Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘It’s not even motorised,’ Isaac says as we stand beside the buckets and crates of grapes, ready to sort and tip the first batch in.

  As we set to work the group gets a second wind, excited, chatting, joking and I can’t help but think how much I would love Dad to be here with us now, doing this. He used to love gardening when I was young. Now, of course, the garden is overgrown. Maybe I’ll even tackle it when I get back.

  With any luck we’ll be through these fairly quickly. I start to relax, even smile. While Nick is winding the handle on the crusher, Gloria, Candy, Isaac and Mr Featherstone are checking over the grapes on a sorting table and things are going at a great pace.

  ‘Let’s go! If we work quickly, there may even be time for a drink in Le Papillon,’ I call, and everyone cheers. I tip up another crate and we all quickly run our hands over the piles of grapes within, checking for any rotten ones, and push the rest into the crusher. We’re on a roll and I don’t know why I was worried.

  Then I hear Clunk, clunk whirr, clang, judder, judder . . . the destemmer crusher judders and shakes, and then there’s the sound of metal pieces falling off. And then silence.

  ‘Shit!’ I finally say as we stand looking at the crusher. ‘What on earth just happened there?’

  Isaac peers into the crusher and then tries the handle again. He bites his top lip and then shakes his head. He steps away from the machine and turns to the pickers, resting his hands on his hips.

  ‘Anyone lost anything?’

  ‘No.’ They all look at each other, shaking their heads.

  ‘Well, someone’s lost their secateurs and I think we’ve just found them,’ he says. looking round again, and I suddenly feel a rush of boiling blood burning my cheeks. Mortified, my hand flies to my mouth.

  ‘I left them in my last bucket,’ I wail.

  ‘And now they’re in the crusher and I think we can safely say that’s not coming back to life without the help of the local farm machinery repair man.’

  ‘Can we phone him?’

  ‘He’ll be up to his neck in it at this time of year.’ Isaac shakes his head. Then he takes me by the elbow and leads me away from the others. ‘Look, you’re tried. You did a great job today but you can’t do any more. Madame Beaumont will understand.’

  ‘But I messed up!’

  ‘Let me get Jeff to bring the tractor. We’ll get the grapes down to Featherstone’s and get the juice extracted there. You can’t just leave them, and who knows when this crusher will be fixed?’

  I let out a huge sigh. He’s right, of course. I can’t believe it: I’ve bloody well gone and fallen at the first hurdle! I walk out of the chai, kicking at the loose earth under my feet. What else can I do? I’ll have to agree. Time is of the essence. We have to get these grapes crushed. But if they go to Featherstone’s, will I ever see them again, or will they just get stacked up ready for the Featherstone’s blend?’

  Isaac pulls out his mobile and I can hear him giving Colette instructions in his pidgin French.

  Frustrated, I wipe my hands over my face and pull them back to look at the slowly setting sun in the sky over the valley, turning it from red and blue to the lavender hue I’ve come to love, which joins the smell of lavender in the evening air, and I think that I have never been anywhere more beautiful. I can see why this place is so important to Madame Beaumont. This wine has been made here for decades. Am I really going to be the one to break that tradition? Or am I going to get stuck in?

  ‘Do it your way,’ I hear Madame Beaumont.

  ‘This is no place for indecision,’ Isaac’s words interrupt my thoughts too. ‘We need to get these grapes into their vats. Come on!’ he shouts.

  ‘No, wait!’ Isaac pulls his phone away from his ear, looks at me and frowns.

  ‘I have an idea.’ I turn back to the chai.

  Isaac looks at me half intrigued, half as if I’m mad, and he’s probably right.

  ‘You know me, I’m just the hired hand. I just need to get the job done, one way or another,’ he reminds me. ‘But that is madness. No way!’

  ‘Yes way!’ I say, and smile at him. For once he’s speechless.

  ‘You have got to be kidding me!’ Candy wails.

  Nick looks thrilled at the prospect and Mr Featherstone actually claps his good hand against his weak one with glee. Isaac, on the other hand, is frowning, arms crossed, shaking his head. He turns away as if wanting no part of it.

  ‘We have to try.’ I plonk down a bucket of soapy water and the armful of towels I’ve brought from the house.

  ‘But we have a fully equipped winery a couple of miles down the road!’ He holds out his hand, exasperated. ‘This will take for ever! It’s a complete waste of time!’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I say quietly, wishing I felt as confident. ‘Socks and shoes off, then wash your feet in this bowl and then take it in turns in twos. Carry on with the destalking by hand in the meantime.’

  ‘Huh! You are too stubborn for your own good! We need that juice in. Now will you let me take it to the winery?’

  ‘No!’ I say firmly. ‘You’re too set in your textbook ways to see it can be done differently.’

  ‘Huh! I need to check the wine back at the winery. At least there is proper wine-making going on there,’ Isaac says, storming off to the van.

  Bugger! What if he’s right? What if this is the stupidest thing I’ve done and I’m ruining the wine? Oh, Madame Beaumont! I think in frustration. I could stop it all now, but Nick is already in the barrel, his trousers pushed up over his knees and trying to guide Candy in, with her dress tucked into her knickers.

  Candy is squealing like a piglet and Nick is laughing as he holds hands with her and they start to stand on the grapes, letting the fruits break and ooze through the gaps in their toes whilst holding each other’s gaze like a rite of passage tribal dance. I realise now exactly how Nick feels about Candy and I can’t help thinking things may never be the same for these two.

  When Nick and Candy step out of the barrel, Nick goes to stand at the outside tap to rinse off his feet. Maybe it’s the air, the wine-making, I don’t know, but I feel I have to say something. Nick looks up from washing his feet.

  ‘So, are you . . . going to tell her?’ I whisper to him as I’m hosing down his feet and handing him a worn, holey towel.

  ‘What?’ He suddenly looks anxious.

  ‘That you’re not gay,’ I tell him kindly.

  He swallows. ‘I can’t! She’s assumed I’m gay from our first day here. If I tell her I’m not gay, everything will change. I know I should have corrected her at the time, but she trusts me because she thinks I’m not interested in her . . . in that way. How can I tell her I’ve been in love with her from the moment we arrived?’ He shakes his head. ‘I just can’t. She can’t find out.’

  Back in the chai, even Mr Featherstone is having a go at crushing.

  ‘This is the best physio I’ve ever had,’ he says slowly with a wide smile. Mrs Featherstone’s cheeks are pink with happiness as she holds her husband’s hands and they walk up and down in the vats. When they’re all out of breath, Candy and Nick take another turn.

  ‘Get away.’ Candy is flicking at a wasp. Word is obviously spreading amongst the bee and wasp community and they’re beginning to arrive in their numbers to sample the deep red grape juice.

  ‘Just leave them and they won’t bother you,’ I say as if talking to Jody when she was little. I know I sound like a mum a lot of the time, but maybe that’s because I was one to her for so long. I have missed having my sister around. I would have loved to have seen more of her and her boys. I’m worried for her now she’s separated. What’s life going to be like for her? My heart twists a little at the fun we might have had here all together, but I know that that will never be. I smile as we seem to be nearing the last of the gra
pes, everyone checking carefully for secateurs. At least Isaac can’t complain I didn’t get the grapes in and crushed.

  ‘Aowwwwww!’ Candy’s face is suddenly puce, the colour of the juice and contorted. ‘I stepped on a bee! I stepped on a bee!’

  Nick is out of the barrel in an instant, scooping her up in his arms and she clings instinctively to him still screaming, flapping her purple-stained feet around. Nick carries her to the water butt and drops her in it, from where she fumes at him even more. But he doesn’t say anything and I wonder if he ever will.

  By the time the grapes are crushed, everyone is exhausted, hungry and has purple feet. The moon is out, though it isn’t yet dark.

  ‘You get off, I’ll be fine,’ I tell them all. ‘I just have to pump it up into the vats now. Shouldn’t be too hard.’ I’ve seen Jeff and Isaac doing it in Featherstone’s. I scratch my arm; something must have bitten me. It’s red and sore, but I try to ignore it.

  Isaac is back to pick up the Featherstone’s pickers and doing his best not to look impressed at our crushed juice.

  ‘I’ll run everyone back. Don’t do anything until I return,’ he instructs, and the pickers climb stiffly into the little van, Candy, with her foot bandaged in a towel, leaning heavily on Nick as he helps her into the front seat.

  I busy myself tidying up the crates and washing them for tomorrow’s picking. I do the same with the secateurs, giving them each a little sharpen with the stone and line them up with the buckets and crates. I straighten out Henri’s tack so I’ll be able to put it straight back on him tomorrow.

  I feel so stupid about the secateurs. I’ve phoned the farm repair shop and tried to explain in my pidgin French, but he can’t do anything for a couple of weeks . . . after the harvest. It’s going to take us much longer at this rate. I have to crack on. I look at the pump that’s going to take the juice and skins from the barrels to the big concrete tank at the back of the chai. It can’t be that hard. The quicker I get on, the sooner we can finish for the day. Although my body thinks this day is a week all rolled into one.

  The wasps and bees still think they’re in Ayia Napa, and the party goes on. I need to get these grapes away from them. And Isaac did say we needed to work quickly. We’ll be here all night if I wait for him.

  I put the ladder against the big concrete tank that Madame Beaumont and I spent ages cleaning out. I put the end of the big hose over my shoulder and begin to climb. It’s after about four rungs of the ladder that I wonder what on earth I’m doing and that I should probably wait for Isaac. It’s getting dark here at the back of the chai. Suddenly something flies at me and I shriek and wobble. I turn round to look.

  The small black flying bombers are swooping in and out of the open door at the back of the chai. Bats! I need to do this really, really quickly now. Outside, an owl hoots very close by. My heart is thundering. Back home I’d simply be hearing the noise from the road, the occasional bus, or neighbours rowing and banging car doors.

  I cling to the wobbling ladder, not daring to look down, trying to keep my head as low as possible to prevent bats getting caught in my hair, as fear flickers up and down my spine.

  I flip the end of the hose into the top of the tank and then quickly climb down the ladder.

  ‘OK.’ I breathe a sigh of relief that I’m down, not ducking and swerving little black bats. I give another little shudder. I take a look out of the chai for Isaac: no sign. I can’t wait. I just want to prove to him this was the right decision and I’m not a total idiot, looking to the moon for my answers or any other ‘mumbo jumbo’. I know what needs to be done and I’m doing it. I look at the pump, check the connector to make sure it’s in securely, and then turn it on. There’s a loud whirring and gurgling and then a rumble, and the pipe starts to judder as the grapes move up it. I run forward and grab hold of the pipe, lifting it to help the grapes on their way up the tube. I’m holding the pipe above my head just as the grapes explode out the other end.

  ‘Yes!’ I could burst with pride. It’s doing it! As I raise my head to watch the juice pump into the tank, the end of the pipe flips out like a snake, spewing up its last supper. Red, lumpy liquid roars forth from its jowls.

  ‘Shit!’ I drop the pipe and rush forward into the fast flow of juice as it pumps all over the floor, up the outside walls of the tank, over the clean crates and buckets and the stacked barrels against the long wall. I grab the end of it to stop it flying around. There’s a really strong smell of fruit filling the chai. The end of the pump is still spewing crushed grapes and juice. I drop it on the floor and it swishes and snakes to and fro. I run to the pump and turn the circular red tap until finally the pipe coughs and splutters and then falls silent, as if the snake has been slayed. I stand stock-still, shivering and soaking. There is grape juice dripping from every part of me, running down my face, dripping off the end of my tied-back hair, my fingertips, and even my trainers are soaking.

  ‘Jeezuss! What the hell happened here?’ I hear the familiar Californian drawl.

  Oh great, that’s all I need. Isaac the Doubter is back. I lean my back against the concrete tank wall and slide down it, my T-shirt snagging all the way down and sit on the wet floor. The smell of summer fruits fills the air as I look up at bats dipping in and out of the barn overhead.

  ‘I told you to wait for me. Goddam it, you’ve lost loads. Every glassful is money, y’know!’

  ‘I know,’ I sigh, so tired and feeling so stupid I can barely get up off the wet floor, the grape juice sinking into my behind, making me feel cold, wet and miserable.

  He stands over me and I can’t look up.

  ‘I don’t need you to make me feel any more useless than I already do. So far today I’ve managed to break the destemmer machine, get one of my pickers stung and now lose half the day’s harvest!’

  ‘Hey!’ he says sharply, making me jump. I look up at him, his brown eyes staring down at me, hands on hips. His checked shirt is open as usual with a vest top underneath hugging his torso, the necklaces around his neck entwined with each other, and his bandana holding his untamed hair off his tanned face. His friendship bracelets dangle on his wrists resting on the waistband of his low-slung shorts, barely hanging on to his hips as he slouches slightly, tapping one foot.

  ‘That kind of talk is for quitters and what I’m beginning to learn about you, Emmy Bridges,’ he pauses, ‘is that you’re no quitter.’ Then, unbelievably, he taps my behind with his toe.

  I glare up at him, furious with him now as well as with myself.

  He does it again.

  ‘Hey!’ I push at his leg.

  ‘Come on. Get up, we’ve got work to do.’ He looks around. ‘Cleaning up the mess you’ve made, for starters.’

  I purse my lips crossly.

  ‘If you hadn’t been running around after Candy then—’

  ‘OK, OK, I was a bit longer than I expected.’ He holds his hands up and laughs, and this time I can’t help it, the corners of my mouth smile with him, much as I try not to.

  He nudges me again, this time with his knee. ‘Come on, get up.’

  Grape juice drips down the sides of my face and slides down my neck. I brush it away, along with the tears that had threatened to spill but thankfully didn’t. I run both my hands over my face, take a deep breath and with it comes a sniff, and I can’t help but let out a laugh this time. I must look hideous.

  ‘These grapes can’t wait,’ he says with a slightly more serious tone in his voice. Isaac may be a joker, but he takes wine-making very seriously indeed. ‘Look, Goldy, look at what you’ve done so far. You’ve taken on the harvest, smashed it, got the grapes crushed. You can’t give up now. This is wine-making! You’re doing great,’ he says seriously. ‘This is just what you promised you’d do.’

  And he’s right. This is what I said I’d do and I am doing it. I’m not going to be beaten now.
I’m certainly not going to lose the vineyard to the château over some spilled grape juice. No way! I just have to stop feeling sorry for myself and get this juice sorted.

  ‘OK, OK,’ I say, pulling back one leg and putting my hand out to steady myself on the concrete tank wall to pull myself up.

  ‘Here.’ I feel him go to take my hand.

  ‘No, I’m fine really.’ I start to stand soggily.

  ‘No, let me help.’ He takes hold of my hand and it’s like I’ve grabbed hold of electric fencing by mistake . . . whilst wet! A thousand volts whoosh through me, nearly knocking me off my feet. I stagger to get my footing.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say belligerently, shaking him off, no idea what on earth happened there. I shake my head and then he takes hold of both my hands and pulls me to my feet, his brown eyes staring straight in mine. He’s holding my wrists, firmly, as if he’s about to say something.

  My insides just seem to turn to mush, the same as the grapes I’ve just sprayed around the walls here.

  ‘You go and get dried off and changed. I’ll make a start here,’ he says, looking straight at me as if trying to read my soul. I can see why so many women fall for his charms; no wonder Candy is besotted. Poor Nick doesn’t stand a chance if he’s as in love as I think he is. Thank God I’m immune to Isaac’s charms, I tell myself very firmly. I still have Charlie to think about. He seems to think we might have something going on. Do I still fancy him, in spite of how he dealt with Madame Beaumont? I try to force an image of him up in my head but all I can see are Isaac’s dark eyes, like pools of liquid chocolate, looking at me, interested, as if just for that moment I’m the only person in the world who matters. And I think that’s probably right. But I also think that may be Isaac’s problem: he only lives in the moment, wherever that might be. I blush under the grape juice and drag my eyes away from his.