Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘They’ve never done it before; I’ve never done it before!’ I say through gritted teeth.

  They all look at me.

  ‘Candy? I didn’t expect you,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘Hmm, me neither, but Nick told me it would be a kind thing to do, y’know helping out. Eww . . .’ She backs away from Cecil, who is sniffing at her floral dress. But at least she’s wearing a sunhat.

  Jeff is here to help too, he tells me.

  At least I think he does, as he waves his arms, a little stub of cigarette bobbing up and down in his mouth.

  ‘Jusqu’à midi, the middle day,’ he rattles off at speed.

  ‘He says he has to go by lunchtime,’ Gloria translates his ‘franglais’ with a smile to him and he back to her, which makes me think this was a private conversation between them. And it’s a good job Gloria understands him when no one else can.

  ‘Now let’s see these grapes.’ Isaac starts walking towards the vines and their bunches of fat, purple grapes. The others stay put, as if they’ve been dropped in the desert and are looking for a star to follow.

  In the neighbouring field there is a big rumble and vehicle lights come on.

  ‘What’s that?’ Candy shrieks.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I’m guessing it’s a mechanical picker,’ I say, watching Isaac.

  ‘Why can’t you borrow that? The man from the château said he could help you with anything.’ Nick recounts the story I told him about Monsieur Lavigne.

  ‘Because here we’re checking for quality as we pick,’ I say, sounding like someone who knows what she’s talking about, though my shaking knees say differently. My mouth is dry and I swig from a bottle of water. It’s going to be a hot one, I think, looking out over the haze chasing in after the mist.

  ‘Make sure you’ve got hats and suncream on,’ I say nervously, worried they’re going to change their minds at any minute. I run to catch up with Isaac. He’s standing with his back to me by the vines. Then he turns slowly and stares straight at me. I’m shaking with nerves and fear. Then a slow, wide lopsided smile spreads across his face.

  ‘These grapes are fantastic!’ he says really slowly.

  I can’t help it, I squeal, do a happy little dance and grab him and hug him, and he hugs me back, lifting me off my feet and swinging me round.

  ‘Well, I gotta say. I thought you’d really stuffed it up there. But you . . .’

  ‘Go on, say it.’ I’m grinning so broadly my cheeks hurt.

  ‘You . . . were . . . right,’ he says, smiling but rolling his eyes, and I can’t help but think there’s a hint of admiration there. ‘I’d hate to play poker against you. You really took a chance.’

  I smile even more, because I can’t not!

  ‘And just so you know, that wasn’t flirting there.’ He points a finger between him and me, a faint smile in the corner of his mouth. ‘Just so you know . . .’

  ‘Oh, absolutely,’ I agree with him, trying to sound serious, and hold back the smile still pulling at my cheeks.

  ‘Now, I have to get back to Featherstone’s. I have wine being delivered, but I’ll come back later. Let’s get this harvest in.’ He claps his hands together and gives a little whoop, and again, I can’t help but smile. But I still have to do this . . . on my own. The euphoria seeps away and, in its place, fear returns.

  ‘So, what do we do first, Emmy, love?’ asks Gloria, who has obviously spotted the terror in my eyes. For a moment, a thought flashes through my mind. I wish Isaac were staying. But I push the thought out as quickly as it arrived. He’s busy at the winery and I certainly don’t want to have to run to him at every turn.

  Trust your instincts . . . I hear Madame Beaumont’s voice inside my head.

  A silver Audi pulls in behind them at speed, making Cecil jump and bark, and Charlie gets out of the car. He walks over and this time kisses me firmly on both cheeks. He does not look like he’s ready for picking.

  ‘This is an excellent idea,’ Charlie nods, and Isaac beams behind him, arms folded lazily across his body, soaking up the praise.

  ‘I mean, you’re doing a great job.’ He turns back to me. ‘Getting Featherstone’s into Clos Beaumont is exactly what’s needed. First you, now the rest of the team. Brilliant!’

  I feel my hackles rise. It’s like he’s suggesting this was all on purpose.

  ‘I just didn’t have any other pickers,’ I tell him firmly.

  ‘Now, dinner later at Le Tire-bouchon? You can tell me how the harvest is looking, whether we’ve got a winner on our hands.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say firmly. ‘The grapes will need crushing as soon as they’re picked. They can’t stand around waiting. I can’t leave the vineyard.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Once it’s in, I promise you, we’ll celebrate,’ he smiles. ‘But you don’t have to worry about the grapes. We can do it all back at the winery. I’ll send the tractor.’ He beams again.

  I swallow hard. ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘No, I’ll crush the grapes.’ I remember my promise to Madame B.

  ‘But that’s insane. We have all the equipment ready to go there.’

  ‘I promised I’d do it at the vineyard. That’s why she agreed.’

  ‘Very well,’ Charlie sighs, and both he and Isaac say their goodbyes and leave. I really am on my own with this, I think, as the car and van are driven off down the lane, Isaac giving a toot and a wave as he leaves. I raise my hand warily, wondering what on earth I’ve let myself in for.

  ‘Can I drive the tractor?’ I hear Candy ask. ‘I mean, I’m a really good driver. I even did Silverstone once. It was a Valentine’s present from . . . I can’t quite remember. But you’ve seen the different cars I’ve had. I’m a brilliant driver, honest.’

  ‘Um, we do things slightly differently here,’ I say. Candy tuts as I turn away. ‘Nick, could you hand out the buckets and the secateurs?’ They are long, thin blades, red handled and held together when they’re not open with a catch. I’ve washed them all and even sharpened some of the blades with a little stone.

  ‘This is so exciting,’ says Nick, handing out the buckets. ‘Real wine-making.’

  ‘Be careful,’ I warn, ‘they’re very shar—’

  ‘Ouch!’ Candy shouts, and sucks her finger. The sooner we get on with this the better, otherwise I’ll be pickers down before we’ve started.

  Just then Charlie’s mother, Lena, drives into the yard with Mr Featherstone, whom she helps out of the car and hands him his walking stick.

  ‘I’m not sure how much use we’ll be but he insisted on coming when he heard,’ she smiles at me.

  ‘Bloody right,’ says Mr Featherstone in his slurred voice. ‘Can’t sit back and watch a vintner in trouble.’ He’s right. We have to get on and harvest. I direct them towards buckets and secateurs as he leans heavily on a stick, his left hand limp and useless. I leave Gloria in charge of making coffees and handing out croissants, which she seems delighted to do.

  I smile and make my way to the gate of the field where Henri is still standing with his back to me.

  I open the gate and push back a few of the sheep who are keen to get involved. But Henri doesn’t move; his feed bucket is still full.

  I walk up to his head but he turns away from me.

  ‘I know. Je sais. I know how you’re feeling,’ I say quietly. How mad is this? Now I’m talking to a horse. In French! I catch hold of him and pat his thick neck and then, because I feel it would help, I slide my arm under his neck and pat him on the other side.

  ‘I know you miss her and I do too. I’m just not sure I can do this without her. I’ve never even seen a harvest, let alone led one.’ I am close to tears. I feel his head turn back to me and I lean my head against his thick neck, somehow taking comfort from
his strong presence, running a hand over his soft, closed eyes.

  ‘In fact, I’m not sure I can do this at all. J’ai besoin de toi,’ I say, all my instincts picking up their baggage and heading towards the exit sign.

  Suddenly Henri gives me a nudge, nearly lifting me off my feet and knocking some of the wind out of me. He nudges me again in the stomach and I let out an ‘Oomph!’ knocking back any self-indulgent tears that may have been welling up there. Then, his back legs moving first, he starts to turn round, his head still by me but his whole body slowly turning to face the gate. He takes a couple of steps forward with his big feathery hoofs and stands, his head hanging over the gate. Then his lifts his head, nostrils sucking in and out, as if sensing the gathering group of pickers for the first time, and gives a little whinny.

  Suddenly I feel . . . could it be excited? A little shudder runs up and down my spine and there’s a fizzing in my tummy I haven’t felt since, well, I can’t remember when. I try to think when I last felt excited about something. No, still can’t remember.

  ‘I will if you will,’ I say with a growing smile and, with that, I lift off the rope that’s holding the gate shut and watch as Henri moves forward with the movement of the gate. I shoo the sheep back into the field.

  ‘Not your turn yet, oh woolly ones,’ I say and watch as Henri walks towards the pickers, Candy shrieking and jumping behind Nick, clinging to him for dear life. Gloria and the Featherstones quieten and watch as the big horse, with one milky wall eye, comes to a standstill by the trailer. I run to the barn and gather up his heavy leather tack, holding it as I’ve been shown. My hands are a bit sweaty as I try to fit the tack on him, but he’s patient and just stands still, even dropping his head for me to get the head collar over. Then when I think it looks right I step forward and turn the trailer towards his back end and then say, ‘Allez,’ just as Madame Beaumont did. He begins to reverse in between the two shafts, to the delight of the little audience. I move round him, doing up the buckles and hoping I’ve done it all right.

  ‘Hang on a minute, are you telling me there’s really no tractor?’ Candy pipes up from behind Nick, where she’s still clinging to his shoulders, and Nick appears to be grinning from ear to ear.

  Finally I smile too.

  ‘No, like I say, here we do things a little differently. Think of it as organic, making the most of what nature has to offer,’ I tell Candy, and Mr Featherstone shouts, ‘Hear, hear,’ or at least I think that’s what he says.

  ‘OK, so only pick the ripe-looking grapes. Take one row at a time and work either side in pairs.’ I turn back to Henri.

  ‘En avant,’ I say, and he moves forward, the trailer behind him, the pickers behind that. They split into pairs: Mr and Mrs Featherstone, Nick and Candy, Gloria and Jeff. Me, I’ll have to go up and down my row of vines twice, but I think I may just have begun this year’s harvest.

  By lunchtime the sun is high in the sky. The tractors all around us in the neighbouring vineyards have fallen silent and I call time on my workers, ushering them back to the house. There is large soft terrine I bought from the woman down the road and bread I went out and bought first thing that morning from the boulangerie, where the baker was fascinated I wanted so many loaves. Then it’s ragu – beef stew that I also bought in the town. It’s followed by a big round white creamy brie, and fruit salad.

  Everyone makes their way to the back door, chatting about the grapes, their secateur technique and testing each other with the backs of their hands for sunburn.

  The table from the kitchen is lifted outside by Nick and Jeff, and it’s a hive of activity as everyone else helps with taking out chairs and laying the table with mismatched crockery and glasses.

  Baskets of bread are cut and placed along the table and everyone grabs a seat and starts to pass round the crusty bread with its white fluffy middle, followed by the soft pâté and cornichons, little gherkins. As the table fills with food and chatter I dash into the kitchen to check the oven. The ragu’s been in on a low temperature since I got back with it from town. It doesn’t smell great, like it should. I sniff and curl up my nose. I pull out the casserole dish and take off the lid. It’s dry as a bone.

  ‘Oh, no!’ I wail, and Gloria is at my side in an instant.

  ‘Don’t worry, love. Leave this to me. You go and pour some wine,’ she says, picking up a wooden spoon and a bottle of red wine. And I do as I’m told.

  ‘Candy, you really need suncream,’ Gloria tells Candy as she brings out the bubbling stew. ‘Emmy, pass down the plates. Keep your cutlery, everyone.’

  ‘Oh, Gloria, that’s fantastic!’ I feel ridiculously grateful. I don’t know how she’s saved it, but she has.

  I take the first of the plates and hand it to her as instructed.

  ‘I can help put it on.’ Nick jumps up to stand by Candy, armed with a bottle of suncream.

  ‘No, I’m fine. I need some sunshine. Been stuck in that office for weeks! It’ll brown up nicely now,’ she says, lifting her head to the sun. Nick keeps looking at her, snatching glances, but he does that a lot, I’ve noticed.

  ‘You OK, Gloria?’ I ask as she holds her hands into her back and arches it.

  ‘Yes, fine, dear. Just a bit stiff,’ she smiles.

  ‘If we keep on like this, we should get this parcelle done by today,’ I say with a rush of optimism that I quickly put down to the wine and adrenalin.

  ‘This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?’ Gloria says, passing round the plates, piled with the ragu, jacket potatoes I put in the oven earlier, and petits pois from the freezer. The smell of the beef, carrots and tomatoes is heavenly. Appreciative sounds from around the table agree, and after a round of ‘bon appétit’, the sound of cutlery on china begins to fill the air.

  ‘I made a promise. It’s essential Madame Beaumont has her harvest in. She needs the money from the vintage.’ I hand the bread to Candy, thinking and worrying about Madame Beaumont.

  Gloria smiles at me. ‘She’s lucky she has you.’

  And I wonder for a moment who Gloria has.

  Just as we’re finishing lunch, bread is being wiped around plates soaking up the last of the juices and wine is washing it down, the Featherstone’s van pulls into the yard at speed. It’s Isaac.

  ‘Had a window. Thought I could help,’ he grins, and my heart does that stupid skipping thing again. It’s probably because an extra pair of hands means we’ll definitely get the parcelle in.

  ‘OK, where do you want me?’ he asks, rubbing his hands. Gloria makes him up a plate of food and explains the pairs. ‘So you’re with Emmy.’

  ‘Perfect!’ he says. ‘You’re the boss.’

  And I feel my spirits lift. I raise my head and smile. ‘OK, everyone, let’s pick!’

  That afternoon it’s hot. I’ve knotted my T-shirt under my bust to try to cool down, and my hair is just about tied back from my neck. I run the back of my arm across my forehead as we reach the final row of vines on this parcelle and drop my secateurs into my bucket, then look up and breathe a huge sigh of relief. I turn round, put my hands on my hips and beam at the pickers, dotted up the hillside. They’re looking hot and tired. I can’t believe how much we’ve achieved today. I feel ridiculously proud.

  With the final bucket tipped on to the trailer we make our way back to the sheds. Everyone is chatting happily, hot, tired and aching, and we traipse out of the vineyard behind Henri and the trailer, the grapes tossing this way and that as the wheels bump off the divots. Nick is still glancing every now and again at Candy. Cecil stands and barks to herald our return from the vines, seeing off any birds in the process. Day one and I think I may have done it!

  We head up to the chai where Henri stands and I unbuckle his harness. He has walked up and down the vines in the heat all day, moving on when I’ve asked, stopping still when I’ve asked. And then taking the grapes up
to the chai when the trailer has been full. He hasn’t put a foot out of place. I rub his nose in thanks and although he doesn’t need me to show him, I lead him back to his field where I fill his water bucket and give him an extra scoop of feed. Finally he sticks his head in his bucket and eats and I breathe a sigh of relief, patting his neck.

  Now, all I have to do is get this parcelle of grapes from these crates on their way to the barrels. That means crushing them and getting them into the concrete vats to settle, I tell myself, as if going over Madame Beaumont’s notes in my head.

  ‘Come on, slow coach,’ shouts Isaac, and for once I’m grateful for his silly banter spurring me on. I smile and take a deep breath. Every bone in my body aches, but I have to keep going.

  Isaac is standing by the doors of the chai, his arms folded, watching me. The sun is starting to dip and back at Featherstone’s it would be the end of the working day and everyone would be heading for Le Papillon’s bar. But here there is still a little more work to do until I can call it a day.

  ‘So, what we need to do, is um . . . get the grapes into the destemmer crusher,’ I tell the team.

  Mr Featherstone is beaming as he sits back in his wheelchair, looking tired and hot but very happy. He has walked slowly, with Mrs Featherstone’s aid, up and down the vines, and between them they have picked many bunches of grapes. It was true team work and really heart warming to watch. Mrs Featherstone takes a seat now in the shade, wiping her brow.

  ‘This will take off the stems and break the skins, allowing the juices to start flowing.’ I’m saying it out loud as much for my benefit as everyone else’s, pointing to the old piece of metal equipment in the doorway to the chai.

  ‘That thing’s not just vintage, it looks as though it’s come off the Ark!’ Isaac looks on in disbelief.

  ‘It’s in good working order,’ I tell him. I know it is because I washed and cleaned and checked it with Madame Beaumont, before her fall. It has a wide bucket at the top, like a big hungry mouth, a series of large cogs on the side, and a huge drum under it, with a barrel beside it to collect the pulp and juice. The juice will then be pumped into the vats. ‘Nick, how about you turn the handle?’ If I heard myself, I’d think I know what I was talking about; it’s just the shake in my voice that gives me away.