’ says Jody, sounding even brighter, finally hanging up.

  Words fail me. Toad-in-the-hole? I wrap my arms around myself and let the tears flow. I’d give anything to be at home with Dad and Jody having toad-in-the-hole. I want to go home, I realise with absolute certainty. I just want to go home.

  ‘Hello, my name’s Emmy, I’m calling from Featherstone’s Wines. I just wondered if you’d had a chance to look at our brochure or website and whether you’d like to order anything this afternoon . . .’

  ‘My name’s Candy from Featherstone’s Wines . . .’

  ‘Nick …wondered if you’d had a chance . . .’

  ‘I’m Gloria . . . anything you’d like to order this afternoon?’

  The same repetitive script is bouncing off the walls of the office as we sit, phones glued to our ears. I try to concentrate really hard on what I’m supposed to say, but my eyes are constantly drawn to the vineyard behind and the graveyard beyond it. But Madame Beaumont doesn’t make her trip to the graveyard all afternoon and I know I’ve hurt her very badly indeed.

  ‘One case of mixed red and white?’ Candy’s saying to her customer loudly for his benefit and ours. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with today?’ She trots out her word-perfect, well-practised script, giving me a smug sideways glance.

  I refocus on my call.

  ‘Sorry, would you say that again, a case of which?’ I ask my caller to repeat. ‘Oh, six cases? A fine, full bodied . . . red wine.’ I try to remember the description but fail. ‘A very good choice,’ I say instead and I can feel Candy glare at me as my customer orders six cases of one of our most expensive red wines.

  ‘For your daughter’s wedding? Oh, congratulations. What are you having to eat?’

  ‘Well, she keeps changing her mind, but I think she’s gone for the chicken now.’

  ‘Chicken, oh . . . well, in that case, you might want to go for . . . hang on . . .’ I look up on the website. I’m sure there was a white on offer. ‘Yes, have a look at this one. And if you buy six cases, you get an extra discount. It’ll make it much cheaper for you.’

  I can see Candy’s face out of the corner of my eye turning from a scowl to a smirk as she thinks I’m doing myself out of sales again. I can’t help it. And there’s no point in me trying to match her sales figures; I’ll never be able to.

  ‘Hello, my name’s Candy from Featherstone’s Wines. I was wondering if you’d had a chance . . .’

  She’s like a mighty machine. I’ll never catch her. I’ll never win the bet. I can’t do it. No matter how hard I try I can’t be one of them. And after this morning’s débâcle there’s no way Charlie will keep me on now. We’ve lost Madame Beaumont’s wine and I’ve probably lost my job too. I have no idea how I’m going to get Dad and me, and now Jody and her boys, out of our mess. No idea at all.

  ‘Well, that does look like a good buy,’ my customer is saying. ‘Tell you what, how about I take the red and the white, just in case she changes her mind, and what about sparkling wines too?’

  I talk him through the sparkling wines on offer and work out a brilliant saving for my customer.

  ‘Are you sure it’s not too much?’ I double-check with him.

  ‘My dear, I own a small estate in the Scottish borders. I can definitely afford my wine bill. But you’ve been excellent help. I’ll be sure to come back to you, thank you.’

  We finish the conversation with me wishing him well and then realising I’ve barely looked at my script. As I look up Charlie is standing by my desk making my heart clatter and jump all at the same time. He’s not looking happy.

  ‘Emmy, can I have a word?’

  Candy flashes me another smug smile and lifts her chest.

  ‘Hello, my name is Candy . . .’ She shows off loudly.

  Both Nick and Gloria stop making calls for a moment as I follow Charlie out to his office. Then, as I go down the wooden steps I hear them pick up their phones and start working through their spiel.

  ‘So, things didn’t go quite to plan this morning,’ he says, one thigh on the desk, but I don’t find my insides shifting like they did when Isaac helped me with the bike. I make myself cross by thinking it, and shove the memory away.

  ‘Actually, Charlie, you’re right,’ I take a big breath. ‘I’ve completely messed things up. I’m not cut out for this.’ I’m never going to make my targets. I’ll never be in line for the team leader’s job or to win the bet and pay back Candy. I need to get home and find another job – fast! I’ll apply to the new superstore and every store in Cardiff. I must be able to find something. I have to be with my family right now, they need me far more than Featherstone’s does.

  ‘Well, I agree things haven’t gone according to plan.’ He adjusts the line of pens on his desk to make them perfectly straight.

  ‘I’ve made a decision.’ I look up from my hands in my lap.

  ‘I think I’m the one who should be saying that,’ he interrupts me, half joking. I ignore him.

  ‘I’m going home,’ I tell him, looking him straight in the eye and he looks visibly shocked. ‘I have to. My family need me.’ I feel just like I did when the school rang me to say they were worried about Jody; that Dad wasn’t coping after Mum died. I just dropped everything and went. I’m shaking. My only concern is getting back to them as quickly as possible, just as I did then. We’ll find a way to cope, we always have. I could work double shifts in the superstore if needs be. Again I’m catapulted right back to the night of my mum returning home from a double shift. Her tire
d, worn-out face that was once so full of fun and life. Before the worries of keeping up with school trips and extra tuition fees, trying to be like everyone else.

  ‘But I thought . . . you can’t just leave. I mean, there’s Madame Beaumont. The wine. The buyer. You’re our only hope.’ He sounds momentarily flustered and on the back foot.

  ‘I think we can agree I’ve well and truly messed that up.’ I go to stand, looking at the wide floorboards.

  ‘And then, of course . . . there’s you and me,’ he says clumsily, suddenly pulling back one of his smiles and cocking his head to one side. He puts his finger under my chin, lifting my face to his, catching me in his gaze. I wish he didn’t have this effect on me, where I feel like I’ve been metaphorically pinned against the wall and undressed with his eyes. I wish there could have been a ‘you and me’, but I’m still not convinced he is really interested. Lovely as it would be, I have to go. My sister and my dad need me, just as they did when Mum died. And right now, I need them too. Madame Beaumont certainly doesn’t need my interference any more.

  ‘Look, take your time. Why not sleep on it? You and I could take some time out at the weekend. Maybe have that weekend away we talked about yesterday,’ he smiles. ‘Separate rooms, of course. If that’s what you wanted. I could show you a bit more of the country. Show you what you’d be missing. I really want to persuade you to stay.’ And again my silly head and heart clash, wondering whether it’s me he wants to stay or whether he merely thinks I can still work on Madame Beaumont, which I definitely can’t. I excuse myself quickly, before I get taken in by the daft idea. I mustn’t be foolish and rash. I need to work out what Dad, Jody and I are going to do now.

  I break into a run as I head back to the gîte and bump straight into Isaac. He pulls out one of his headphones he’s permanently attached to.

  ‘Hey, you OK?’ He holds my arms, the bud earphone swinging across his chest. ‘Don’t tell me you let Candy finally get your goat?’

  ‘No, no, sorry, um, I have to be somewhere.’ I sidestep him and head for the bike leaning against the log store. Isaac is the very last person I want to see. If it hadn’t been for Isaac telling me I could have my job and my man, maybe I wouldn’t have made such a mess of things. But I know really I have only myself to blame. As usual I’m too busy trying to sort out other people’s lives and making a complete pig’s ear of my own and theirs along the way.

  Isaac follows me, then catches my elbow.

  ‘Look, I overheard you and Charlie talking. I was in the shop. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you should go, Emmy.’

  ‘And why would I care what you think?’ I cling to the bike handle bars. ‘You think we’re all useless anyway! What was it you said? “Like seagulls round a cigarette butt, wondering how to eat it.”’ I wish I could suck the words back in as soon as I’ve said them.

  He doesn’t respond but looks embarrassed.

  ‘It’s my family,’ I tell him quickly, so as not to cause any more trouble than I already have. ‘They need me.’

  He nods. ‘OK. I understand.’ But I don’t think he does really.

  He shrugs, turns away and walks back to his work room, and I leave the bike and run into the gîte to splash cold water on my face at the kitchen sink.

  ‘So is it true? Is she really going?’ I can hear Candy saying to the others as they file out of the office, coffees in hand.

  ‘That’s what Colette told Gloria,’ Nick is telling them.

  ‘Apparently her family needs her,’ Gloria is telling Candy. I watch through the window as they head towards a table and chairs in the early autumn sunshine.

  ‘Shame. She was really getting to know about this wine game. Did you hear her on the phone this morning?’ Nick says, surprising me.

  Candy harrumphs, not surprising me.

  ‘Least that means I get a room to myself now,’ she says like a true prima donna.

  ‘I’ll share with you,’ Nick offers, and my eyebrows shoot up.

  ‘Oh, Nick,’ I hear Candy laugh, ‘everyone should have a gay best friend like you.’ I walk back towards the bike, and I don’t hear Nick laugh in return.

  I set off one last time on the bike. I cycle as hard as I can and the bike doesn’t wobble. I don’t even stop when cars pass me on the other side of the road. I look over to the abandoned café where there seems to be work going on; workmen in overalls. I put my head down and ride confidently and quickly, like I’ve been doing this route all of my life, over the stone bridge with ease and powering up the hill. I have to tell Madame Beaumont that I’m sorry and that I’ve decided to leave. I can’t stay here now. I hope she’ll forgive me. But I need to warn her that she has to find another way of selling her wine next year. Maybe I could talk to some of the other wine merchants in the town when I get back. Oh, there I go again, always thinking I can fix other people’s lives. When am I going to realise that I should just leave people alone. I need to sort my own life out first. And right now, seeing as I’m about to throw in the towel here, I need to get home and find a new job to support my family, which has grown since I’ve been away. I’m not sure that Jody has ever worked, and Dad certainly doesn’t have a job or any likelihood of getting one. I push on, up the hill, standing on the pedals, and realise I would never have been able to do this when I first got here. But I should never have come in the first place. The sooner I get this over and done with, the sooner I can get home and find out what on earth’s going on with my family.

  I’m hot when I arrive, though the breeze has really picked up here.

  I’m as nervous as I was the time I had to stand up and give a recital in the school assembly. I was ten years old, but it still feels like yesterday. It was harvest time, just like now, and I was supposed to be reading a poem about autumn. But the words all blurred on the page and I knew I’d be the laughing stock of the school.

  ‘Allo? Allo? Madame Beaumont?’ I call, walking round the yard. The wind catches my hair as I turn this way and that in the ever-increasing gusts. I find an elastic band in my pocket and manage to tie up the sides in a little bunch on top of my head. I run round all the usual places where Madame Beaumont might be but there’s no one around. Even Cecil isn’t lying in his usual place in the middle of the yard. I put my head into the chai, but she’s not there. I go to the vines to see if she and Cecil are seeing off the birds. She’s not there either, but the birds are, back in the trees and on the overhead wire, gathering in numbers, eyeing the ever-ripening grapes. I run at them, shouting and waving my arms, expecting Cecil to join me at any moment, but he doesn’t. All of a sudden, Henri lifts his head, his mane flying in the wind and lets out a high-pitched whinny. Nostrils flaring, he dips and bucks and then canters towards the gate as if trying to join me. The wind is blowing up through the vines, lifting Henri’s tail high as he canters up and down, whinnying. It’s so humid now. I look out across the vines to see if Madame Beaumont might be on her way back from the graveyard but there’s no sign of the small black-clothed figure, just more gathering black clouds. I turn towards the farmhouse. It’s a far cry from the smart farmhouse and gîte at Featherstone’s, but somehow I fitted in far better here than I ever have there.

  The warm wind blows my hair over my face as I turn and I peel it back, fighting it with both hands. As I do, I see Cecil lying, stretched out across the French doors at the back of the farmhouse, his head between his paws. He must have seen me when I arrived but he didn’t make a sound. My heart lurches. Oh God, what if he’s . . . what if he’s ill? I run towards him.

  ‘Cecil? Cecil?’

  He lifts his head slowly and I let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘Hey, Cecil.’ I bend down and rub his head, he looks up at me, his eyes even sadder than usual, then flops his head back down and lets out a whimper. I don’t know what’s wrong, but something is. Henri is still thundering up and down the field and I doubt he
’s moved that much in years; he’ll ache later.

  I rub Cecil’s head and look around.

  ‘Where’s your mistress, then?’

  I stand up, swallow, roll my shoulders back and hear the click of tension in them. Then I clear my throat again before knocking on the French doors. The curtains are firmly closed just like when I left, when Madame Beaumont banged the door shut and swished the curtain across. There’s no reply. If she is in there she clearly doesn’t want visitors . . . and in particular, this one.

  I feel wretched. I turn round and look at the scruffy farmyard that has become so familiar. I look at the chai where we have scrubbed the equipment, where I have hosed down concrete vats, inside and out, so you could eat your dinner off them. Clean and ready for the new vintage. I look out at the heavily laden vines, with big fat bunches of dark, marble-like grapes ready to start their new beginning too. I feel strangely sad I won’t get to see them on the next leg of their journey. I knock again, but again, nothing. Cecil lets out another low sigh, repositioning his head between his feet.

  ‘Come on, Cecil.’ I try to get him to his feet, calling him to me. But he won’t budge. I drop my hands to my side in frustration. Even Cecil won’t acknowledge me. There’s nothing here for me. I’m not wanted. It’s time to go. I walk towards the lane and my bike.

  Suddenly Cecil lifts his head and gives a bark. I turn back.

  ‘I have to go, Cec.’

  And just then I swear I hear a noise, a strangled shout.

  ‘Madame Beaumont! Is that you?’

  I can’t leave if she’ll speak to me.

  ‘Adele? Where are you?’ I’m looking around and suddenly my heart is beating faster and faster. I run round the chai and the other barns, calling her name, searching. Suddenly Cecil is up on his feet, barking.

  ‘Madame Beaumont?’ I shout, and run to the French doors. I try the handle. It’s locked. But I’m sure I hear her again. Cecil is now barking for all he is worth. Big, fat rain drops begin to fall and I try to brush them from my face and eyes. I start to sweat as I jiggle the door handle again but it doesn’t move.