The Champagne War

by Fiona McIntosh

  Summer was finished.

  And she’d gone to find Jerome.

  She’d sounded so convinced it was him that Charlie believed she was right.

  Sophie would return with her soldier husband.

  Even so, to leave at this moment would be cowardly. And he wasn’t about to be accused of cowardice as the war ended. No, he would see her one last time – see that radiance and give her a brave smile back.

  If that was Jerome in the photograph, why had he kept his silence and anonymity? Charlie believed there would be many men who might never want to face ‘normality’ again, might not even know how to be ‘normal’ after all that they’d seen and experienced of the dark side of humanity. Perhaps it was hard to trust again. Perhaps it was hard to hear laughter or singing again. It might feel impossible to dance or simply to allow oneself to be happy. It could feel like a betrayal of the men who hadn’t survived. He understood all of this because he’d fought his way back from that same place, but it was because of Sophie. Everyone needed something to come back for; that was perhaps the great adjuster.

  Sophie was grateful that Gaston had arranged to pick them up from the station in Reims. She let the two men talk around her in an excited reunion. They had plenty to discuss.

  Gaston explained that he’d kept up with the news from across the Swiss border but had never seen Jerome’s name published and so presumed he had never been captured, never interned. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m just amazed we both survived Ypres, to be honest.’

  Deserted trenches crisscrossed the chalky plains of the Champagne region. Sophie had become accustomed to it, but she could tell that the landscape was a shock to Jerome. It was pockmarked with craters and littered with the junk of war: barbed wire, shells, broken machinery, twisted metal. The battlefields of Marne looked no different, she was sure, to any of the others in Europe, but this was their homeland and it no doubt hurt her husband to see for himself just how bad it had become.

  ‘My beautiful Champagne looks like me,’ Jerome said absently, staring out the window. ‘Ruined.’

  ‘Be assured, Épernay is not as devastated.’ Sophie said.

  In a few days it would be her birthday. Surely this was best present any wife in France could dream of, but she suspected this year she would know only tears, although she would need to keep them private. If only he’d been able to make contact from the German prison, she would never have opened up her heart to another man.

  Guilt had begun to corrode her from within. Much as she demanded candour in their lives, she couldn’t tell Jerome the truth – such honesty was destined to destroy their fragile reunion. There was guilt at encouraging Charlie and then still more at not letting him leave when he’d found the courage. She had been weak. She had been selfish, wanting them to share a life together. Sophie knew the corrosion was hers alone to bear.

  ‘Do you remember all of this?’ Gaston asked, over his shoulder.

  Jerome shook his head in awe. From this side, he looked whole and she wondered about the demons that belonged to the other side of that face. She refocused on what Jerome was saying. ‘I held this like a picture in my mind that could never tarnish, never blur. Do you know, my love, not even when I was lost in my mind could I forget these fields,’ he said, twisting the cork he habitually carried. ‘They lured me back to reality. Prison wasn’t the reality I expected or wanted, but I was alive once again.’

  ‘Do you regret it?’ she couldn’t help asking.

  ‘Being alive, do you mean?’

  Sophie nodded, wondering if that was pushing him too far.

  ‘I did, often. Yes, of course. Daily at the beginning, frequently after the first year. More recently I simply accepted that returning to the life I’d enjoyed was impossible . . . it’s hard to explain why it felt so unattainable but I was an impostor by 1916, I’d lost who I was, who I’d been.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Seeing you again was like a drug that cleared away doubt and despair. The fact that you want me like this —’ he waved his hand at his wounds — ‘makes me the luckiest man in France.’ He looked past her, out of the window. ‘I can feel my soul reaching out to these fields. We can plant again. Everything responds to kindness, doesn’t it? These vineyards . . . and me – if we receive care and affection, we can come back to a new version of what we once were.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I owe you my life, Sophie. Thank you for believing in me . . . for finding me.’

  ‘She never gave up on you, Jerome,’ Gaston said, and Sophie had to look away.

  Étienne looked confident; their anticipation felt like another person dancing around them in the low light of the cellars. ‘Let’s drink a toast with ratafia to new beginnings with our new champagne.’ The lines of Étienne’s craggy face folded in on each other to form a wide grin. He held up his penknife and flicked it open, reaching for one of the bottles of the syrupy wine. ‘You are a clever chemist, Captain Charlie.’

  ‘I’m pleased to leave something of myself behind in Épernay,’ he replied, glad to say it aloud, to reassure himself that he was going – and he would not be back.

  Étienne handed him a small glass and prodded a stubby finger at Charlie’s chest. ‘You leave more than your cunning science, no? A bit of what sits beneath here, perhaps?’ he said, prodding gently again.

  All Charlie could do was stare at the man. Why did he think they’d kept it such a clever secret?

  ‘Don’t be ashamed.’

  ‘She rescued me.’

  ‘And you rescued her back. She hasn’t smiled like she’s smiling now in four years. And it’s not her husband who has brought that sunshine . . . it’s you.’

  ‘Does anyone else know?’

  The old man shook his head.

  ‘I have to go, Étienne.’

  ‘I know. And it is right that you do. If she has found him, they must rediscover all that they once had. We were very proud of this couple here in Épernay.’

  Charlie nodded.

  ‘To have them reunited is part of Épernay’s healing too. The earth has been hurt for four years. It doesn’t matter that we are far from the main battlefields. It’s all connected. I’m sure Épernay knows what’s been happening in Reims, across eastern France – even further afield into Belgium. It knows the landscape’s sorrows. This wine you’ve made it possible for her to make will be one of sorrow as much as celebration, especially important as we uncork it in peacetime after years of war, but maybe this vintage holds the memory of battle and grief. It will also hold you . . . and her memory of you.’

  ‘Thank you for being my friend,’ Charlie said, raising his glass.

  ‘To peace at last and to friendship. You will always find friends here, Captain.’

  ‘Why here?’ Jerome cut a look of dismay towards Sophie.

  ‘It’s important. You are a returning hero,’ Gaston insisted.

  ‘Sophie, I . . .’ he began in a voice rimmed with fear.

  ‘Listen to me!’ she insisted. ‘You’re never going to look different, so hiding will not change anything. You went to war, and everyone still standing knows they’re safe because of men like you.’ She tapped the window. ‘Most of theirs aren’t coming back. Your injuries are testimony to the punishment you took on behalf of your nation – on behalf of the people of this town. Stand proud: for them . . . for me . . . for us.’

  Gaston joined in. ‘Wear your injuries – don’t let them wear you. Honour the uniform. Honour yourself. France asks no more of you. Now walk through your town alongside your wife.’

  She had no doubt in her mind that Jerome would look as dashing to the townsfolk as he did to her. The eye patch hid his injury, and despite the scarring at the top of his lovely face, a proper haircut and an excellent shave had worked wonders. Neither of them was ready to rediscover the lively and passionate affections of their marriage but they’d shared a bath at their hotel, enjoying the feeling of familiar skin on skin. She’d shown him she was not scared by his wounds and that one arm wa
s enough to hold her. They’d had to replenish the warm water twice as they talked through the lost years, and then they’d slept in each other’s embrace, touching but not exploring. Not yet.

  Sophie thought Jerome’s limp was somehow fitting and she encouraged him now to walk proudly in spite of it. It didn’t take long for people to notice. It began as a nudge, then a murmur; people began to whistle and clap.

  ‘It’s for you,’ Jerome remarked modestly, looking as though he dared not believe what was happening.

  ‘They see me around here often enough. No, this is for you – a son of Épernay returned.’

  A ball of emotion began to rise in Sophie’s throat as more and more women, older men and a straggle of returned soldiers began to cluster by the roadside. Soon they had put down their baskets or moved a small child to a hip so they could wave and cheer.

  ‘You doubt us all too much. Come on, walk with me the length of this street to your home.’

  Since Jerome had last been here, the familiar street had become an avenue where the major champagne makers kept their front of house. Many from Reims had relocated to Épernay during the war. His eyes widened to see his hometown so greatly expanded.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, sounding awed.

  Word had spread as fast as fire. More and more people began to appear on the long street that would lead Jerome home. The applause changed to a cheer. They knew him.

  ‘They recognise me.’ Jerome sounded shocked and emotional. He looked at his wife and in that glance she saw the genuine stirrings of the man she had married. Not yet that spark in his eye, but definitely something was being ignited. ‘I love you, Sophie.’

  She nodded. ‘I know. I’ve always known.’

  32

  Below ground, where no cheering could be heard, Charlie held his breath for a second as Étienne picked up his glass. He’d selected formal champagne bowls for the old winemaker to taste the precious brew for the first time.

  ‘It’s still very rough, Étienne —’

  ‘Hush, Captain. I know. Let me concentrate.’

  ‘All right but talk to me. I want to understand what you’re tasting.’

  The older man nodded. ‘As I pour, I get my first mineral bouquet, which we all hope will be present. I’m relieved that the sweetened liquor of the ratafia has not chased that beautiful fragrance from Madame’s wine.’ He shrugged and sniffed the air above the glass. ‘It has added a new warm note that came with that tiny addition of the syrupy pinot.’

  Now Charlie held up his glass to observe it as the old man continued, ‘The bubbles remain small and lively.’ Charlie watched them launch into a twisting column to break the surface and swim gamely to the edge to form their ringlet. They were perfect – like a disciplined troupe of ballerinas, each knowing where it must be and at which moment. He knew now those ballerinas were yet to give their flourish, which would be felt on the drinker’s tongue in their finale, to give the champagne its excitement and applause.

  ‘To you, Captain Charlie, for your idea.’

  ‘To you, Étienne, for believing,’ Charlie replied, holding his glass out to touch it against Étienne’s.

  ‘Santé!’ they said together and tipped their glasses to take a first sip.

  ‘Madame, as always, has shown restraint, keeping that dosage to just three grams of sugar per litre.’

  ‘I thought she might double it,’ Charlie admitted.

  ‘That is always the temptation for other champenois. Not Madame Sophie. She has a helpless leaning towards using as little added sugar as possible. Together you have delivered a remarkable champagne, I believe.’

  ‘I was worried it might come out tasting like a champagne cocktail,’ Charlie began, but Étienne was already shaking his head at the notion.

  ‘No. It has its own special flavour but it is still firmly a champagne. Actually . . .’ The old man didn’t finish his thought. They both heard it at the same moment.

  It was distant but penetrating, racing its way down into the muted cellars. It was persistent too. Étienne sighed and put his half-finished glass of ‘The Immortal’ down onto a barrel.

  ‘Sophie?’ Charlie wondered aloud, knowing the answer.

  ‘I think so. Come with me, Captain Charlie. You need to be brave just one more time.’

  With a heavy tread, each step feeling like he was walking further from Sophie rather than towards her, Charlie followed Étienne and together they emerged from the cellars into the soft sunlight of a late autumn afternoon. Side by side they walked up the pathway that led around the side of the Delancré mansion to its impressive face, which looked out onto the main street of Épernay. Charlie fell back slightly but reluctantly followed Étienne to the pillars that supported the gates, which were flung open onto what resembled a parade.

  It was brisk after the temperate cellars. The cool wind blowing across the vineyards pricked at his cheeks like stinging nettles as he stood in shirtsleeves at the gates. He wasn’t straining to see like some of the others around him; he already knew who was approaching. He felt the clench of his belly.

  Let her go, Charlie, whispered the stinging nettle wind.

  He watched the only woman he could truthfully say he had ever loved approach, holding the arm of a returning French soldier. She moved so close to him that there wasn’t even a thread’s breadth to separate them. She’d lost him once and she was never going to let him go again – that’s what this image told him.

  Charlie could see the wounds, what the war had taken from this man of Épernay, but he stood taller than Charlie had expected. As they arrived and Étienne offered them a fond greeting with a wobbling chin and misty eyes, Charlie watched Jerome lower his chin to kiss the top of his wife’s bent head. He looked every inch the hero with his eye patch, one empty sleeve folded neatly and pinned up. Charlie was sure women were swooning when Jerome shifted his weight to the stronger leg so he could fully embrace his wife, feel the full length of her body against him . . . just like Charlie wanted to. As Charlie now never would.

  As others watched her husband, Charlie saw Sophie lift her gaze to look at him while Jerome was distracted by the cheering crowd. Her look was filled with apology. If I could be two people, it said, I would live two lives with two men I love.

  Charlie couldn’t watch any longer. He looked towards Gaston, who was watching him in return. Time to go, Captain, the French commandant’s expression said.

  And Charlie knew the sentiment was right. He wished he could let the commandant know just how close he and Sophie had come to belonging to each other, but there was nothing to be gained by it.

  ‘I’ll grab my things,’ he said, turning quickly away.

  ‘Captain Nash?’

  He pretended he hadn’t heard and kept moving towards the house.

  ‘Charlie?’ He couldn’t deny her. He paused and turned, knowing she would understand his misery. ‘Charlie,’ she repeated, her eyes tearing up, and everything she felt was in her expression. Sophie had broken free of the cluster of people who were personally congratulating the French lieutenant, shaking his good hand and kissing him on both cheeks.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said softly. ‘Nothing anyone says can make this any easier.’ He was pleased that Gaston had dropped back to stand with Jerome.

  She nodded, swallowing the tears, drying her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘I meant every word I said.’

  ‘But that’s all changed now.’

  Now she shook her head. ‘No, it hasn’t. But that’s my burden to carry, the villain in my life to make peace with. I love two men but you must forgive me for being a loyal wife. I never got the chance to be the best wife I can and I want that chance now.’

  He dredged up a smile for her because he understood her impossible position. ‘Sophie, I know you never stopped loving Jerome.’

  ‘I didn’t. I had to give myself permission to love you. I’m sorry that you suffer our happiness to be reunited.’

  Charlie smiled wider, not enjoying her b
ruised features. The French men were coming closer, with Gaston generously holding Jerome off for as long as he could while these important words were exchanged.

  ‘Don’t be. You’ve let me glimpse what it is to be happy. I’ve experienced it with you.’ He grinned.

  ‘You’ll find it again, Charlie.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, don’t do that. My heart isn’t that robust, Sophie. This loss needs time. Let me keep loving you. I can’t forget you that easily.’

  Before she could say more, he stepped forward and kissed both her cheeks. It looked polite but no one could see how he squeezed her hands or how she covered his and squeezed them back.

  ‘I love you, Charlie,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know.’ He smiled and turned his gaze to welcome Jerome.

  ‘And you are the Captain Nash I’ve heard about from my wife. Apparently you’ve been working hard in our cellars.’

  ‘I tried to stay useful, yes. Welcome home, Lieutenant.’

  ‘It’s cold. Shall we all go inside?’

  The crowd began to disperse. Jerome and Sophie waved their thanks for such a rousing welcome.

  ‘Sophie?’ It was Gaston. ‘Er, Captain Nash and I thought we’d get away shortly. He is eager to get to his unit, and as I’m here it’s best I help him get as far along that journey as possible.’

  ‘Today?’ She looked distraught.

  ‘Now, in fact. I’ve been away from my men for long enough getting this husband of yours back safe under his own roof,’ he said as though it was settled. ‘Are you packed, Charlie?’

  ‘Yes. I was going tomorrow anyway, Sophie, so this is a boon. I’ve got good company to travel with,’ he said, finding that smile again, knowing it was contrived now for the two men standing between them. But he had been making up smiles all his life – he knew how to fake it.

  ‘Darling,’ she said to her husband, ‘just before I left for Paris, do you know what we were doing?’

  Jerome’s smile was genuine. ‘I can’t guess, my love.’

  She told him about the new champagne.