Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘That’s great news.’

  ‘Says he’s realised it’s too big for him and that I won’t want to be there for ever. He’s looked at sheltered accommodation in town, close to the DIY store where he’s got a job.’

  ‘That’s brilliant! You don’t need to stay where you are for him any more. You’re free to finally spread your wings.’

  ‘Is it? Maybe a few hours ago, when there was a chance of me packing a rucksack and coming with you. But that can’t happen now, can it?’ I look at him and slowly he shakes his head.

  ‘Charlie’ll withdraw his reference. That’ll tell the wine houses everything they need to know.’

  ‘What will you do?’ I want to wail, but don’t.

  He shrugs. ‘Start phoning round, see if there’s anything going. Go back and stay on some friends’ sofas in California. I can phone you when I find something. You could join me.’

  ‘We both know that’s not going to work.’ The tears spill down my cheeks.

  We walk slowly back to the kitchen, our heads tipped and touching each other’s. Gloria has the wine open and glasses poured, and hands one to each of us, feeling for us.

  ‘Well, at least you two have finally got together, that’s some good news,’ I say, trying to lift our spirits as Candy snuggles into Nick.

  ‘Who’d’ve thought? I didn’t realise he was interested in me . . . or into any girls, actually,’ Candy giggles.

  ‘Oh, Candy, Nick’s been in love with you since we got here,’ I say fondly but exasperated.

  ‘What?’ She sits up straight and gapes at Nick. ‘And you never let on? I let you undo my bra when I was sunburned and told you how I felt about . . . everything!’

  ‘There never seemed to be the right time to tell you.’ Nick holds out his palms.

  ‘Well!’ Candy harrumphs and turns away from him.

  There’s an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘So what will you do now?’ Gloria asks me.

  ‘Go back home. Look for another job, I suppose. Look for a room to rent. Stay with my sister for while, maybe.’ It’s a long way from what I’ve always dreamed of.

  ‘Isaac?’ Gloria has pain in her eyes.

  ‘Same. Back to where I started and see if I can pick up some work. It won’t be as a wine-maker, though, not if Charlie’s done his work well, which I’m sure he will have.’ Isaac stretches out his hand, red and painful from landing a punch on Charlie.

  ‘And there’s no way either of you can stay on here?’

  I shake my head. ‘Madame Beaumont has to sell this place. She needs to pay for somewhere to live. Probably in town would be best, and with a lift. A retirement block.’

  ‘Overlooking the river,’ Nick adds dreamily.

  ‘What about you, Nick? Are you looking forward to going back to Featherstone’s?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve been thinking about starting up my own business. Buying and selling French brocante. Thought I’d come over and do a buying trip. Do up a few pieces and sell them on eBay. Candy said she’d help me.’

  Candy harrumphs again and folds her arms and crosses her legs.

  ‘Looks like the team leader’s job comes down to you two then?’ I smile at Candy and Gloria. I’m happy for both of them.

  ‘Oh, I’m not going back to England,’ Gloria says matter-of-factly. ‘Well, I am just for a while and then I’ll be coming back out here.’

  ‘What?’ we all say together.

  ‘Has this got something to do with that man you were with at the wine-medal ceremony?’

  She nods and can’t hold in her news any more. She’s smiling like she’s about to burst.

  ‘There’s a café down by the river. Le Phénix. It’s been closed after a fire. But it’s been repainted. It’s only small. And, well, Jeff introduced me to the owner.’ She pauses. ‘I’m signing for the lease. Going to have my own café bar. I’ll do a set menu every day, that kind of thing . . .’ She runs out of breath and we all shriek and hug her.

  ‘Glasses, quick!’ Candy exclaims, and we each grab a glass.

  ‘To the Phoenix!’

  And then Nick starts to sing, ‘From the ashes of disaster grow the roses of success…’ and we all join in, apart from Isaac, who looks completely baffled.

  ‘Is that like an English traditional song?’

  ‘Sort of . . . it’s from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,’ and we all sing it again and then sit down and sip our wine.

  ‘If only there had been wine in the cellar,’ Candy says, and we all nod and agree.

  ‘What wine in the cellar?’ asks Isaac.

  ‘Like it said in the letter.’ Candy stands and goes to get it from behind the clock that is still working and ringing the hour, twice every hour.

  She shows it to Isaac. He reads it, then puts it down.

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘It’s no good, it’s not there. We looked everywhere,’ Candy says.

  ‘Show me,’ he repeats, and we all traipse back down to the empty cellar holding our wine glasses.

  Isaac looks around. Then runs his hand over the brick wall, this way and then that, putting his fingers into the mortar between the bricks. Nodding briefly, he then disappears up the wooden stairs again. We look at each other, shrug and go to follow, but he’s coming back down with what looks like the sledgehammer from the chai.

  ‘Isaac, dear God! What are you doing?’

  ‘I may not have seen Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, but I have seen The Secret of Santa Vittoria, with Anthony Quinn, which evidently you guys never have. Part of my childhood, watching that video, with my new dad. And where my love of wine started.’ He looks at me with a smile. ‘Now,’ he nods. ‘Stand back.’

  And with that he swings the sledgehammer back and whacks it into the stone wall.

  ‘Isaac!’ I cry as he does it again and the wall starts to crumble and fall. ‘Have you gone mad?’

  ‘It was Isaac . . .’ Candy’s explaining.

  We’re all standing round Madame Beaumont, who is sitting in a chair in the day room of the convalescent home, looking out on the garden and seeming much better.

  ‘Well, it was you really, Candy,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Wait, wait, what are you talking about? One at a time. Emmy, slow down and explain what has happened now,’ Madame Beaumont instructs.

  We all stop talking and I reach into my bag and pull out the bottle I have carried all the way here on the train.

  ‘This . . .’ I announce, handing the dusty bottle to her. She reaches out with shaking hands for her small, wire-framed glasses from the side table. She puts them on her nose and they slip this way and that. She reads the label, slowly. Then she looks at me.

  ‘C’est vrai?’ Her voice cracks, her eyes fill with tears.

  I nod, lots of tiny little nods and can barely contain myself.

  ‘Candy looked it up online. A bottle like this from 1945 will fetch at least five hundred pounds at auction.’

  Madame Beaumont smiles a watery smile.

  ‘But where did you find it?’

  ‘In the cellar,’ I tell her, enjoying watching her run her hand over the faded label and the wax covering the cork. ‘It had been bricked over, to keep it safe for your mother.’

  ‘This,’ she points to the writing on the label, ‘this is the best news of all.’

  I bite my bottom lip. ‘I know.’

  ‘AOC Appellation Clos Beaumont,’ she reads through misty eyes, the last words catching in her throat. ‘The vineyard had its own appellation.’

  ‘What is that? I’ve never understood it.’ Candy screws up her nose.

  ‘It means that the vineyard has its own recipe for wine. It’s not ruled by the same regulations as Petit Frère or Saint Enrique. Clos Beaumont has the right to call it
self an AOC wine, Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée.’

  ‘It’s a way . . .’ Isaac starts, and then laughs and holds out a hand to me to carry on.

  ‘It’s a way of identifying the geographical origin of the wine, the quality and style of the wine,’ I tell Candy. Then sigh. ‘In other words, Madame Beaumont’s doesn’t have to be a Vin de France any more. It’s a unique, recognised wine and she can get more money for it.’

  ‘The appellation must have been lost after the war. My family . . . there were a lot of people who shunned them. They wanted just to live peacefully but with dignity. Maybe hanging on to the appellation was a fight too far.’

  ‘But now we know. It’s here and next year’s vintage will be able to use this appellation. You won’t have to move after all.’ I beam, wishing I could hug her.

  ‘I’m afraid five hundred euros or pounds won’t be able to keep me at the vineyard.’ Madame Beaumont slips off her glasses and puts them back on the table.

  Isaac nudges me.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ I’m so caught up in the excitement I’m missing bits out. ‘Madame Beaumont, there isn’t just one bottle we found behind the bricked-up cellar. There were loads of bottles. It was the whole year’s vintage, in fact.’

  There is silence while we allow Madame Beaumont to digest the information and then, looking up from her chair in the sunny lounge, she says to me, ‘I think I would like to see those bottles for myself. Tell the nurse I want to discharge myself. I will go with my friends. I have business to attend to.’

  The nurses look as if they’re breathing a sigh of relief and have her belongings packed in no time and produce forms for her to sign.

  Back at Clos Beaumont, Madame Beaumont insists on coming down to the cellar. There are broken bricks and dust everywhere. A far cry from the neat and tidy home I wanted her to come back to. But she doesn’t seem to care.

  Leaning heavily on Isaac and her stick, she picks her way over to the crates of wine behind the smashed-through wall, holding on to crumbling bits of red rubble for support in the dim cellar, lit by a single bare bulb hanging from a long wire.

  She reaches down and picks up one of the bottles. It’s covered in thick dust, old and new.

  ‘Here, I say,’ and hand her one of her tea towels that I’m carrying.

  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the small wire glasses and reads the label all over again. Then, looking round the small annexed part of the cellar as if breathing in the fact her father was the last one here before today, she nods, sniffs and holds out a bottle for me to carry.

  ‘We will drink it when we have something to celebrate,’ she says to me. Frankly I’d’ve thought discovering you had thousands of pounds’ worth of wine in your cellar was a good enough reason to celebrate. On the other hand, I’m not sure I’d be able to drink a bottle of wine that could pay my mortgage this month.

  ‘What about the vines, how are they?’ she asks as Isaac guides her away from the bottles.

  ‘Well, we lost a couple to the tractor. Not the tendresse ones,’ he says.

  ‘Isaac has replanted them and we’re keeping a close eye on them, but . . .’ I tell her.

  ‘They are old, like me.’

  ‘In that case I’m sure they’ll keep fighting,’ I reassure her with a smile.

  She puts out her hand for Isaac to help her again and stiffly makes her way back over towards the stairs, which she insists on climbing by sitting on one and going up on her bottom, backwards. I watch her slowly and stiffly make her way up them, wincing with every step.

  Back in the kitchen, Monsieur Lavigne from the château is there, holding flowers and a bottle out to Madame Beaumont.

  ‘Madame Beaumont, we are all so pleased to have you home. I hope it’s for good now.’

  ‘Really? I thought you wanted to buy my vineyard when you thought I couldn’t manage it any more,’ she says, not accepting the extended bouquet of flowers.

  ‘I just wanted to help you out. After all, we have been neighbours for years, as our families were before us.’

  ‘Here,’ she points to the bottle of wine that I’m carrying and I show it to him. He reads the label, strokes the bottle and is practically salivating and grinning.

  ‘This is fantastic news!’ he beams.

  ‘It is. My wine is worth a lot more as a result of it. As is my vineyard,’ Madame Beaumont tells him.

  ‘Of course,’ he agrees.

  ‘But what is more important is that my family’s name will be remembered around here. This is my father’s legacy. I can die knowing it wasn’t all for nothing.’

  Monsieur Lavigne is not smiling now.

  ‘From now on, monsieur, I’d be grateful if you’d keep your spraying away from my vines. Respect them as I respect yours.’

  He nods.

  ‘And then there’s the medal.’ I step forward. ‘Now that the vineyard has official status, perhaps the judges would like to reconsider their decision. It’s a worthy winner, with its own appellation.’

  Monsieur Lavigne smiles and nods. ‘Of course. This is very good news for the area.’

  ‘And for me and my family name,’ Madame Beaumont adds, leaning on her stick.

  ‘But it is too much work for you. I want you to know we will respect the appellation and your family name. And of course, there will be a new price to reflect this development.’

  ‘Some things are worth more than high profit margins,’ she says crisply, and makes for her chair by the wood burner, which is burning merrily. Isaac guides her into her seat.

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur Lavigne,’ Madame Beaumont says as she sits. ‘I will be in touch when my affairs are settled.’ She dismisses him and he nods, smiles and turns to leave but then turns back to Isaac.

  ‘Isaac, may I speak with you?’

  ‘Sure.’ He looks to me, I nod that he should go and he follows Monsieur Lavigne out into the yard.

  ‘Now I will message my solicitor and tell him to meet me here. May I?’ Madame Beaumont picks up my phone. I nod and she starts tapping away like a teenager.

  ‘I’m glad you’re pulling out of the sale. I can’t imagine you living anywhere else.’ I smile warmly.

  ‘Oh, I’m not going to live at Clos Beaumont but I am pulling out of the sale.’ She stops typing and looks at me over her glasses.

  ‘What?’ I’m confused.

  ‘I want you to live here,’ she says matter-of-factly.

  ‘I can’t buy this place and I have to go home.’

  ‘How is your father?’ she asks over her glasses.

  ‘Actually he’s good, really good. He wants to sell the house,’ I tell her. ‘My sister is settled nearby, too.’

  ‘That’s good. Then your father is ready to move on. The question is, are you? What’s to stop you living here, caring for the vines? It looks like this place is your home too now. You and your good friend. He may look a mess, and need to learn some manners, but he is trustworthy. He has shown that.’

  ‘But, but . . . I couldn’t buy this place?’

  ‘I’m not asking you to buy it. Think about it. I cannot stay here. But I do not want to sell to Mr Featherstone or the château.’

  Outside Isaac is smiling and shaking Monsieur Lavigne warmly by the hand.

  Crisp, winter sunshine is pouring in through the glass panes in the French doors. Everything seems to be happening so quickly. Isaac has made himself scarce walking Cecil up to the damaged vines.

  The document is on the table. The solicitor does up his briefcase and shakes Madame Beaumont by the hand. She insists on standing to see him out.

  ‘So you see, there it is. I am going to move into one of the retirement properties by the river. I will have views of the vines every day, but I cannot work them any more. I want you to have this plac
e. Rent it from me for a . . . how do you say? . . . a peppercorn rent, until it starts to make money, and when you are ready you can buy it. It’s all written down. No one will be able to take it from you, even if I die.’

  ‘But . . .’ I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Say yes. Or perhaps you’d rather move home and go back to your old job in the call centre?’

  Suddenly the thought fills me with dread.

  This could be everything I’ve dreamed of. I’m not an office worker or a salesperson. That’s Candy, not me. But I think I could be good at this. And if Isaac and I were to work at it together . . . Is it really possible?

  I need some time to think and I go out to the vines where Isaac is walking back into the yard, smiling and sending text messages. It is a stunning winter afternoon. The sun is low and bright in the sky.

  ‘Great news!’ he beams, and I can’t help but beam back.

  ‘I know!’ I’m holding in my excitement but I think I may explode at any moment.

  ‘Monsieur Lavigne, he’s offered me a job. Wants me to start straight away,’ he practically yells with excitement.

  ‘What? That’s fantastic!’ I join in.

  ‘He loved the wine and even though I told him you made it, he’s offered me a wine-making job.’

  ‘What, here at the château?’ I can’t believe it: how perfect!

  ‘No, he has vineyards all over the world. He has one in South Africa. His wine man has let him down. Wants me to start straight away. Now. South Africa, Emmy!’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I try to sound happy, I really do.

  ‘Wooohooo!’ He throws his hands in the air and then hugs me and picks me up and swings me round.

  ‘Come with me, Emmy! Come away with me. It’s gonna be fantastic.’

  I smile but this time it’s me that has the watery smile and then I look away so he can’t see the tears and shake my head.

  ‘I can’t do that.’ I hold my hand to my tingling nose.

  ‘What? Why? Why can’t you? Even you said your dad wants to sell the house now.’