The Champagne War

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘No parents or siblings. Perhaps that’s easier, though.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  He thought about it. ‘There’s so much more fear when you have something meaningful to lose. I know from experience that on the battlefield nothing matters any more – money, possessions, career. It all fades, and all that remains in the front of one’s mind is who is missing you. And I have watched men crumple when they talk about the family they are fighting to stay alive for. It’s no longer about king and country – that’s there, yes, but every day is the battle to survive to the next day so you can write home, let them know you’re still alive. It’s easier being alone, I imagine. Are you married?’

  ‘The army says I’m widowed.’ His brow furrowed in readiness to apologise but he felt her hand on his arm. ‘I lost my husband, Jerome, within months of the war’s beginning.’ She sighed. ‘Like all these women you see, I am learning to live alone.’

  ‘Don’t. You’re too young to contemplate life alone.’

  ‘I could say the same for you, Captain Nash.’

  He nodded. ‘Then let’s make a private pact: we won’t say forever.’

  She smiled, and its warmth upon him felt like the memory of a hot bath, and sinking into its depths.

  Charlie couldn’t remember a happier time in his life than this bumpy ride in a horse-drawn cart.

  ‘These belong to Pol-Roger,’ Sophie remarked in English, suddenly puncturing the quiet, waving a hand. She had long fingers and nails trimmed blunt but shining a healthy pink. ‘Maurice Pol-Roger was our mayor at the start of the war. You know, Charlie, when all the authorities we counted on began to withdraw, it was our mayor who kept us going from his own pocket. He was like a mint, committing his funds to the bills being written for the town of Épernay. We bestowed the honour of chevalier in gratitude, and later he was made an officier de la Légion d’honneur.’ She sighed. ‘Collectively, we have lost a lot of our vines. The vineyards are a network of trenches now, and some terrible fighting has taken place between the vines in the Marne Valley. Merchants will be weeping at the destruction, but what can we do? The situation in Épernay is much easier; we feel insecure because of the air raids and there has been some damage, but it doesn’t stop our work and there isn’t the relentless artillery fire that Reims has contended with.’

  ‘Have other champagne houses moved from Reims to Épernay?’

  ‘Yes, many have set up their operations in Épernay, but there are problems with supply – getting glass bottles is hard enough that we are having to salvage and reuse, which we would normally never do.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Ah, well, the pressure in the glass is enormous so traditionally we would not take the chance in case the structure has been weakened, but these days no bottles get broken if we can help it. Our women have still been producing hundreds of thousands of bottles of champagne through the war.’

  Charlie gave a look of surprise.

  ‘Yes, never underestimate what women can achieve. I’m proud of us for keeping up that sort of production through these years.’

  ‘What about transport?’

  ‘That is always a problem. Champagne, though passionately desired in Paris, London, Moscow, New York and beyond, cannot be made a priority. We suffer dangerous routes with limited opportunity . . .’ Sophie shrugged. ‘The Nancy–Paris line that serves the Marne Valley is regularly bombed from the air, so we have to choose our moments. Exports are harder with a shortage of vessels to cross the Channel. The German soldiers pilfer at every chance; I might even claim that if we ever prevail, our champagne has played its part in keeping the enemy well soused and unable to shoot straight.’ She grinned. ‘But I’m assured we have enough in storage for ten thousand different battles of Marne. I will gladly keep them drunk if it keeps us safe. What did you do before the war, Charlie?’

  ‘I was a chemist,’ he replied.

  Her eyes widened with surprise. ‘But how wonderful! In what area of chemistry?’

  ‘I worked in a laboratory. Essential Services. I defied my boss, and the government . . . ran away to war because I was frightened.’ He was admitting this for the first time, but it felt like a burden being lifted to tell someone, even this beautiful stranger. What is it about French women, he wondered, that makes a normally private man open up his soul?

  ‘You were frightened so you ran away to war?’ She was understandably bewildered. ‘Men are very confusing creatures. My husband joined up the evening we were married and left soon after.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘It was both the happiest and saddest day of my life. How could he do that to me?’

  ‘Duty . . . patriotism . . . and, above all, because he loved you.’

  ‘So he left me?’

  Charlie could tell this was a question that had obviously been burning for a long time. It rode on tremendous pain . . . He could see it in her plaintive expression and those eyes that made him want to hug a tree. She was the colour of nature, this woman. Beautiful dark blonde hair, a glance he didn’t dare meet for too long for fear of being found out, but he knew they were a green of sorts . . . but an earthy green. ‘He left you, Madame Delancré, to save you.’ He watched her take a slow breath; he hadn’t meant to cut so deep but there it was: the open wound of longing and despair, of love lost and even rage that she’d been denied what was hers. ‘I would fight . . . I would give my life twice over if it was you at home to keep safe.’

  ‘Oh, Charlie,’ she groaned, furtively dabbing at her eyes, frightened perhaps of the driver seeing her tears.

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m ashamed of myself now for being so angry at him . . .’ She sniffed. ‘Years of pent-up fury that he chose war and it chose him as one of its early victims.’

  ‘It doesn’t choose; it doesn’t have intellect or the capacity to select. It destroys all in its path. And the most terrifying aspect is that we can stop it tomorrow; we could have stopped it the day after it began. We are the ones with intellect, and we choose not to stop it. Blame the generals, not the courageous men like Jerome.’

  She kissed her fingers and laid them on his hand in thanks: for wisdom, for enlightenment, for tenderness at the right moment, he couldn’t say, but the gesture sparked a rolling charge through him as if a hundred-gun salute were being unleashed. ‘Tell me what you were frightened of, Charlie?’ she said, smiling through her drying tears as she composed herself.

  ‘It was 1915 and we’d begun hearing about the Germans using poison gas to attack on a large scale. It was singularly the most horrific moment of my life when I realised that our government had instructed our laboratory to help with the design and manufacture of something more painful, more lethal, in retaliation. In a matter of hours, I’d gone from being an eager lead research chemist working on a new chlorine process to potentially a mass murderer.’

  This time she took his hand. ‘Jerome was lost during that first gas attack at Ypres. You could have saved yourself by staying in that privileged position, but I think you’re a hero for refusing to be part of that.’

  He didn’t know what to say, but he did wish for her never to let go of his hand. Sadly, she did, clearing her throat, brightening her tone and gesturing to the landscape around them. ‘Well, as you can see, we have now left enemy territory and —’ she gave a soft sigh — ‘we are entering beautiful Épernay.’

  He followed her gaze towards gently rolling hills and the fields beneath them quilted in various shades of green, some bright, some darker, one patch almost luminous beneath the summer sun. There was no smoke, and although he could smell the cordite lingering in the air, the landscape was a patchwork of untidy rows of vines in full leaf. The sense of unruliness gave him a flutter of pleasure. He held her gaze momentarily with a smile, before sliding it away as the driver began urging the horse to slow. It didn’t need a lot of encouragement, placidly bringing its trot to a walk as they rounded several corners and moved slightly uphill. Charlie could see a row
of splendidly tall mansions dotted about on some high ground. Below them was a stream, and around them the village life of women, children and elder men moved at an unhurried pace. Across the water he could see houses and enclaves that no doubt adjoined other villages.

  To Charlie it felt like he’d entered a picture-book world, far from the madness. There was an overwhelming moment when he felt he might cry, but no, he wrestled that urge back down. What would his men think to see him blubbing? Cool-headed, ruthless Captain Nash weeping? None would believe it . . . but then none was likely left alive to think it, he realised.

  They continued in silence, swooping around a village, and he felt a slight incline as the horse brought them onto a wider boulevard flanked by many grand houses. ‘This is la rue du Commerce. Many of the well-known champagne families have, over centuries, built their private homes here.’

  Charlie gave a slow whistle.

  She smiled, appreciating his awe. ‘You can see for yourself they are not uniform, the idea being that each building is somehow a reflection of that family’s brand and its product.’ She chuckled. ‘Many say it is perhaps the most expensive street in the world.’ He frowned, thinking about many streets in London and those he’d heard of in New York. ‘Not because of the houses themselves, Charlie,’ she said, guessing where his thoughts had roamed. ‘But because of what you cannot see lying beneath these homes, which began construction more than two centuries ago.’

  ‘Crayères . . . I’ve heard about them.’

  ‘Exactly. Endless tunnels of magnificent champagne are stored beneath us. This street was actually once called le Faubourg de la Folie . . . er, how you say, the Mad Place, or the Crazy Place.’

  He grinned.

  ‘By the end of the eighteenth century, this avenue was the address of choice for all the pioneering producers, but the region itself has become a place of beautiful chateaux not just for champenois; indeed, some very wealthy members of the clergy have always appreciated the fine drop of our region and set up vast country homes. Moët et Chandon – perhaps you know this champagne?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Napoleon and his empress, Josephine, were among many important guests who visited the Hôtel Moët & Chandon at Épernay. I could go on, but I fear you’ll get tired of my voice and my passion for my birthplace.’ She grinned, continuing: ‘Ever since the arrival of the railway, of course, and the increased export of champagne all over the world, I think our architectural taste on the avenue has been leaning towards the grandiose, if not monumental, but I’m glad to say not here.’ She sat forward and Charlie felt the wagon slow to a stop. ‘Welcome to my home, Charlie. This is House Delancré.’

  Charlie looked through spiked iron railings to a tall, typically French-looking country manor of greyish stone. A steeply pitched, hipped roof of charcoal slate, which looked like a tall hat, sloped directly to the walls of the two-storey building. Within the hat sat dormers with gabled windows. The second storey was as distinctively tall as the first, giving the manor its height but also its aristocratic symmetry. And yet this fairytale castle that Sophie called home was modest in comparison to the palatial dwellings they had passed by, and it struck him that if he’d had to choose one of the many structures for her, it would have been this one. If these houses were supposed to reflect their owners and their champagnes, then he believed the understated sophistication of this building was a mirror of the Sophie Delancré he was beginning to understand.

  Charlie soon found himself sharing a light-filled bedroom on the second floor of the mansion house. The three other recovering soldiers in the dormitory were all French and none spoke English. Sophie had explained his situation and how he came to be here in their midst.

  ‘Commandant de Saint Just was standing there as they fished him out of the canal,’ she said. ‘Now, he speaks very good French but don’t tax him with your questions, Philippe. I know how inquisitive you are.’ She grinned at a young man with a bandage slanting across his head and his arm in a sling. ‘Just let Charlie be quiet for a while.’ She let her gaze return to Charlie and rest there. ‘Be well, Charlie. Our doctor will want to inspect your arm.’

  He felt her departure like a loss and it was nearly a week before he saw her again.

  15

  ÉPERNAY

  June 1918

  Sophie hungrily scanned the Gazette des Ardennes. She couldn’t help but rush over the pages, hoping for Jerome’s name to leap out from the list of prisoners the Germans habitually published. It wasn’t a generous act, she’d discovered. The enemy took pleasure in letting their opponents know just how many of their civilians and soldiers they now held in captivity and put to work for their war effort. Sophie suspected that Jerome, if he had been captured, would not be worked to death like a regular soldier, and she hoped his status as a lieutenant gave him protection from that exploitation. As her gaze roamed the lines of names, she knew she didn’t have enough room in her heart in that moment to think about all those who weren’t officers and didn’t have that veneer of protection. Only one name mattered but she couldn’t find it; she likely never would but still she had convinced herself not to give up this habit.

  The first pass was cursory, so maybe she’d missed his name – that’s how she comforted herself as she moved on to a more studied examination of each line. This time slower, focused. It took close to an hour, sitting upstairs in her mother’s chair; the same light that was nourishing his vineyards was trying to shine its brightness onto his name as Sophie sat near the window and turned the pages of the newspaper. A familiar disappointment snagged in her thoughts and she uncharacteristically flung the gazette down to hold her head in her hands until the despair passed . . . it always did.

  She had contacted Jean at the Red Cross twice already since their meeting, hearing the impatience growing in his tone, not caring at being the cause of his vexation. She understood. There were probably tens of thousands unaccounted for; every family wanted to know whatever the Red Cross knew. Pointedly assured, most recently by Jean’s assistant, that according to their records, and the military’s advice, Jerome Méa had not been rescued, taken prisoner or registered as dead, Sophie took pleasure in saying: ‘Still missing, then?’

  ‘Presumed dead, Madame Delancré,’ the woman murmured, having the grace to sound abashed.

  ‘Please keep me informed,’ she had said into the telephone, even though it was a redundant request.

  Sophie let out a sighing breath and forced herself to stand, shake out her tense shoulders, and move on to another task. She knew the time was fast approaching to let Jerome go, let him live on in her memory . . . through his vines and the champagne with which she would honour him. Mentally, she shrugged, reminding herself it was no one’s life but hers, and until there was a reason to let go, she wouldn’t. She looked over at the parcel that had arrived from Paris this morning. She knew what it contained, having organised for its purchase and delivery on the day she’d left Reims with Charlie. She’d delayed seeking him out; he was surely wondering why, given it had been her idea to bring him to Épernay. Even so, she had plenty of soldiers recuperating here and there was no need for her to feel driven to seek out one in particular. He wasn’t special.

  Well done. Keep lying to yourself, Sophie, a small voice cautioned her. That will protect you. She stood, making a sound of disgust, and was glad to hear someone urgently calling for her.

  A week of quiet days had passed and during this time he attempted to answer the frequent questions of curious Philippe. The others were older; they understood more keenly and observed Sophie’s warning. They nodded greetings, shared the wine that was sent up and made the odd remark about the food, and he noted they paid attention to his conversations with Philippe. All the other soldiers recovering in the house, he’d gathered, wore a French uniform. Charlie presumed they were as intrigued as Philippe but chose not to show it. There really was so little to know but he was different – he was English, that was the distinction.

  Sudden
ly hearing Sophie’s voice in the garden drew him to the window to see people gathered in the sprawling back garden. They looked excited; there was weeping, hugs, and Sophie was in the midst of them, but it was as though she sensed him watching and she happened to look up. Her broadening smile warmed him and he actually lifted his hand in greeting. He barely knew her yet he’d missed her presence keenly these last few days, especially as she’d broken him out of the underground hospital and given him the impression that they were co-conspirators.

  He could hear intermittent clapping and cheering throughout the house and now he joined his roommates on the landing to peer over the stairwell in the hope of learning what the excitement might be. Sophie arrived moments later, her expression so impossibly bright it could only be news of the best sort.

  ‘Gentlemen – we’ve just learned the city of Reims is saved!’ she said, arriving on their floor. It was a message she was delivering to all the rooms of her makeshift hospital. Charlie wished he could clap like the others; instead he banged his fist on the banister in time to their applause. ‘The line is stabilised,’ she continued. ‘Commandant de Saint Just sent me word that the Americans have held the line around Château-Thierry and counterattacked at Belleau Wood. It was the bloodiest of battles, I gather, but they’re not just holding; together with our allies we are pushing the enemy back.’

  More cheers. Charlie joined in. His companions began moving downstairs to join their comrades in celebration and he followed; it meant he could greet Sophie Delancré as well as join in the happy atmosphere.

  ‘There’s a glass for each of you being served in the gardens. Get some fresh air and enjoy this news,’ she said, laughing, before turning towards him. ‘Hello, Captain Nash?’

  ‘Charlie, remember?’ he insisted. He looked at her expectantly.