Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Shit!’

  I look this way and that. She’s not going to thank me for this if she’s shouting at me to go away, but I can’t leave not knowing. I pick up a rock by the door and, taking off my denim jacket, wrap it over my hand, then aim it at the pane of glass by the handle . . . I pull back my hand.

  ‘Cecil?’ I turn to check he’s standing back. He is, barking like a metronome, evenly and steadily. I turn my attention back to the window pane, lick my lips and then chew on the bottom one. Just do it, I tell myself. And I do. I smash the rock at the glass. It cracks, shatters and breaks into tiny pieces, and I jump back as the glass falls at my feet.

  I punch out the rest of the glass with my hand inside my jacket and then carefully put my hand through, unlock the door and pull down the handle.

  ‘It’s OK, Cecil, we’re in,’ I say, and he suddenly stops barking and lies down.

  I open the door and pull back the heavy curtains with a whoosh along the iron curtain rail, but the rings get caught and I find myself fighting my way through them. My eyes adjust to the dark as I emerge from the curtains’ clutches and then my heart lurches and the heat drains out of my body, and I suddenly feel very cold. I have found Madame Beaumont.

  ‘Je savais que tu reviendras.’ Though her voice is thin and weak, she tries a smile, but her face contorts with pain.

  ‘Of course I came back,’ I say, the words catching in my throat.

  ‘You’re stubborn . . . like me.’ I’m not sure if that’s an insult or compliment, but either way she’s probably right.

  She isn’t moving. She is lying just at the bottom of the three stone steps. She is grey she’s so white, lying on the floor in front of me.

  ‘Don’t move, don’t try and speak.’ I run down the steps and straight to the settee, picking up a thin cushion, and then a blanket off the little bed in the corner.

  ‘Just get me up and I’ll be fine. Just a silly fall,’ she says, but her face contorts as the pain drives through her and she slumps, slipping into unconsciousness. The old black and white cat is curled up in the small of her back.

  ‘Oh God!’ I pull out my phone and hold it high, swinging it around for a signal. I go back to the top of the three steps, looking down at Madame Beaumont. She looks tiny and frail, not like the small yet strong woman I have come to know.

  I don’t even know what the number is for the emergency services. I bet it was written in my Featherstone’s handbook. I should’ve read it.

  I press Charlie’s number. He’ll know what to do.

  The wind is howling now and the sky has darkened.

  ‘Hi, this is Charlie Featherstone,’ says the business-like voicemail message. I click it off.

  ‘Stay awake, Madame Beaumont. Don’t fall asleep.’ Oh God, Charlie, where are you?

  I ring the Featherstone’s office number. It’s the only other number I’ve got for anyone. I haven’t become firm enough friends with anyone at the gîte for us to swap numbers. Far from it. I’ve been keeping my distance more than usual today, since the dinner with Charlie in Saint Enrique. I don’t want them thinking – or should that be knowing – that there’s something going on between us. Candy’s office-romance radar is on permanent alert. She even thinks Nick has got a thing for Isaac because he keeps asking questions in class.

  The phone is suddenly picked up and I’m waiting for the ‘Featherstone’s Wines, my name is . . . how can I help you?’ But it doesn’t come.

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Er, no, it’s Isaac here. Look, Emmy,’ he dives straight in before I can speak. ‘About you leaving. I, um, if it’s anything I said, I’m sorry, I know I can be a bit of a joker . . . the first night . . . the Goldilocks thing, and that other thing I said, about the seagulls—’

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing, really,’ I cut him off. ‘Um, but do you know where Charlie is?’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘No, actually, it’s Madame Beaumont. She’s fallen. I need an ambulance. Can you ring one?’

  ‘Sure, straight away. You stay with her, I’ll sort it,’ he says, and I thank him and hang up. It must be the most civilised conversation we’ve had, ever. Who knew Isaac could be so . . . well, grown up?

  I shove the phone into my back pocket and run down the three steps. I kneel down on the cold stone floor by her head. Her usual pinned-back hair and bun are now strewn in wispy strands around her head, grey and thinning. I stand up and grab another cushion to sit on, my bare legs turning to goose-bumps. She’s cold and I put another thin, threadbare blanket from her bed over her. She murmurs her thanks and I know she is just conscious. I have to keep her that way, by any means.

  ‘I rang home . . .’ I start to tell her about Dad going to the pub, moving back into the front bedroom and then my sister arriving and that I’m worried. But then I tell her Dad’s made macaroni cheese, like he used to make. Dad was always the cook in our house. I can hear heavy rain continuing to beat down on the roof, there’s a flash of lightning and I listen and count from the moment I see the flash to see how many miles away the storm is. Dad taught me how to do that when I was scared of the storms. My fear of storms has never gone away, not after Mum died that night. My nerves are jangling and I wish the ambulance would hurry up and get here.

  ‘One, two, three, four . . .’

  Bang! The thunder clap is huge, making me jump, but I look down at Madame Beaumont, who is getting colder and slipping into unconsciousness. Cecil lets out a low howl and even the cat looks at me and meows pitifully.

  ‘How about a song?’ My voice is high pitched and shaky, but I’m determined not to let her slip from me.

  ‘Alouette’ is the only song that comes into my head, from my schooldays.

  The lightning comes again.

  ‘One, two, three . . .’

  Bang!

  ‘Arrr!’ I shriek. ‘Alouette, gentille alouette. Alouette, je te plumerai.’

  I keep singing and shrieking with every flash and bang.

  ‘One, two . . .’

  Bang!

  ‘Arrrr!’

  And then, the French doors fly open.

  ‘Arrrr!’ I shriek again, heart racing. The lights flicker off and back on again. That was a close one. I close my eyes tight and hold Madame Beaumont’s hand even tighter.

  ‘Alouette, gentille alouette,’ I keep going.

  Suddenly there’s a male voice singing with me. Very close. ‘Alouette, gentille alouette,’ and my heart jumps into my mouth, stopping me singing.

  I open one of my eyes, just a tiny bit. There’s that dark hair, the bandana, the hanging earring and an American twang to his ‘Alouette’.

  ‘Thought you might have been the ambulance,’ I say quietly, not wanting to alarm Madame Beaumont.

  ‘On its way.’ Isaac goes round the other side of Madame Beaumont’s head, sits down on the floor and crosses his legs. ‘How’s she doing?’

  ‘We’re doing fine, aren’t we, Madame Beaumont?’ I say loudly. There’s another flash and I count. The lights go out. I pull out my phone and use it as a torch.

  ‘ Two, three, four . . .’

  Rumble.

  ‘It’s moving away, Madame Beaumont.’ I sigh with relief.

  Madame Beaumont mumbles and I bend down to hear her.

  ‘Sorry, what’s that?’

  ‘I said, Bon. Now, can you stop singing that song?’

  And I give a little laugh, delighted she’s still with us and at the same time a tear rolls down my cheeks and I brush it away.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ Isaac looks around.

  I shake my head, knowing there won’t be anything in. I don’t think Madame Beaumont lives this frugally out of choice. I move my sitting position and lift Madame Beaumont’s head into my lap. She doesn’t seem to mind. I’m
sure I’d know if she did. The cat stands up, turns round and lies back down again in the small of her back and I’m sure, in some way, he’s doing his part too. I tuck the stray strands of hair behind her ears and redo the clips that have fallen.

  ‘When’s it going to be here?’

  Isaac shrugs and looks unusually worried.

  ‘It’s coming from Bordeaux. I guess the weather isn’t helping and sat-nav’s not really going to help them out here. It’s not like this in California,’ he smiles, and for once I’m grateful for his jokes. He looks as worried as I feel and I want to take his mind off things.

  ‘I’ll light the fire.’ He busies himself chopping up the wood in the basket into kindling.

  ‘What is it like? Where’s home for you?’

  He shrugs, gathering the little wood splinters from the fire to put on top of scrunched-up paper.

  ‘Nowhere permanent. I move around, working from winery to winery.’

  ‘But you must have a home somewhere, family? Girlfriend? Where your parents live or something?’

  He shakes his head. It’s wet and the usually wavy hair has turned curly at the ends. I bet he had a full head of curls when he was a little boy.

  ‘Both my parents are dead.’ He lights a match and puts it to the paper.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. They were wonderful. Just old. I was in care for part of my life. But my parents adopted me when I was twelve. I was a bit of a hell raiser at school. They straightened me out. My dad gave me two things in life: a love of wine and a love of travel . . . oh, and surfing. Growing up in California, how could I not?’ The fire flickers into life after lots of encouragement from Isaac.

  ‘So you always been afraid of storms?’ he asks, sitting with his back to the fire as it gradually takes hold, and somehow, with the darkness and the worry, I let my guard down with him.

  ‘I lost my mum. She died in a storm. Car accident. I just have my dad,’ I find myself telling him as the storm rumbles away in the distance.

  ‘Jeez, that’s rough.’

  ‘He hasn’t ever really got over it.’

  ‘That’s why he rings you?’

  I nod, look down at the phone in my hand and rub my thumb over the screen as if it helps me to stay close to him. I’ve lost one person I cared about to a storm, I’m not about to lose another.

  ‘So, how does your girlfriend cope with you being away so much?’ I change the subject quickly and keep the conversation flowing to keep Madame Beaumont with me.

  Isaac puts his knees up and rests his elbows on them, hands held together. His leather wristbands, his friendship bracelets slide up his arm. His headphones hang round his neck. He looks towards the door. He’s smiling.

  ‘Let’s just say, there’s no one special in my life.’

  ‘I’d say there’s lots of special people in your life, just all in different countries and no one knows about the others.’ I manage a little laugh.

  ‘You got me.’ He looks back at me and suddenly my insides jolt, like they’ve been stopped and suddenly restarted. ‘Just waiting to meet the right one.’ My heart beats absurdly at double speed.

  ‘What about you and Charlie? You two have got something going on there, haven’t you?’

  My heart slows again and I blush. ‘Oh, I don’t know, especially with me going back to the UK now. Actually, have you any idea where he is?’

  ‘Gone off to visit a château with Selina. Man, these wine sellers are all over the buyers like a rash,’ he says matter-of-factly, and for a moment I get a tiny pang of jealously but it passes the moment I look down at Madame Beaumont’s grey face.

  Isaac stands up and I suddenly realise I don’t want him to go.

  ‘I’ll get some logs in,’ he tells me.

  Any other time I’d be dying to get away from him, but I have to say, he’s been brilliant here. Suddenly, I prick up my ears. I hear something. My hopes start rise.

  ‘That could be them,’ he says, going to the doors. He steps out into the rain and I can hear a siren getting closer.

  ‘I’ll go and hail them,’ he says, giving me a reassuring smile, making my insides jolt again. It must be the stress of it all. I stroke Madame Beaumont’s head and breathe a sigh of relief that the ambulance men can take over from here.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say looking up at Isaac, not so much the joker and fool any more. I don’t know how I’d’ve got through that without him. Any man who can join in with my ‘Alouette’ has got to be worth my respect.

  Outside the rain has finally stopped as they bring out Madame Beaumont on the stretcher and place it on to a trolley on wheels. Big drops of rainwater hang like crystals on a chandelier from the vine leaves. The ambulance is in the middle of the yard with the back doors open: a white van with light blue writing and a star symbol on it. Very different from the British yellow and green boxlike ones. I’m shivering. Isaac puts a sweatshirt round my shoulders and I thank him.

  Madame Beaumont is wrapped in warm blankets but she still looks so frail and grey. The cry of pain she gave out as they moved her on to the stretcher keeps playing over and over in my head.

  ‘Where are you taking her? Où?’ I ask the two smiling paramedics. One is a fat man with a balding head and a moustache, called Laurence, the other a slight woman, carrying the drip.

  ‘Oh là!’ says a voice, and I turn round to see a man getting out of his car, which he’s parked in front of the ambulance.

  ‘It’s Monsieur Lavigne, from Château Lavigne,’ Isaac whispers.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Trade magazines. He has vineyards all over the world. He’s a very big name in the wine world.’

  He heads straight for the stretcher.

  ‘Monsieur, Madame,’ he nods to us. ‘I saw the lights.’ He nods towards the ambulance and shakes the paramedics’ hands. ‘Qu’est-ce qui se passe? What happened? Madame Beaumont . . . ?’

  ‘Madame Beaumont, elle est tombée. She has had a fall,’ I tell him.

  ‘Mon dieu, Madame Beaumont.’ He places a hand on the stretcher and she makes a tiny move to snatch her hand away.

  ‘Madame Beaumont, we may not have seen eye to eye on many things, but I am your neighbour. Whatever I can do to help,’ he says to her in French, ‘just say.’

  ‘I have known you all my life, Monsieur,’ she says in a thin, croaking voice. ‘You have never done anything to help.’

  Monsieur Lavigne takes a step back, as if he’s touched an electric fence.

  ‘Where are you taking her? Oú?’ I ask Laurence.

  ‘Bordeaux Hospital,’ the paramedics both tell me.

  ‘Would you like to travel with us?’ Laurence asks.

  ‘Yes, of course, bien sûr.’ I nod.

  Suddenly Madame Beaumont grabs hold of my hand tightly. I move quickly, closer to her, taken aback by the strength of her grip.

  ‘Please,’ I lean in to hear her, ‘stay here,’ she says hoarsely.

  ‘Oh, but I can come with you. It’s fine,’ I tell her.

  ‘No, stay here! Please! You’re the only one. I need you to stay.’

  ‘I . . .’ I hesitate, not quite understanding what she means.

  ‘I can stay,’ Isaac pipes up, but she barely looks at him. She pulls me closer so I am leaning over the stretcher.

  ‘Look after my vines. You are the only one. Please. I beg you. You know them. Don’t let them fall into anyone else’s hands.’ She looks pointedly at Monsieur Lavigne, who is glancing around the yard, but he snaps back to give us his attention.

  ‘I am happy to help out with the harvest if needs be,’ he says, pulling out his phone and beginning to text.

  ‘Please,’ Madame Beaumont begs of me again. ‘Bring in my harvest.’

  ‘How? How w
ill I know what to do?’ I feel completely useless.

  She smiles a wry smile through the pain. ‘Instinct, of course, trust your instincts.’

  I look at Monsieur Lavigne and then, digging very deep into my bravery bucket, I lift my head.

  ‘It’s OK, monsieur. There’s no need for you to help. We’re fine,’ I say far more confidently than I feel. I swallow the big ball of panic in my throat. ‘I’ll be looking after the harvest.’ I look back at Madame Beaumont; she has tiny sparkles of tears in her eyes. Then I look up at Isaac, feeling terrified and helpless, both about Madame Beaumont and the vines.

  I swallow. ‘But what about going with you to hospital?’ I ask her.

  ‘You must stay here. Keep my vines safe, and look after Cecil and Henri.’ Her voice is a mere whisper now and I lean closer to hear her. She harrumphs at Monsieur Lavigne.

  ‘Like I say, you have never supported my family, Monsieur Lavigne – why start now?’

  I love it. Even in her ailing state she is still as feisty as ever, fighting her corner. How can I not follow her lead?

  ‘Perhaps your friend can accompany me?’ she says, meaning Isaac.

  ‘Happy to.’ Isaac steps up to the stretcher and smiles, and suddenly I’m quite proud to call him my friend. He’s been fantastic. She looks him up and down as much as she can and gives him a slightly disparaging look, which I love about her as well, as if he has yet to prove himself to her. Cecil is standing right beside the stretcher, panting heavily.

  ‘OK, allez,’ Laurence says, starting to move the trolley forward.

  Henri wickers from his gate. He is snorting and stamping, plumes of steam curling out of his flaring nostrils as he nods his head over the wet gate, up and down.

  ‘Arrêtez,’ Madame Beaumont commands Laurence, putting up a weak hand. She is barely able to keep her eyes open now with the pain she’s in on her left side.