by Jo Thomas
I can tell this is everything he’s wanted.
‘They all want French-style wine . . . it’s the granddaddy of wine.’ His eyes are wide with excitement.
‘It means a lot to you,’ I say, standing next to him by the trailer, surrounded by vines, looking back at the Clos Beaumont farmhouse, the sun warming our faces.
‘Everything. This is what I’ve been working towards for all these years.’
‘Does that mean you’ll stop being a travelling wine man, and put down roots?’
‘Are you kidding? Nothing will stop me. I’ll just fly to bigger and better places.’
‘I’m not sure that there is anywhere better than this,’ I say quietly, looking around.
‘Careful, you sound as if you’re starting to fall in love.’
‘No, of course not.’ I shake my head, trying to keep love at an arm’s distance.
‘So what will happen to you after the wine awards?’ he asks.
‘Me? Well, I’ll go home. If we win the award, hopefully I’ll hang on to my job at Cadwallader’s call centre, get the bonus, keep trying to pay off the arrears on the mortgage, that kind of thing . . .’ I hold out a bucket to him.
‘That doesn’t sound very exciting.’
‘It isn’t very exciting.’ I hold out a pair of secateurs too and look at him. Henri snorts and shakes his mane. ‘It’s just . . . life.’
‘Don’t you want something more? Don’t you want to spread your wings?’ His brown eyes are looking right at me and I want to tell him, yes! Yes, I want so much more. But not a life without roots.
‘Like what? A life like yours? No, thanks, I like to know where my home is.’ I smile. He reaches out and I nearly drop the bucket as he puts his hand on mine to take it from me and a massive bolt of electricity passes straight through me.
‘Won’t you miss all this?’ he asks.
This time I can’t look at him. I look down at the ground. I can’t tell him how much I’ll miss it. I really will.
‘I’ll just be happy knowing that Madame Beaumont has got next year’s vintage to sell.’ My voice cracks a tiny bit.
‘And if it wins the medal?’
‘Well, then hopefully she’ll make enough money to think about taking on some help.’ I take a deep breath and look up.
‘But surely, you don’t want to just end up like your dad? I mean, don’t you want to add a bit of spice to your life?’
I say nothing and I get the feeling he thinks he’s overstepped the mark. I know he’s right, but I can’t see any way to change things.
‘Tell you what,’ he cuts across the awkward silence. ‘You go one way and I’ll go the other.’
I frown. He’s smiling, teasing. He points to the vines.
‘Race you, if you like. See who can make it home first.’ Isaac is already unclipping the catch on his secateurs. ‘Start on the outside and work in.’
‘You’re on,’ I shout, and we both run to our vines at opposite edges of the parcelle and start cutting. I’ll show him. I’ll make it home first.
‘I’m ahead,’ I shout over the vines as we near the middle of the parcelle.
‘I think you’ll find it’s me,’ he shouts back.
There’s no way I’m going to let him beat me.
We’re neck and neck as we race round the end of the row. There’s only a few rows to go, right in the middle of the parcelle. We’re nearly there and I’m enjoying myself, thrilled we’re nearly at the end of the pick. We both empty our buckets and run to the new rows up the middle of the parcelle. Isaac is just in front of me. I go to dodge round him when suddenly he stops dead, right in front of me and I practically run into him. He doesn’t move. I look in the direction that he’s staring. Neither of us moves, we just stand and stare.
Isaac’s the first to speak.
‘Did you know about this?’ The laughter has gone and although I don’t know exactly what it means, I realise by the look on Isaac’s face something is wrong.
I shake my head, put down my bucket and slide my secateurs in my pocket. I follow Isaac as he walks up to the next row of vines. He cuts off a bunch of grapes. They look different from others we’ve loaded on to the trailer. He takes one, pulls it in half, he sniffs it, puts the end of his tongue to it and tastes it, then he puts it in his mouth and chews, thoughtfully, and I sense not to interrupt. As he chews he begins to nod and his nodding gets bigger.
‘What is it? Infection? Poisoned by insecticides?’ I eventually can’t help myself asking. I nod towards the château. To which he throws back his head, his dark hair shaking, and lets out a loud laugh.
‘What? What is it?’ I’m getting frustrated. I have no idea what’s going on.
He shakes his head, but he’s still tossing the grapes over in his hand and he throws another one into his mouth. He’s grinning and shaking his head at the same time.
‘Isaac, what’s going on?’
‘You tell me.’ He raises an eyebrow.
‘I have no idea. All I know is that these grapes and vines look really different from the others. Are they sick?’
He shakes his head and then says slowly, ‘No wonder I couldn’t work out what the “missing ingredient” was in Madame Beaumont’s claret.’ He puts up his fingers and makes inverted comma signs.
I shake my head, put out the palms of my hands and shrug, getting more and more frustrated by the moment.
‘Here, taste this.’ He hands me a grape. I take it. I’m pretty sure it won’t poison me as I’ve just seen him eat one. I break it in half like he did and then sniff it and put it in my mouth. I chew.
‘What are you getting?’
I shake my head and turn down my mouth and am just about to swallow, when …‘Wait! That’s that . . .’ I haven’t got the words. ‘I don’t know, it’s the other thing . . . the note.’
He nods and slowly smiles again, tossing the stalk to one side. The breeze seems to be much stronger here, whipping up through the valley to this high point, making my hair fly around.
‘But I don’t understand. This is a different grape, then?’ I say above the wind.
‘You’re getting it. From what I can see, this is a totally different grape. If I’m not mistaken it’s a really old variety. La tendresse. It means softness, heart. It marries really well with other grapes. Is great to blend with, from what I’ve read. These vines are pretty old, too. I thought this variety was wiped out in the great French wine blight in the 1850s.’
‘A disease?’
He nods. ‘France lost forty per cent of its vineyards because of it. This grape is found in other parts of the world now. But it’s quite rare.’
They are short, with twisted trunks and much shorter branches than their neighbours. No wonder we didn’t know they were here, tucked away.
‘I couldn’t work out the extra element in this wine, but it’s this, this grape. La tendresse.’ Isaac looks around.
Then he smiles. ‘The wind, it must have kept the grapes safe from the blight.’
‘And that’s why Madame Beaumont doesn’t want anyone on her land,’ I say, understanding.
‘These grapes aren’t grown around here. The authorities could make her rip them up and replant.’
‘What, like Charlie wants her to do?’ I suddenly think.
Isaac nods.
‘But why?’
‘They’re not grapes that are grown in this appellation, so it affects the taste of the other grapes.’
‘But she doesn’t register for the appellation. She hates rules and regulations.’
‘And this is why. She’s mixing this grape in with local grapes. That’s what’s giving it the twist, the edge, if you like.’
‘How old are these vines?’
‘I’d say about seventy years old
, maybe more, some of them.’ He lifts a bunch. ‘They give a low yield at this age, but the flavour is much more intense.’
‘Like they have gleaned wisdom and understanding on their way,’ I say.
He smiles and nods as if accepting this explanation. ‘Exactly. The thing is, the terroir over here is harder work, and the harder the roots have to work to find goodness . . .’
‘. . . the better they fruit!’ I finish for him.
He nods appreciatively and my heart lifts and begins to fly.
‘Then this is exactly what we need,’ I say, hope rising in my voice. ‘I wonder how they got here.’
‘But if the authorities or Featherstone’s find out they won’t let her sell this wine . . . it’s against the regulations. It’s why they’re hidden.’
My heart crashes back down with a bump.
‘And we won’t be able to enter it for the wine medal,’ I sigh, dropping my hands to my side.
‘No,’ he confirms.
‘Or . . .’ I say quietly. ‘We could, if we don’t tell them.’
‘I can’t do that, Emmy. It wouldn’t be right. If I got found out . . .’
‘You won’t be doing it,’ I take out my secateurs, ‘I am.’ I give him a hard stare, praying that he won’t fight me on this. ‘Without the grape, the wine’s nothing special. You said so yourself. It’s what gives it the edge. This way, you get your new job and Madame Beaumont gets to sell her vintage. Let’s just say you knew nothing about the addition of the grapes, a bit like the yeast. It was all me. I didn’t know any better.’
‘Emmy, think about this. You could lose your job. You have to think of you, too. I can’t let you do it.’
‘You can,’ I insist. ‘And I am. Let’s be honest, you were right. I do need to stick my neck out and get out there. I’ll be as old as my dad before I’ve even started living, at this rate. This could make the wine win! I can’t go back not having tried.’ We stare at each other and then I start to pick, slowly and carefully, and finally he follows behind me.
‘If you don’t pick them, we can say you had nothing to do with it. You hold the bucket, I’ll pick,’ I tell him.
And he does, but he’s staring at me, head on one side.
‘You are one hell of lady,’ he says.
‘Really, I’m not sure I am. I’m just like any other of the agents working in the office, except I’m not as good at selling as they are.’
‘Maybe,’ says Isaac, ‘Madame Beaumont would say, that’s because they’re all supermarket blends . . . rolled out to taste the same, some better than others, but palatable blends all the same.’
‘Mais oui! Bien sûr!’ I say, giving him a stern look, through imaginary glasses, impersonating Madame Beaumont. And we both laugh.
‘What does that make me then, vinegar?’ I ask, turning back to the vines, working slowly, being careful not to damage the old vines.
‘You, you’re a single vintage,’ he smiles.
‘Oh, am I?’ I can’t help but smile back.
‘Yes, you just haven’t realised what kind of vintage you are yet.’
‘Go on then, what kind of vintage am I?’ I reach in for a small bunch of grapes in the middle of the vine and turn and place them in the bucket he’s holding. But he’s looking at me.
‘Gutsy, bold, brave, I’d say you were a very rare, exceptional year. One that needed to mature to be fully appreciated.’
‘Hey!’ I make a swipe at him and he steps back, laughing.
‘You’re unique. Whereas your colleagues are more . . . last year’s vintage. One that needs to be drunk quickly. You should be savoured.’
And I feel myself starting to tingle all over and need a distraction.
‘Whereas you, you’re like a nouveau wine. Here today, but gone tomorrow, doesn’t hang around but is excellent in the moment!’
‘Exactly! But with complicated depth,’ he adds with a smile, ‘that is only noticed by the discernible palate.’
‘Discernible?’
‘Yes, like yours. You have a very sophisticated palate, if only you’d let yourself believe it. You could do really well at this.’
I turn to put more grapes in the bucket, shielding my eyes from the sun. From here you can see fields and fields of vines rolling away down towards Petit Frère. The strong breeze carries the scent of rosemary and lavender to me.
‘I couldn’t do this,’ I guffaw.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, for starters, I have a family that needs me back home.’
‘I bet they’d love to see you do something other than work in that call centre. I could make some calls. You could think about coming with me, work in the winery.’
I stop. Did he just suggest I go with him? He must just mean as friends, and I’m not sure I could just be friends with Isaac any more.
‘It’s not that simple. I have responsibilities. I can’t just fly off round the world working anywhere I want. Like you say, my roots go very deep.’
And if in some silly imaginary dream world, when I kissed Isaac I ever thought he and I could be more than this, I know now it could never happen. He’s a free spirit, a rare ‘here today, gone tomorrow’ vintage and I’m one that needs to stay where it is to be enjoyed in years to come. Whereas Charlie? Charlie has potential. He’ll mature with age – either that or turn sour! – but Charlie got Dad out here. He’s looking to the future. His kiss may not have the effect that Isaac’s did on me, but he’s not going to be here today, gone tomorrow either. He knows what he wants and where he’s going in life.
‘Maybe one day I’ll get to do something else, follow a dream. But not now.’
‘Be careful you don’t put it off too long, Emmy, or tomorrow might never happen.’
I carry on picking in silence, thinking about Mum, whose dreams of tomorrow never came. Of Dad, sitting in his chair, knowing tomorrow would be exactly the same as yesterday, and Jody, who has no idea what tomorrow will bring, but can be certain it will be very different from yesterday. And I think about Madame Beaumont. I have a feeling these vines are an integral part of her vintage, as I think about the photo and the silver badge by her bed, and I can’t let her down.
Snip, snip. ‘Come on, let’s mix up some mischief.’ I impersonate Madame Beaumont again and we laugh. It’s all starting to make sense, her telling me how her father planted some of these vines. These must be the ones: they’re part of who she is, and I swear I hear her laughter weaving through the vines.
‘Oh, come on, at least let me crush them with you,’ Isaac is pacing round the chai as I take my socks and boots off, ready to wash my feet.
‘No! If you haven’t touched them, you can’t take any of the blame for this.’
‘And what if you get found out, what if they disqualify the wine?’ He throws up his hands.
‘They won’t find out. Madame Beaumont has kept it secret all these years. Why should that change?’
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out.
‘Talking of which . . .’ I look up and beam. ‘She’s messaged me!’ I read the message. ‘They’ve said she can do a home visit soon. And if she’s well enough, leave the rehabilitation unit.’
‘More like they’re throwing her out for harassing the staff,’ Isaac jokes, and I can’t help but laugh. She’s probably given them a really hard time and is desperate to get home.
‘When she’s coming?’
‘She doesn’t say. Would be lovely if she were there for the wine awards, though,’ I say.
‘Should be a big night. Charlie has you down as his guest.’
‘Oh?’ I say, washing and drying my feet. He didn’t mention it. But it just goes to show he’s been thinking about me. But then again, I’ve hardly seen Charlie since my family’s visit. Maybe if I’d seen more of h
im I wouldn’t have been having such silly thoughts about me and Isaac. Isaac and I have just been spending way too much time together, that’s all. This night out at the wine awards is just what Charlie and I need to start dating like a proper couple, now that our time here in France is nearly over. And any silly thoughts of going and working on vineyards with Isaac will be put to bed once and for all. My future is with Charlie, back at Cadwallader’s. But my heart is taking a little time to catch up with my optimistic head.
‘I’m taking Candy and Nick’s partnered with Colette, God help him.’
‘That’s all a bit formal.’ I put my phone on the side.
He shrugs. ‘Jeff’s coming with Gloria,’ he says and we both laugh again, but the fact that Isaac is bringing Candy seems to be sitting in my brain and not shifting.
‘Well, let’s hope we can make Madame Beaumont proud then,’ I say, distracting myself from the thought of Isaac kissing Candy and reminding myself of that kiss, his soft lips. ‘If I can just get this vintage sold . . . give her enough money to see her through the winter, make some repairs to this place. Pay for her to have some help around the place. That’s what she really needs: a helping hand.’
‘That would be good. Someone to help out on the vines and do the manual work.’
I nod.
‘OK, well, let’s get this wine made. Now, once these few grapes ferment, get them into the barrel as quickly as possible. Then you need to pump over the wine. Pump it out of the barrel, clean out the lees – the yeast at the bottom of the barrel – and pump it back in again.’
‘Yes, I know what pumping over is,’ I tut.
‘I can help,’ he offers.
‘No! I’ve told you. You tell me what to do, and I’ll do it, but the less you’re involved the better.’
I climb into the barrel and Isaac holds out his hand to help me in and I take it, then wish I hadn’t as I get a buzz going right through me, like I’ve grabbed hold of an electric fence. I pull my hand away, looking down at the grapes under my feet, feeling their wetness and the cold up through the gaps between my toes. I lift my foot to crush, then stop.