Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Oh, it’s so rustic.’ I hear a deep Home Counties woman’s voice as car doors open and bang shut and Cecil starts up his war cry.

  ‘I heard about this place from my wine merchant. He’s on all sorts of wine forums,’ I hear a loud man’s voice say. They must be lost, looking for the château.

  I stay where I am, hold my breath and listen.

  ‘Whoa there, boy, good boy,’ says the loud voice with a slight tremble.

  ‘What is that dog?’ another man, not as loud, but just as posh, asks.

  ‘Ugly!’ replies a woman with a shrill laugh. My hackles rise.

  ‘Urgh, gross!’ The laughter stops and I’m guessing Cecil is showing them how long he can make the drool strings from his mouth.

  I wait for it, knowing what’s coming.

  ‘Argh!’ comes a unison cry.

  Bingo! I give a little smile of satisfaction, knowing Cecil has shaken his head and released the slime strings. I decide that I’m going to have to go and redirect these people to the château or they’ll be here for ages and I need to get on.

  I go to step out of the chai, then stop when I hear the loud-voiced man saying, ‘Apparently they do a Vin de France here and it’s up for the wine medal at Château Lavigne later this year. It’s really good. Heard that Morgan’s Supermarkets are interested in taking it over. The couple in the grocery shop in the town gave me the directions.’

  I hold my breath and listen.

  ‘A supermarket slurper?’ the other man says like he’s stepped in poo.

  ‘From what I hear,’ the loud man lowers his voice only slightly, ‘it’s a bit of a find. Featherstone’s have brought in their own team. There’s a new woman in charge and a travelling wine man. Presumably to turn it into their own blend.’

  ‘Where did you hear that from?’ the shrill woman asks.

  ‘I read it on a new blog. Candy’s Comments, or something.’ They all laugh.

  ‘Well, let’s see what it’s like,’ says the other man.

  I can’t believe they’re talking about Clos Beaumont.

  ‘Yes, once they roll it out to the supermarkets, it’ll have all the character knocked out,’ the loud man guffaws and the others follow. ‘Or maybe he’ll put a bit of class into it. Could become a keeper?’ says the deeper-voiced woman.

  ‘You’re right. Could be worth getting some before it’s some supermarket best buy and every bugger’s heard of it,’ says the not-so-loud man.

  ‘And while it’s still cheap, before they whack the price up. Apparently the owner’s a bit of a tricky kettle of fish,’ the loud man bellows. ‘People at the grocery shop told me.’

  I throw the crates I’m holding down on the floor. How dare they come here, criticising Madame B, assuming the wine is just a supermarket slurper, and calling Cecil ugly?

  I step out of the chai, put my hands on my hips and lift my chin very slightly. I can see clearly now: there’s a big dark Range Rover and a silver Mercedes there. The back of the Range Rover looks to be full of boxes of wine.

  ‘Ah, excuse em moi,’ booms the loud man, with a very large belly and not taking off his sunglasses. Next to him is a taller, thinner man and two women. Both blond, one with an immaculate bob, the other curly shoulder-length hair, both in white jeans, floral short-sleeved tops and beaded mules. As I step forward, the toe of my Wellington boot catches on loose stones, throwing up a cloud of brown dust, which makes them step back and cough.

  Cecil starts up his bark again and everyone steps back further.

  ‘Nous sommes voudraiz une degustation,’ says the man, grinning and doing a drinking action with his hand.

  ‘Sorry, we’re not actually open for tastings,’ I say, folding my arms across my chest.

  ‘Oh, good, you’re English,’ he says as if not having heard me.

  My hackles go up even further.

  ‘We were told the owner was French. A Madame Beaumont?’

  ‘She’s . . .’ I don’t want to tell these people too much. I don’t want it getting back to Monsieur Lavigne at the château that Madame Beaumont is still in hospital, that she’s recovering from pneumonia and a broken hip, and that I have no idea when she’s coming home and what’s going to happen when she does. All I know is, I need this year’s vintage ready for blending in its barrels, safe and sound. Like children tucked up in bed at night.

  ‘Actually, it’s the harvest. We’re up to our necks in it,’ I say as politely as I can, hoping they’ll take the hint and go.

  ‘We’d really like a tasting and a look around,’ says the woman with the short bob. ‘We have a holiday house not far from here. We’ve heard some really good things about this place.’ She looks around unsure.

  ‘Sorry, it’s just—’

  ‘Hi, Candy from Featherstone’s.’

  I turn to see Candy marching out of the farmhouse with hardly a limp at all now. She’s holding out her hand. ‘Welcome to Clos Beaumont.’ She’s beaming, lipstick freshly applied.

  ‘Hi,’ they all say, shaking her hand warmly and turning away from me.

  ‘I see you’ve met Emmy. Emmy runs the operation here. But if you’d like a tasting I’m happy to help.’

  ‘Great.’ They start to gather up their cameras and bags and lock up their cars. Why, I have no idea. It’s not like Cecil is going to mug them for their sat-navs. Then I realise I would be the same if I’d just arrived.

  ‘Candy, what are you doing?’ I turn away from them and whisper crossly to her. ‘I have a harvest to get in – what are you playing at?’

  ‘About to make some sales. From what Gloria says about the state of Madame Beaumont’s books, she could do with all the income she can get right now, for when she gets home. There’s some of last year’s vintage in the chai, right? And other years.’

  I nod, swallow and then smile gratefully. She’s right. Madame Beaumont is going to need all the help she can get.

  Candy turns back to the group of four.

  ‘Now, let me show you around. This vineyard is one of the oldest in the area.’

  I’m not sure if Candy knows this or is just making up a spiel on the spot, and then I realise, it must be in the selling script I never finished. I’m watching her in awe as she talks about the location of the vineyard and gives a sprinkling of information about how the area was occupied during the war. Another script I never learned.

  I fold my arms, stand back and watch the master at work.

  ‘Emmy,’ she suddenly calls, and I’m so busy listening to her informative tour that she takes me by surprise.

  ‘Sorry, um, yes?’ I run over to join the party.

  ‘Perhaps you could talk us through the grape varieties, the terroir, that kind of thing. Oh, and how the harvest works . . .’ Candy instructs, and despite feeling nervous I start.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Well we have three main types of grapes here . . .’ I tell them about the grapes, how the soil here is so good because of its position and how the breeze helps keep away disease. I introduce them to Henri and he lets them stroke his nose and nudges them for Polos they’ve brought from home.

  ‘The vines have very little intervention. Everything here is as Mother Nature intended it unless they really need help. The harder the roots have to work, the deeper they go and the better the wine. These grapes are cared for with love and words, not pesticides and sprays.’ I look over to the château vines where the tractors are at work like bees, picking and gathering and delivering the harvest to the Queen Bee.

  ‘Wow!’ say the visitors together, filming it all on their iPads.

  ‘So, we pick here and then . . .’ I pull back the doors on the chai as far as they will go, ‘this is where we make it.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’ The loud man looks amazed.

  I shake my head and hold back
a laugh.

  ‘Honestly, you do it by foot?’ says the other man.

  ‘No way!’ says the bob-haired woman.

  ‘Yes, way.’ And I can’t help but laugh out loud and so do they, and I realise I’m loving telling them about the vines here at Clos Beaumont but happy that Candy steps in to help me out when they want to know about buying and pricing.

  ‘OK, how about a tasting?’ Candy says. ‘Emmy, you grab the glasses.’

  I run happily back to the farmhouse. I’m not sure we have five matching glasses.

  ‘Gloria, do we have any matching wine glasses? There are some tourists here doing a wine tasting with Candy.’

  Gloria pulls off her spectacles and jumps up from Madame Beaumont’s accounts and into action in the miraculously tidy yet full little kitchen. She pulls out glasses, rinses them under the tap and uses a clean, if threadbare tea towel to rub them, holding them up to the light, but working as quickly as she can.

  Nick sticks his head out of the living room where he’s been rearranging the furniture, by the looks of things.

  ‘A lick of paint and this place would be gorgeous. There’s some lovely pieces here. Not worth much, but lovely. Have you seen the sweet little French clock on the mantelpiece? And the wing-back chairs are fabulous. Very shabby chic. I mean, there are shops back home selling this stuff as French antiques, which really means they went to France, bought some stuff second-hand and fancied it up.’ He smiles.

  ‘Tourists here for a tasting,’ Gloria explains quickly, and he dives in to help her with the glasses. Together we seem suddenly to be working as a very efficient team.

  ‘Now, who fancies doing some picking?’ Candy asks as the group drain their glasses and order crates of wine.

  I look at Candy in complete shock. Her chutzpah is something else.

  ‘Oh, yes, that would be lovely,’ says the curly-haired blonde.

  ‘Really, can we?’ asks the thinner man.

  ‘We’re happy to pay the going rate for a day’s picking,’ agrees the big-bellied one.

  Candy looks at me for approval.

  ‘Of course,’ I finally manage to say, once I’ve closed my gaping mouth and smile. ‘Gloria? Room for four more for lunch?’

  As we near the end of the parcelle the rain starts to fall. I should stop. They have over at the château, but I need to get the parcelle finished. It might stop in a while, or it could get heavier.

  ‘Keep going,’ I call. ‘As quick as you can.’ Isaac would tell me to stop now but I won’t have this kind of help again.

  We’re going to finish the parcelle, I decide.

  The rain starts to fall gently and I wipe it from my face until the last grapes are in and Henri, wet but patient as ever, finally pulls the trailer up towards the chai. We follow, wet and tired.

  After a day’s picking with Henri doing his bit, and treading in the chai, money has changed hands and been passed over to Gloria. There’s the sound of closing car boots and doors, goodbyes and au revoirs.

  Finally, the cars drive off down the lane with tooting horns and Cecil barking to see them off.

  I turn to look at Candy; she’s beaming and so am I.

  ‘You were brilliant!’ I say, my cheeks hurting from smiling.

  ‘No, you were,’ she says, and we hug each other in delight.

  Gloria brings out a tray with another bottle of Clos Beaumont on it, opens it and hands round glasses.

  Just as we’re taking our first sip, the Featherstone’s van pulls into the drive. Isaac! Finally!

  ‘Hey, how’s it going?’

  ‘Great,’ Candy beams. ‘We just did our first degustation and sold loads.’

  ‘It was Candy that did it.’ I nod to her.

  ‘No, it was you,’ she bats back.

  ‘So, it went well then?’ Isaac looks from me to Candy and back again.

  Gloria hands him a glass of red.

  ‘Very well. At least that’s a bit of money for Madame B’s coffers for when she gets out of hospital.’

  ‘And only one more parcelle to pick!’ I feel a thrill of excitement charge through my body. We’re nearly there. Nearly done.

  ‘Then the worry starts. You have to keep this grape juice safe so it turns to wine!’ he grins.

  Then the worry starts?

  ‘Really?’ I don’t think I’ve ever known worry like it before!

  ‘It was Emmy who nailed the sales,’ Candy distracts me for a moment. We’re all huddled outside under the old veranda, not caring about the spots of rain.

  ‘It wasn’t. My God, talk about master saleswoman. No wonder you have sales figures like you do.’

  ‘Yes, but I just learned all that stuff. You actually knew what you were talking about. It was real.’

  She’s right. I’m not at a desk here, selling from pictures in a catalogue. This is real. We sip wine and banter away, enjoying each other’s compliments. My hands are stained purple from the juice, I notice, as I lift my glass to my mouth. But I don’t care. I feel alive, really alive.

  ‘It was that line . . . how did you say it? No wait –’ Candy puts up a hand, not to be interrupted – ‘about “everything here is done just the way Mother Nature intended”. That’s why they bought so much. Lapped it up,’ she laughs, and takes a big gulp of wine.

  ‘But it’s true,’ I say, the laughter seeping from me as I take another sip. But instead of it slipping down, the wine sticks in my throat. That’s what makes it unique, I think, unable to look at Isaac.

  Trust your inner voice. Madame Beaumont’s words are playing round my head.

  Suddenly I know exactly what my inner voice is telling me. Today proved it to me. If this wine is going to win an award, it needs to be itself, not the same as every other vintage out there. There’s no way Isaac is ever going to agree about the yeast, but there’s no way I can add it now.

  ‘And no problems with the yeast at all?’ Isaac asks.

  I jump. ‘No, none.’ And I guiltily sip my wine to cover my burning cheeks and my crossed fingers in my pocket.

  ‘I’ll go and check,’ he says.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ I say.

  ‘Emmy’s got it all in hand, don’t worry, she’s brilliant at this.’ Candy tops up his glass. ‘Trust her. She knows what she’s doing. To Madame Beaumont and a great new vintage.’ She raises her glass merrily.

  Isaac raises an impressed eyebrow. ‘Are you sure?’ he asks me evenly.

  ‘Yup. It’s all fine,’ I agree with Candy, who is still holding her glass up high.

  ‘To Madame Beaumont and a great new vintage.’ We all cheer, and I know I can’t let her down, risky though it may be. I just have to make sure he never finds out.

  The rain gets heavier and I breathe a sigh of relief I finished picking the parcelle when I did. Looks like I made the right decision after all. Let’s hope I’ve made the right one about the yeast as well, because once everyone’s gone I need to get rid of the evidence.

  The chai smells different the next morning. There’s a strong smell of fruit as I pull back the big wooden doors. It’s still raining and there are darker clouds rolling in.

  I grab the ladder and the thermometer, shove it inside the front pocket of my hoodie, put the ladder against the concrete tank and climb up.

  It’s started! The fermentation has started! I can hear it. The wild yeasts are working their hardest to turn all the fruity sugar into alcohol.

  The sound and smell of fruit gets stronger the further up I go. I can’t help but smile. It’s really happening. At the top of the ladder I look over the edge of the tank and can see there’s a cap of fruit, covering the juice, starting to form. I’ll need to mash that down now. And keep doing it. With the sugar turning to alcohol the juice is starting to give off carbon dioxide. It�
��s doing just what it’s supposed to do.

  I know I have to take the temperature three times a day. Isaac told me that. I put the thermometer in the juice and watch the reading. It mustn’t go above 29 degrees. Perfect, right where it should be, and I’m suddenly grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  I climb quickly back down the ladder, and check the other vats. Then I run back to the farmhouse. The rain is falling heavily now, creating big puddles across the uneven yard, which I dodge and sidestep. The sky is really dark, and suddenly there’s a crack of lightning right across the sky, like it’s splitting the dark blanket in two. I jump, give a little yelp and run even faster to the house.

  ‘One elephant, two elephant, three elephant, four elephant,’ I’m counting as I reach the back door.

  Bang!

  ‘Eek!’ I throw myself in through the doors of the house where the smell of soup – onion, quite possibly – fills my nostrils. Gloria is stirring a big metal pot whilst staring at Madame Beaumont’s accounts book, balanced on the side, as she does. The fire is blazing and there’s a neat stack of wood either side of it.

  ‘It’s Saturday, what are you guys doing here?’

  ‘Thought you’d like the company.’ Gloria smiles, and I think I could burst with gratitude.

  ‘It’s started!’ I say, dripping rainwater all over the floor, making puddles on the top step.

  ‘It certainly has,’ Gloria agrees, looking out of the window to the side of the French doors.

  ‘Another storm,’ Candy sighs, looking at the computer.

  ‘No, the fermentation. It’s started. The juice is starting to turn to alcohol.’

  ‘Oh, that’s fabulous, love,’ says Gloria. ‘Well done!’

  ‘Yes, great. I’ll put it on the blog. What d’you think?’ Candy turns the screen to me and shows me what looks to be a blog about our harvest, including pictures of the pickers, the lunches, taken on her phone. ‘I’ve been updating it bit by bit.’

  ‘It’s fabulous, Candy,’ I say with real surprise. It’s like a wonderful scrapbook of the harvest at Clos Beaumont. ‘Madame Beaumont will love to see these pictures.’