Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘La fenêtre?’ He points to the broken window pane in the door and explains he’s been sent by a Monsieur Charlie Featherstone to repair it.

  I thank him and let him get on with his work, flexing the hand that I put through the window last night.

  ‘I’m going to check back at the winery and then pick up some things and come back.’

  ‘What? You don’t need to move in!’ I don’t want Isaac watching over my every move.

  ‘We can’t let this go wrong, Emmy.’ He looks at me seriously and deeply, and I feel a crackle and fizz like the lights.

  ‘And it won’t. Really. There’s no need for you to stay here. I can manage. Besides, you’re needed at Featherstone’s too.’

  I run back inside and quickly change into shorts, a faded T-shirt, hoodie, socks and boots, and scrape my hair back into a scrunchie before the glass repairer returns from his van. I know where he is because he’s whistling, tunelessly and constantly.

  There is the clatter and rumble of traffic on the lane outside. I’ve never heard it so busy.

  ‘I have to organise the harvest,’ I repeat to myself, throwing open the shutters on the farmhouse kitchen-cum-living room. Bits of ivy, spider’s web and snails fall as I push them back. Evidently they haven’t been opened for a very long time. I throw open the windows, too, to air the room as the October sun starts to climb the sky. On the road there is the constant rumble of tractors pulling trailers full of grapes, heading for the château, no doubt, or back the other way, maybe to Isaac, to have their grapes turned into wine. I need some help here. I look around for a desk to find a list of pickers so I can tell him who to ring. Maybe there’s an office.

  Isaac has offered to take me to see Madame Beaumont later. I want to be able to tell her I’m organised, that I’ve got the harvest in hand.

  The whistling glass repair man sets to work, with a smile and a wave of his hammer. I have to do the same. I push open the door into the room next door, hoping to find an office, somewhere I can start to organise things.

  It’s a big room with green embossed wallpaper on one wall. There are two mismatched wing-back chairs either side of a huge black fireplace. There are two big windows with wooden slatted shutters either side. Old sheets have been thrown over boxes. I go into the hall and discover a door with steps down to the cellar, but I’m not going to brave that today. The house feels like it’s been preserved in aspic. Nothing seems to have been moved for years. I go upstairs and think that I may have at least found somewhere to sleep tonight. There is a smell in the air, musty. The whole place needs airing. I throw open the window of the front bedroom, which looks out on to the road. Another tractor trundles past. There’s an eiderdown here, in much the same state as Madame Beaumont’s downstairs. I gather it up and hang it over the windowsill to air, and look up and down the road. I have to get on. I go back downstairs. There’s another room further on that is full of boxes but I don’t think I’m going to find an up-to-date list of pickers there. I go back to the living room. It’s actually very beautiful, if dated and stuck in time. I run my hand over the dusty wallpaper and fireplace. There’s a square black clock with a gold face on the mantelpiece, but it’s not working. But there’s no desk anywhere with anything that might help me. No obvious piles of papers. I need to find out where I get pickers from. There’s nothing for it: I need to get some help from the horse’s mouth.

  That afternoon Isaac drives me to the hospital in Bordeaux. Madame Beaumont looks pale and grey, and she keeps coughing. She has an oxygen mask over her face. Pneumonia, the young nurse confirms. But at least she seems pleased to see me. She writes down the address of Alfonso, with a weak and shaking hand. He’ll organise a gang of pickers, she tells me. Alfonso is a Spanish gypsy. They come every year to work the vineyards. He’ll organise everything.

  Madame Beaumont is tired now, drifting in and out of sleep, and it’s a shock to see her looking so frail. Isaac keeps a distance so as not to tire her even more.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ Madame Beaumont instructs me with snatched breaths. ‘You are running the harvest. Only intervene if Mother Nature needs your help.’

  I nod and try to understand what she means. ‘Can I ring you if I need you? What about a mobile – have you got one?’

  Madame Beaumont looks at me and manages one raised eyebrow.

  Of course not, I think. My heart sinks. The bell goes to signal the end of visiting. I stand to leave and she lifts her cheeks to me to kiss her goodbye. As I do, I see Isaac’s iPod on the side table. A nurse is walking through the ward telling us all it’s time to go.

  ‘Wait!’ I pick up the iPod and headphones. ‘If you want me, iMessage me. You can message me on my phone.’ I hold up the iPod to show her she has to talk into it. ‘It’s like a video message. You should be able to work it out. This way we can stay in touch.’

  I hand it to her and Madame Beaumont takes it and looks at it like it’s a banana after the war and has no idea whether to peel it, eat it or talk into it. But the nurse isn’t going to let me have time to explain and it drops to Madame Beaumont’s side as she slips into a drowsy sleep again.

  On the drive back from the hospital, Isaac assures me she’s in good hands, and I nod. I know that. It was just difficult to see her like that.

  ‘So, what did she have to say about the harvest?’ he says, distracting me from my worries about her health.

  ‘To remember to take Mother Nature’s lead and not to start until after the full moon.’

  ‘What? She’s farming biodynamically? Aw, man! I mean I’ve read about it, but I’ve never actually worked at a biodynamic vineyard. That’s going to really screw things around.’

  ‘Madame Beaumont would call it “natural” farming. Working with the rhythm of nature.’

  He lets out a loud laugh and his dark shiny, uncut hair shakes. ‘Next you’ll be planting a goat’s horn full of manure and harvesting by moonlight or whatever strange rituals it is they do!’

  I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘You know, harvesting by moonlight can often help keep the temperature down on the grapes.’ I’m repeating something he’d told us in one of his training sessions.

  ‘Touché!’

  I watch him, looking at the road straight ahead, as he laughs again and find myself smiling too. Somehow he’s easier to talk to and get along with when he’s not looking at me. Then I look out of the window again as we leave Bordeaux and head towards fields full of vines.

  ‘And, sorry, no more teasing.’

  ‘You promised.’ I glance at him.

  ‘I did, you’re right,’ he says playfully back.

  We drive a little further in silence as green space between the buildings becomes larger and odd parcelles of vines are dotted between them.

  I pull out the address Madame Beaumont has written down for me.

  ‘Could we go to this address?’ I read it out as slowly and carefully as I can. ‘It’s a camp, just out of town. Madame Beaumont says Alfonso will organise pickers for me. He’s the man who can sort it all. Once we have pickers, we’re ready to go.’ Hopefully that’s made him realise I’ve got things in hand and everything else should fall into place, I think, pleased to be finally feeling I’m on top of this.

  ‘Great, let’s go then.’ He puts his foot down and, with the windows open, the warm wind blowing our hair around, he turns the radio up and my spirits lift. Just maybe this will be OK, just maybe . . . this might be fun. I can’t remember the last time I had fun.

  Isaac is waiting in the car, window open, elbow out, listening to the radio still. It’s a rough-and-ready campsite. There is a pair of young girls whispering, giggling and waving at him. A boy with a stick is chasing a dog, or it may be the other way round.

  ‘So, all set?’ he says, putting the van into gear as I get back into the car, still holding the paper.
>
  ‘No.’

  ‘What? What’s the problem?’

  I can’t believe it. I have no idea what to do now. I feel like I’m suddenly on a train that’s come off its tracks and is careering down a hill, getting faster and faster out of control.

  ‘They’re not coming,’ I say with a hint of panic in my voice. Isaac takes the car out of gear but lets the engine chug away and turns to look at me. Suddenly I feel all tongue-tied again.

  ‘What do you mean, “they’re not coming”?’

  All my feelings of fun and excitement have been chased away and replaced by a terror now gripping my throat and stomach.

  I take a deep breath. ‘It’s Château Lavigne. They’ve offered more money. All the pickers have gone to work there.’

  ‘What?’ Isaac looks as infuriated as I feel.

  ‘He’s stolen Madame Beaumont’s pickers!’ I exclaim, suddenly furious. ‘In fact, can we go there? I’m going to tell him he can’t do that! It’s terrible!’

  Isaac puts the car into gear and gently pulls away.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ he says, driving away from the campsite, Alfonso watching us as we go.

  ‘I can. Watch me,’ I say angrily.

  ‘Look, it’s exactly what he wants. Don’t let him think he’s won.’ Isaac swings the car round the outskirts of the town and towards Clos Beaumont. ‘Beat him at his own game.’

  ‘What game?’

  ‘The wine! Win the wine medal,’ he tells me.

  ‘Now what am I going to do? I have so much to do! I have to check the chai is ready, get the crates ready, get Henri to eat and, actually . . . I have no idea what else I need to do!’ Suddenly the enormity of the situation hits me.

  ‘Leave the pickers to me. I’ll get you pickers,’ says Isaac, and I’m not sure whether to feel reassured or even more terrified.

  ‘Just don’t turn up with picking machines and tractors. We’re doing this the traditional way,’ I tell him, and he raises what I think is an impressed eyebrow. Then tuts jokingly and drives the van up the lane towards Clos Beaumont.

  The next morning Isaac arrives at the door with steaming cups of takeaway coffee and a bag of croissants. I take the coffee and a croissant from the bag and smile, thanking him, then slip on my boots and together we walk the vines in the early morning mist. I feel ridiculously nervous. He gives me a little reassuring smile. Eventually, when we’ve walked a little way, he stops and inspects a bunch. I hold my breath, trying to see what he’s doing but not wanting to intrude, feeling like a new mother waiting for its baby to get the all clear at the doctor’s. Cecil is by my side and I put a hand on his head for comfort. Finally Isaac turns to me and beams.

  ‘They’re ready.’

  I take a deep breath and breathe out slowly.

  ‘We can pick!’ he announces.

  I have to do this. Slowly I shake my head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What? But these are excellent. They’re ready. We can start the harvest. The sugar levels are fine.’

  ‘Not yet,’ I say, digging my heels in. ‘We must wait. She told me not to start until after the full moon. That’s not for another two days.’

  ‘Nonsense! We need to go now. Everyone else has started. Look, the grapes and grape juice are arriving thick and fast at Featherstone’s.’

  Still I shake my head but inside I haven’t a clue. Should I go with Isaac, who says they’re ready? I mean, he’s the expert. Or do what Madame Beaumont says?

  ‘We can’t get this wrong, Emmy. If these grapes over-ripen it will ruin the wine,’ he says, more serious than I’ve ever seen him.

  Fear and terror grip me again.

  ‘Jeez, now is not the time to be indecisive. If you’re no good at decision-making, don’t be a wine-maker!’

  ‘I’m not a wine-maker! I’m a sales rep . . .’ and a rubbish one at that, I want to add.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  I jump and turn to see Charlie, smiling his big confident smile, walking towards us.

  ‘How’s it all going up here?’ It’s like he’s referring to a different planet, which, in many ways, it probably is.

  ‘Fine!’ Isaac and I say at the same time, and glare at each other. His nostrils flare and my eyes widen.

  ‘Great.’ Charlie doesn’t walk any further in. I notice his polished brown brogues, and Isaac and I go to meet him by the rose bush at the end of the row. ‘So, we’re on course to get the harvest in and this vintage under way, then we’ll start looking at where we go from there. I’ll keep Selina in the picture.’

  Isaac’s phone rings. It’s a vintner on his way with his grapes.

  ‘I’ll meet you there. Oui, dix minutes,’ he attempts in French, and I find it strangely endearing as he makes his arrangements and tells the vintner not to worry.

  ‘All this fresh air suits you, you know,’ Charlie says quietly in my ear, and I find myself doing that nervous laughter thing. ‘Look, now you’re not working with the others, maybe we could try and meet up.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say brightly, but not feeling it. I can’t seem to think about anything else other than this harvest at the moment. I eat and sleep it. Or rather I don’t eat and I don’t sleep because of it. He looks straight at me, gives me a smile and fixes me with his green eyes, but I don’t feel like diving into them any more. ‘Need to keep my vintners happy!’ he smiles again, then he leans in and kisses me on the cheek, taking me by surprise. I can smell his expensive, spicy aftershave, a complex blend of different smells. I blush as we clash noses as I go to kiss his other cheek and he ends up pecking me on the lips, reminding me of the kiss we shared outside the gîte, what seems like a lifetime ago. ‘Ring me if you need me. You’re doing great. And remember, play nicely, you two,’ he jokes, pointing to Isaac and me, and then pulling out his mobile to answer a call. I hold the back of my hand to my lips.

  ‘Yes. Oh, hi, Selina. I was just getting a lowdown on the Clos Beaumont harvest. Yes, all on track . . . We’ll get this vintage in, then make plans for rolling out the blend. Yes, it’ll be the same as the bottle you tasted. We’ve got a brilliant wine man here. He can make it just the same.’

  When I finally meet Isaac’s eyes, he raises an eyebrow at me as if asking what’s going on. But I have no idea. Charlie waves a goodbye, jogs round Cecil and makes his way back to the car and out of the yard.

  ‘I’ve checked the grapes. They’re as good as they’re going to get. We should just get started,’ he repeats firmly.

  ‘After the full moon, Isaac,’ I say just as firmly, and we glare at each other. I’m not backing down.

  ‘OK, OK.’ He looks round to make sure Charlie is out of earshot. ‘We’ll wait. But just until after the full moon. Then we’re picking.’ And with that he marches off towards the Featherstone’s van. Something in me skips a little beat in triumph.

  Over the weekend, I am flat out getting everything ready in time for the harvest, stocking up food and cleaning everything and anything. I ring the hospital and speak to the nurse about Madame Beaumont’s worsening condition.

  ‘We need to get started,’ Isaac keeps nagging me, but I remind him of our agreement. He tuts and mutters about ‘utter mumbo jumbo’ though he doesn’t push it.

  I walk the vineyard twice a day, and in between I visit the graveyard and polish the headstone for Madame Beaumont. I talk to the vines, and sometimes I even listen to see if they’re talking back. I even film them on my phone and send images to Madame Beaumont. She doesn’t reply and I don’t expect her to but I hope she’ll see them at some point. I may actually be going mad. Perhaps it’s down to the full moon. In the valley below, tractors and picking machines are working up and down the straight lines of Château Lavigne vines. Everywhere is a hive of activity but here. Here, it is like the calm before the storm. Isaac and I are barely speaking a
t all now. The atmosphere is as frosty as it can get, considering the warm temperatures and gentle breeze outside.

  ‘Perfect for picking!’ Isaac keeps telling me.

  What will happen if I get this wrong? I keep repeating in my head.

  But then that night I look up at the dark sky and the full white moon. It’s here. I hold up my phone, snap a picture and send it to Madame Beaumont. Then I text Isaac the same picture with the message: I think it might be time. The full moon is here and tomorrow we must start to pick. I only hope Isaac manages to bring me some pickers.

  There is a slow, low mist curling its way up through the low-hanging branches of the vineyard and a soft orange and yellow light is creeping in as the sun begins to rise. I stop for a moment and stand and stare, the ever-present breeze lifting the ends of my hair. I haven’t really taken the time just to look at how beautiful this place is since I’ve been here. I’ve always been busy keeping up with Madame Beaumont. But the way the hills roll away, and then up again to the château on the other side of the valley, and then keep on rolling into the distance, is truly breathtaking. I feel actually quite privileged to be here all of a sudden, even if I am just the caretaker.

  I hold up my phone, photograph the view and send it to Layla.

  La vendange est arrivé! I text her, and receive a usual OMG! back.

  I shake my bucket at Henri but still he doesn’t turn round and look at me. Cecil, on the other hand, follows me and barks when I clap my hands at the birds on the wire.

  I stand, and take in the view again, drawing courage from the beauty of the place, the peace, just as the Featherstone’s van pulls into the yard. I watch, hoping this is Isaac arriving with the pickers. This is it. It’s time to harvest. The passenger door opens, followed by the two at the back.

  ‘You’re joking!’ I say as I watch the pickers pile out of the Citroën van. ‘No way!’

  ‘It’s perfect!’ Isaac beams as I watch Candy, Nick, Gloria and Jeff climb out and stretch.