Vintage

by Rosemary Friedman

  While the Baron and Laura Spray – revelling in her role as First Lady and comparing it favourably to her elevated status in the Palm Beach set – seated one on either side of Milli and Mathias Mercier at the top table, played King and Queen, Clare and Jamie were seated at the other side of the room with Christiane and Harry Balard (in an embroidered silk waistcoat and yuppie wing-collar), and Alain and Delphine Lamotte.

  The months of preparation had almost resulted in a crise de nerfs for Milli Mercier. She was determined that the Château Laurent dinner, which celebrated the harvesting of the grapes approximately a hundred days hence – on the successful outcome of which most of the guests depended for their livelihood – would not only outshine the Fêtes de la Fleur of her rivals, but would long be remembered in the annals of the Médoc.

  These days it was unnecessary to peruse the repertoires of the grands chefs, such as the notorious Vatel, who was said to have committed suicide when, at the banquet he had prepared for Louis XIV, the fish had not arrived on time. After lengthy consultations with a couple of traiteurs and a top Bordeaux restaurateur, Milli had come up with a suitable menu to which Mathias, consulting his cellar books, had matched the wine.

  Keeping a nervous eye on the slow progress of the dinner (the first course of which had not been served until well after ten o’clock) in the marquee, which she had festooned with ivory silk imported specially from Thailand, Milli Mercier herself did not touch a thing.

  At the Balard table, Marie-Paule, who had eaten too much and by the time the coffee was served could scarcely keep her eyes open, was dreaming about the Venetian Carnival, complete with Doge’s Palace, which she would create for the Fête de la Fleur at Château de Cluzac. At the young people’s table, Alain Lamotte, for whom the night was still young, was waving away the smoke from his cigarette and outlining for Clare his ambitious plans for her father’s estate, when a gavel was banged and silence called for, for the speeches.

  After Mathias Mercier, pride illuminating his face like that of a schoolboy who had succeeded in his Baccalauréat, had replied to the toast to the host and hostess (now more of a nervous wreck than ever), and resumed his seat, Baron de Cluzac, guest of honour and Président de l’Union des Grands Crus, rose slowly to his feet.

  Short and to the point, delivered with a charm and panache which cut no ice with Clare, his few and uninspiring words were received with as much enthusiasm as if they had been the American Declaration of Independence. When he sat down, to sustained applause and a public embrace from Laura Spray, who had been gazing raptly at him during the whole of his performance, it was the cue for the serious part of the evening’s entertainment to begin.

  While the tables were being cleared and the first of the two bands, which Milli Mercier had brought from Paris, tuned their instruments, the guests, some of whom were clearly overcome by the heat, strolled out into the grounds. Christiane Balard was bored out of her mind with the long drawn-out dinner and the interminable speeches. She was chatting animatedly to Clare as they made their way – ahead of Jamie, Harry Balard and the Blys – between the tables, when she was stopped in her tracks by the sight of Halliday Baines.

  Clare followed her gaze to where the thick-set Australian, his hair to his shoulders, stood with his back to them at the bar waiting for his glass to be filled.

  ‘Halliday Baines.’ Christiane dropped her voice. ‘Je suis folle de lui…’

  ‘Who’s Halliday Baines?’

  Christiane raised her eyebrows. Everyone in the room knew Halliday Baines, the flying winemaker. ‘L’oenologue.’

  ‘The guy no self-respecting viticulturist can manage without!’ Big Mick’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  The pint-sized Toni, darkly chic in her white trouser-suit, put a restraining hand on her husband’s arm.

  ‘They hate each other’s guts.’ Harry Balard moved in on Clare, at whose décolleté he had been staring insolently all evening. ‘Baines and Bly. The egoist and the evangelist of wine.’

  ‘My grandfather never had an oenologist,’ Clare said.

  ‘Well said, young Clare,’ Big Mick boomed. ‘Bordeaux has been producing grands crus for more than two hundred years. Good-quality grapes crushed and fermented. Control the temperature and keep it clean. It’s dead simple…’ Looking mischievously towards the bar as they made their way to the gardens, he raised his voice further ‘You don’t have to go to university to learn that!’

  Leaving the bar, and holding his glass of claret by the foot, Halliday Baines, his gait unsteady, approached the wine guru.

  ‘Are you being deliberately offensive, Bly?’

  ‘Le style Baines!’ Assuming an effete voice, Bly mocked the younger man. ‘“Lightly extracted and truly exquisite…”’

  ‘If the big fat wines you rate so highly had half the elegance of your lovely wife here…’

  ‘Cut it out, Baines,’ Bly said sharply, his large bulk ‘accidentally’ jostling the Australian, making him spill his claret down the front of his starched white shirt.

  Christiane Balard, glad of an excuse to get near Halliday, dabbed at the spreading red stain with her lace handkerchief.

  ‘Excuse me!’ Bly’s voice was disdainful.

  Taking Halliday’s empty glass from him, he moved towards the bar. ‘What’ll it be, Baines, another glass of claret? Or would you rather have a Fosters?’

  Seventeen

  The traditional wine-tasting, held by the Baron’s negociant on the morning after the Fête de la Fleur, was primarily for those in the trade. Clare’s invitation, which had been issued by way of a challenge, had come from Claude Balard himself.

  Despite the fact that they had had little or no sleep, many of the journalists and wine buyers, curious to discover the outcome of a wager made at Château Laurent, managed to make their bleary-eyed way to the Quai des Chartrons where, stretching back for half a mile beneath the pavements, lay the cellars of Balard et Fils.

  By the time Clare and Jamie had returned to Cluzac after the Fête de la Fleur, it was getting light. Clare had been unable to sleep. Careful not to wake Jamie – which, judging by the stertorous way he was breathing, would have been extremely difficult – she had got out of bed, pulled his sweat-shirt over her head, picked up her plimsolls and gone downstairs. Making her way over the stone floors and through the draughty passageways, she unbolted the door of the kitchens and let herself out into the damp and misty grounds.

  Walking by the moat, with its swans and water lilies, the shimmering reflections and deep, weed-filled mysteries of which had so fascinated her as a child, she went over in her mind the evening at Château Laurent, which in the event had turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable.

  Having opened the ball, at the request of his host and hostess, with Laura Spray – clearly a classy dancer – the Baron had made his farewells. Escorted to his yellow Dale Earnhardt Chevrolet by a disappointed Milli and Mathias Mercier, and without the hint of an excuse for his summary departure, he had driven away from the château.

  Clare, who had already taken the floor several times with Jamie, insisted that he dance with Christiane Balard, who was sitting self-consciously by herself, while she was escorted to the bar by Alain and Delphine Lamotte.

  Running his hand along the neatly aligned bottles, Alain – who was having some difficulty in focusing on the labels – had selected a claret.

  ‘Malescot St-Exupéry.’

  Taking the glass from him, Clare sniffed it tentatively before shaking her head.

  ‘I’d say Cos d’Estournel. Still rather hard. Probably eighty-six…’

  ‘Don’t argue with the lady, Lamotte.’ The mocking voice was Claude Balard’s. ‘Rumour has it she has a photographic palate. Si c’est vrai…?’ He shrugged. ‘I very much doubt.’

  ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’ Halliday Baines’ gaze was focused unsteadily on the front of Clare’s dress.

  ‘Clare de Cluzac.’

  ‘The one fortress I haven’t succeed
ed in penetrating.’

  Ignoring his outstretched hand, Clare turned her back.

  ‘In your condition I doubt you ever will.’

  ‘Give him a break.’ Alain Lamotte poured oil on troubled waters. ‘His wife’s just left him.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Clare was about to walk away when Claude Balard caught her arm.

  ‘How about a blind tasting?’ The negociant’s face was red. ‘We’ll soon see about this photographic palate.’

  ‘I’m not that bothered.’

  Clare caught Halliday Baines’ cynical eyes.

  ‘Midday tomorrow…’ Claude Balard threw down the gauntlet. ‘Chez Balard et Fils.’

  Clare’s plimsolls were soaked with the dew from the couch grass in which she had been walking, and she was beginning to feel both cold and hungry. Nodding to Monsieur Boniface, who had just arrived in his car and was walking across the courtyard towards the chais, and pulling the sleeves of Jamie’s sweat-shirt over her hands, she wrapped it round herself more tightly and made her way back into the château, where, in the kitchens, the lights were now on.

  Sidonie, who always rose at dawn, was giving Jean his breakfast before he started work. Sitting at the wooden table, the cellarmaster acknowledged Clare with a grudging ‘Bonjour Mademoiselle’, before breaking off a length of misshapen baguette which he dipped into his bowl of coffee.

  Sidonie, who hadn’t given up the habit, hugged Clare.

  ‘Que vous avez froid!’ she said solicitously, fussing round her as if she were six. Throwing a log on to the fire, which she had started with vine twigs, she poured another bowl of coffee from the chipped enamel jug, and pulled out a chair at the table on which a tray, with a drawn-thread traycloth and flower-sprigged porcelain, was set for what Clare presumed was Laura Spray’s breakfast – fresh raspberries and a jug of hot water – which would be taken up by one of the village women who came in daily to help Sidonie.

  Without a word, and without finishing his coffee, Jean left the kitchen.

  ‘What’s up with him?’

  ‘Les hormmes!’ Sidonie shrugged. ‘They’re all the same. You’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘It’s not just Jean,’ Clare said. ‘I can hardly get a word out of Albert. Something’s got up his nose.’ Putting both hands round the bowl to warm them, Clare sipped her coffee and looked speculatively at Sidonie, who disappeared into the pantry, from which she emerged with an enormous basket of redcurrants. Spreading a newspaper on the table, she took a colander from its hook and started expertly to separate the redcurrants from their stalks with the help of a fork.

  Reaching for another fork, Clare said, ‘Let me help.’

  ‘Attention à vos mains!’ Sidonie’s concern for Clare’s hands belied her expression. It was like old times. She was not displeased.

  ‘Is Jean upset because the château is being sold?’ Clare watched the berries fall haltingly into the colander. She was not as expert as Sidonie.

  ‘We were born here. This is our home.’

  ‘It will still be your home.’

  ‘That’s not what they say in the village. Jean and Albert hear things. Au café.’

  ‘Mr Van Gelder will need you…’ Clare’s voice was reassuring. ‘His family may own vineyards, but from what I hear he doesn’t know a vine from a bonsai tree.’

  ‘C’est cette dame! Madame Spray!’ The cook’s voice was contemptuous. ‘Monsieur has lost his senses since she came.’

  ‘You can’t blame Laura Spray, Sidonie – although as far as I’m concerned she’s a pain in the arse – Château de Cluzac is an anachronism. It’s falling to pieces. It hasn’t made money for years.’

  Sidonie looked up sharply.

  ‘Et alors!’ Her voice was sceptical.

  ‘I’ve looked at the sale document, Sidonie. Those figures must correspond with the books.’

  ‘Books!’ Sidonie sniffed. ‘Books!’

  ‘Sidonie…!’ Clare got up from the table, put her arm round the older woman and her face against the worn cheek. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’

  Sidonie looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the kitchen. It was not yet seven. The Baron was out riding and would not return for at least an hour. Laura Spray, concerned for her beauty, was certainly still asleep.

  Getting up from the table, Sidonie wiped her hands on her apron and made conspiratorially for the door.

  ‘Suivez-moi, Mademoiselle Clare. Suivez-moi!’

  To Clare’s surprise, Sidonie led her up the stairs to the first floor, along a corridor and up a short flight of steps to what was known as the Baron’s Room. Clare associated her father’s private sitting-room – largely taken up by a day bed above which hung a portrait of the first Baron de Cluzac, and a huge cylinder-top desk – with chastisement. In it, on many occasions, as she stared stubbornly out of the window, she had been read the riot act as a child.

  Crossing the threshold into the room, the octagonal walls of which were covered with familiar once-red damask, Clare stopped in horror. In place of the faded Aubusson rug of no determinate colour was a fitted tartan carpet – still smelling of new wool – strident with squares of blue and yellow. She exchanged an appalled glance with Sidonie; there was nothing to say.

  Mystified, Clare waited while Sidonie closed the door and crossed to an alcove where, on an Oeben table, stood a silver-framed photograph of her grandfather, Baron Thibault, dressed for the hunt. The Louis XV mechanical table, heavily decorated with ormolu bronzes and inlaid marquetry depicting scenes of classical ruins, was one of her father’s favourite toys.

  ‘Ouvrez-la!’

  The table contained several hidden compartments and some nests of small drawers. On the rare days when Clare had pleased her father she had been allowed to operate it.

  Watched closely by Sidonie, she opened cupboards large enough to admit only her hand, and sprung open drawers containing her grandfather’s medals from the First World War, old letters and photographs. Pressing a hidden button, she watched as a rectangular central section rose slowly from the base of the table. While Sidonie looked tactfully out of the window, she located the panel behind which was a cupboard, small but deep. In it was a single, worn, leather-bound volume, Mémo de Chasse, Hunting Diary, embossed in what had once been gold.

  Opening the diary curiously, Clare realised, to her surprise, that the Mémo had not to do with hunting but with wine. She was beginning to understand why Sidonie had brought her here.

  Sitting at her father’s desk, a thing she would not have dared to do when she lived at Cluzac, she became so engrosssed in deciphering his handwriting on the flimsy gilt-edged pages, that she was unaware that Sidonie had left the room. It was hard to believe that she was reading what she was reading.

  Neat columns had been ruled in the diary in which had been entered figures which went back several years. The figures, clearly written in ink, disclosed the prices realised from the sales of Château de Cluzac wine, which was nothing extraordinary. What blew her mind was a second set of figures, pencilled alongside each entry, showing a very much higher price. From her dealings with the Nicola Wade Gallery, she knew enough about book-keeping to recognise double sales figures when she saw them. The higher, pencilled price, meant that Château de Cluzac had in fact, for several years now, been making hefty profits and that someone – could it have been Claude Balard – must have been issuing false invoices. She wondered where the money, twenty-four per cent of which was hers, had gone, and what the hell was going on!

  Jamie was still snoring softly when she got back to the bedroom. Climbing into bed beside him, profoundly shocked by the secrets yielded up by the mechanical table, by her discoveries in the Baron’s Room, she insinuated herself into his sleeping arms.

  The wine-tasting took place in the three cellars, connecting one with the other, in the warehouse that was Balard et Fils. Jamie, who had never been to a wine-tasting and was out of his element, stayed close to Clare.

  ‘Who a
re all these people?’

  Harry Balard, who had overheard the question, pointed out a not unattractive young woman in a floral skirt and red shoes who was unmistakably English.

  ‘Julie Smith, wine buyer for Catesbury’s. Richard Simpson’ – he indicated a suave young men in a Garrick tie – the London Wine School. Nick Masters – supplies the shipping companies. Hypolite de Nevers, Paris Soir. Paulette Pauling’ – he pointed towards a formidablelooking grey-haired lady wearing her spectacles on a cord round her neck and carrying a notebook – ‘doyenne of wine correspondents, author of several books. And our very own Halliday Baines…’

  ‘We’ve met.’ Halliday nodded to Clare. ‘What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?’

  ‘Where I come from such remarks are no longer considered politically correct,’ Clare snapped. Sometimes she heard herself talking like her father. It came as a surprise.

  ‘A de Cluzac to the bone.’

  ‘The chap behind the table,’ Harry Balard continued, ‘is Bernard Groise, the new winemaker at Escampet. He’ll be giving a short talk later. There’s our host and hostess from last night…’ He turned to greet Milli and Mathias Mercier, leaving Clare and Jamie on their own.

  Jamie looked at the trestles, each with its white cloth and laden with its uncorked bottles of claret, behind which stood the various château owners and staff from Balard et Fils ready to supply information about the wine that was on offer.

  ‘What’s the form?’

  ‘Just help yourself.’ Clare pointed to a table in the centre of the room on which were clean glasses, bottled water to cleanse the palate and a plate of crackers. ‘Take a glass and hang on to it.’

  Jamie made his way to where Halliday Baines, in blue jeans and work shirt, was leaning nonchalantly against a trestle, and poured some red wine from a jug into his glass.

  ‘That’s the dregs jug, mate.’