by Jo Thomas
Henri is still facing away from the gate, his back to his feed bucket. I go over and pat him on his hind quarters. He jumps, making me jump in turn.
‘We’ll be OK, Henri, she’ll be home soon,’ I try to reassure him, but he’s not listening. ‘Ne t’inquiete pas,’ I tell him, realising he probably doesn’t even understand English, and I make a vow to speak more French.
Inside, I light the fire and get it roaring, and this makes me feel a little better. I make a note to get the firewood cut and stacked before Madame Beaumont comes home. I drag up a chair in front of the fire and roll up my hoodie, by way of a cushion. It’s dark now. I look at the closed door leading to the rest of the house. I have no idea what’s behind it. I stand up and go to it, slowly turning the handle. It creaks open and, as it does, cobwebs stretch and fall. It’s way too dark to see in. I shut the door again quickly.
Maybe I should just go straight to bed. I lie down on Madame Beaumont’s thin, hard bed. Despite its hardness, the mattress is moulded to the shape of her small frame and I just don’t feel right here. If I turn too suddenly I may just fall out. I’m wondering if the floor would be more comfortable.
I shut my eyes but, despite my fatigue, sleep isn’t going to find me any time soon tonight. I open my eyes again, sigh, get up and go to find a bottle of wine, which I do in the cupboards under the kitchen sink. I open it. Smell the cork like Madame Beaumont has shown me to do and then pour some into a short stubby tumbler. I sniff it and then I hold it up to the poor light and look at it. Even though I’m here on my own, these traditions seem important to uphold. And then I sip. It’s good, really good. But Isaac’s right: there’s a taste to this that’s different from the other clarets he’s got us trying. I try letting the wine sit on my tongue before slowly swallowing. What is it? What does it remind me of? As I do this I walk round the big room. There is a breeze blowing under the French doors and the plastic bag is rustling in the window frame, making me think there’s someone there.
I look at the bare Formica cupboards, the meagre store cupboard. There are plates on the wall and a small wooden box of keys. There are piles of newspapers by the fire and ceramic bowls on the side full of clutter. For a woman so proud, she has a lot of clutter to sort out. Madame Beaumont doesn’t seem to have thrown anything away, ever.
I sit back down on the bed and turn on the little lamp. It crackles and fizzes as well. I wish I’d brought my Featherstone’s script to learn. That always seems to send me to sleep. This is going to be a long night. Now I know how my father feels, up most of the night, napping in his chair by day. I look at the bedside table.
There are some photographs by the bed and I feel like I’m invading Madame Beaumont’s privacy but I can’t help but look at them. They’re black and white and I’m assuming they’re of her parents.
I pick up a tiny silver frame off the crowded table. It’s a picture of a man in a uniform. As I pick it up, something falls to the floor. I bend to pick it up. It’s silver, oval shaped, with five oak leaves round the outside like a wreath, a pair of acorns at the base and, inside it, an eagle with folded wings. I take a sharp intake of breath, realising it must be her father’s, and I put the picture and the badge back on the little table where they were, feeling like I’ve burned my fingers. I adjust the frame so it’s back just where she left it, hoping Madame doesn’t realise I’ve touched it at all.
I pick up another chair and take it in front of the fire. I take the threadbare quilted eiderdown off Madame Beaumont’s bed and, pushing another chair in place for under my feet, climb into my makeshift bed and pull the eiderdown up round me. I sip the wine. Tomorrow I definitely need to find somewhere else to sleep.
I leave the light on by the bed just for comfort. I think about Madame Beaumont, safe in her hospital bed. I think about my dad, and then about my sister, whom I haven’t seen in so long but who is there now with Dad, and I feel slightly comforted by that. And then, smiling, I think about Isaac. He completely came up trumps for me today. Then I think about Isaac and Candy, and I find myself sighing. It was inevitable. I can’t help suspecting that Candy had had her eye on him since day one. And what Candy wants, Candy usually gets. As her Dean said, she can sell sand to Eskimos!
The door rustles again and this time I’m just going to ignore it.
‘Psst, psst,’ the wind hisses through the plastic.
‘Psst, psst.’
It’s not the wind! My eyes ping open. My scream catches in my throat as I realise the door is wide open and there’s someone standing there.
‘I thought you’d like to know how she is,’ says Isaac, standing in the doorway, and my stomach does a little dip and rise, like a rollercoaster ride. I nod, lots, mouth still open, eiderdown pulled up round my chin. ‘And I came to sort out the door.’ He brandishes a hammer and a small piece of wood at me. ‘But I see you’ve done it.’
‘It’ll need mending better tomorrow,’ I say, my throat dry.
Isaac drops the hammer by his side. ‘Were you asleep? Did I startle you?’ He looks concerned.
‘No,’ I answer, shaking my head and smiling warmly. ‘Would you like a drink?’ I feel it’s the very least I can do to say thank you. I jump up and find him a glass.
I fill up my own glass too, and take the bottle over and join him by the fire. We sit in silence for a moment mulling over our thoughts in the low light of the flames.
‘I thought she was going to die,’ I finally whisper what I’ve been thinking all evening, my throat tight.
‘Me too,’ he shares back, his usual joking humour gone.
‘How was she when you left?’ I want to picture her.
‘Well, she’s not out of the woods. It may be pneumonia, from the time she was on the floor. She was pale, tired, but told me in no uncertain terms to do my shirt up and to tell you not to worry. She says to look after yourself and remember to believe in yourself. And to trust your instincts when it comes to people, too.’
A hot rash runs up my chest to the tips of my ears. I tuck my hair round them. If I didn’t know better I’d say Isaac was a little pink, too.
‘They’ve made her comfortable. They’re keeping a close eye on her. The nurse I was talking to said that, what with her age, she may have to go to a rehabilitation unit once they’ve mended the hip, like a convalescent home, until she’s really fit.’ My mind wanders to Isaac and the nurse he was talking to and I wonder if he’s worked his charms there too. ‘Oh, and I left her my iPod, in case she wants to listen to music,’ he shrugs.
‘You did what? But you’re always listening to music when you’re in the lab,’ I say. I’ve seen him, headphones in, holding up small sample bottles, tasting and writing notes. In fact, he has his headphones in most of time. ‘I have my phone,’ he says, waggling it at me. ‘Don’t need the iPod really,’ and I stare at him, still surprised by his kind act. Although I’m not sure Madame Beaumont will really appreciate the sacrifice.
‘I thought she might be bored,’ he adds with a look that says he has no idea why he left her it. And we both laugh.
‘She said, “Pah!”’ He does an imitation of Madame Beaumont. ‘I tuned it to a classical music radio station. But she said that if she wanted to listen to music she would go to church.’ We laugh again and it feels really good. He shrugs, sipping his wine. ‘I left it for her anyway.’ He laughs and sips again. ‘She says you have a good palate, you just have to believe it.’
I tut, embarrassed, and take a big gulp of wine.
‘She’s a wise woman.’ Isaac gazes into the fire.
‘Oh, really?’ I raise an eyebrow and he knows what I’m referring to. This time he really does have the good grace to look embarrassed.
‘Look, I’m sorry about that, I really am. I was just shooting my mouth off. By the looks of it you’ve been doing a good job up here, and at Featherstone’s. You work harder than any of
the others. You’re great with the customers and you’ve got a really . . . unique way of describing the wine. But you’re bang on. Not like Nick – he thinks he has to swallow a textbook – and Candy, who is great at learning the script but who doesn’t have the palate. And Gloria . . . Gloria is just loving being here.’
‘You should have seen her tonight, totally at home in the gîte kitchen, cooking and looking after us all. Like she was born here, a French maman,’ I tell him. We both manage a little laugh and then look into our wine glasses.
‘I mean it.’ He looks up at me. ‘I am sorry. You didn’t deserve what I said.’
I nod, accepting his apology but still not quite believing what he’s just been saying.
‘So you and Candy?’ I blurt out, wanting to shift the attention away from me.
‘Sorry?’
‘Oh, I mean, sorry, if it’s a secret . . . I mean, if it’s not . . . oh shit!’
He tosses his head forward, shakes it and, to my relief, laughs.
‘Candy? Candy is a lovely girl and will make someone very happy one day.’
‘Oh, sorry, I thought you and she . . .’
He shrugs and drinks his wine.
‘She’s fun. But I’m not looking for anything serious. Candy’s looking for a great big engagement ring and a big family wedding, and that’s not me. I don’t do commitment in that way.’ He looks straight at me. Something in his eyes tells me otherwise and I get the feeling my insides have shifted again. It must be the wine. I take another sip. Whatever it was, it felt weird . . . nice but weird.
‘You? How are things with Charlie?’
‘Great!’ I say without thinking, and then suddenly wish I hadn’t.
‘So there’s no one waiting for you back home then?’ He stands up and my heart starts racing faster as he leans towards me and then tops up my glass, before sitting back down and topping up his own, putting the bottle on the hearth by the fire.
I should refuse, but it might be the only thing that gets me to sleep tonight if my stomach doesn’t stop flipping over and over like a child’s on Christmas Eve. In an attempt to slow down my racing metabolism I go to the kitchen and pull out some cheese and pâté Gloria put in a basket for me as I was leaving, put them on a plate with some bread and place them between us in front of the fire.
‘Ah, great. I’m starving,’ Isaac says, cutting a corner of pâté, putting it on bread and taking a big satisfying mouthful. I can’t help but smile. ‘So?’ He’s not letting me off the hook.
‘There was someone. We were at school together.’ I laugh, the wine loosening my tongue. ‘That was a long time ago now. But we had life mapped out. I was going to college to become a nurse and he went to work at the call centre. He had it all planned. The car he’d buy, the house we’d buy, the holidays we’d go on. Then, well, my mum died and after that nothing went according to plan.’
‘Does it ever?’
‘I moved back home to take care of my sister and my dad. Dad stopped working and so Kevin got me a job in the call centre with him. But as time went on and others there were either getting engaged or married or having children, he got more and more frustrated. He wanted me to move out, get a flat with him. But I couldn’t leave Dad or Jody. And we couldn’t really have much of a romantic life with Dad sitting there watching reruns of Dad’s Army and my sister doing her GCSE homework at the dining table each night.’
‘So?’
‘So we split. He met another agent. They got engaged. I was asked to look after the collection and buy the cakes and cava. They married, bought the house, had kids. He got everything he wanted. He moved on to work at Danbrooks, a bigger call centre, and she followed.’
‘And you, what did you want?’
‘I just wanted . . . it sounds silly . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘I just wanted my sister to pass her GCSEs, for my dad to stop feeling so low. For us to start to move on. I just wanted to have a chance at a normal life – like everyone else.’
‘Be yourself, everyone else is already taken.’ Isaac gives me one of his lazy smiles, then pops a piece of bread into his mouth. ‘Oscar Wilde,’ he says, surprising me, and eats some more. This is a side to Isaac I haven’t seen before. For a moment we say nothing and watch the flames lick up the side of the wood burner.
‘Can’t you sell the house?’
I shake my head, having taken a big sip of wine.
‘Dad would never do that. All the time he’s there, Mum’s memory is still there with him. We’re still there as a family.’ I swallow hard and think of her mug in the kitchen, and her dressing gown on the bedroom door. ‘It would kill him.’ I pick at the cheese. ‘What about you?’
He lifts the glass to his lips and I see the worn signet ring on his right forefinger.
‘No wedding rings?’
He shakes his head.
‘I came close once, back in California.’ The wine is definitely having a truth-telling effect. ‘But when I got the chance to start training as a wine-maker, I had to go away, get the experience under my belt. After that, I just kept moving and discovered I prefer it that way,’ he smiles. ‘New town, no commitments, and I can move on. With Mum and Dad gone, there’s nothing holding me to one place any more.’
‘Don’t you want to have that again? I can’t imagine ever leaving my home. It’s who I am.’
‘It’s not where you’ve come from that makes you who you are, it’s where you’re going,’ he says.
‘What if you don’t know where you’re going?’ I say quietly, and look at him. He holds my gaze as if understanding exactly what I mean and we fall back into thoughtful silence and finish our wine.
‘Now,’ he goes to stand up, ‘you take the bed, I’ll take the chair.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not leaving you here on your own tonight,’ he says. ‘Call me old fashioned but my father would have had something to say about that.’
I can’t help but smile, too tired and a little too light headed to argue.
‘Tell you what, you have the bed. I’m happy here.’
‘You sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘Look, Emmy, I’m here to help, not to be your enemy. We’ll work on this together.’
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘Charlie wants this to work out. We have to try and get along.’
The very mention of Charlie and his plans sobers me straight away. We’re not becoming friends because we want to, but because Charlie wants us to work together. But I am never going to let him or Charlie persuade me into ripping up Madame Beaumont’s vines.
‘Yes, of course, we must try,’ and my happy, mellow bubble is burst. He’s right. I do need him.
‘Great. Let’s make a promise to try and get along.’
‘No more teasing?’ I raise an eyebrow.
‘I . . . will try and promise. No more teasing,’ he laughs. ‘No more schoolmarm?’ he says.
‘I am not a schoolmarm!’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘OK, no more schoolmarm.’
‘You’ll be more relaxed,’ he says, ‘unless it’s about the wine, of course. Then we need to play it by the book.’
‘And you’ll be less laid back, unless it’s about the wine, in which case . . . you need to let nature do her job.’
‘And no more not believing in yourself.’
‘No more insults, saying we can’t do it?’
‘Promise.’ He crosses his heart and puts out a hand to shake. ‘Honest, colleague.’
‘Honestly.’ Only I have my fingers crossed behind my back, because if I was honest right now, I would tell him I find him really quite attractive and that isn’t something he needs to know. I am never going to be another one of his conquests.
&nb
sp; He’s here because Charlie wants us to get along. He’s being paid to keep me happy, I keep reminding myself as I lie on my chairs, listening to the gentle snores coming from Madame Beaumont’s bed behind me, and hoping to God he’s kept his trousers on this time.
My neck is agony. I try to straighten it as I open my heavy eyes.
Isaac is up making coffee, or trying to.
‘There’s nothing here. Nothing at all. Is this all the coffee there is?’ He holds out a tin, showing me the scrapings at the bottom.
‘Probably.’ I grimace as a pain shoots right through my neck and shoulder. ‘Madame Beaumont lives very frugally.’
‘We’ll pick up some more later,’ he says bossily.
‘Later?’ I try to straighten my neck again and wince.
‘On our way back from the hospital. I’m presuming you want to see her, and I don’t think that bike is going to get you all the way to Bordeaux.’
‘No. Thank you,’ I say, rubbing my neck.
‘You need to organise your harvest. Lots of the other vignerons have started and the rest will start in earnest today. Check your grapes, see where you’re at. Organise pickers and decide when to start. I can check the sugar quality in them over at the lab at Featherstone’s.’ He’s firing on all cylinders this morning.
I nod, not really taking anything in.
‘Emmy? Are you listening?’
‘What?’
‘You have to bring in the harvest. Both our jobs depend on this. I’m not the only travelling wine man out there looking for his next gig. You’re only as good as your last vintage, so a complete no-show wouldn’t bode well for me.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I have to organise the harvest. I need pickers. Where do I find pickers?
Just then a small van pulls into the courtyard and a small man with a moustache and blue overalls stretched over his round belly gets out. He’s holding a piece of paper and walking towards the farmhouse.
‘Bonjour,’ he smiles and nods.
‘Bonjour,’ I reply.
He’s looking round like he’s been allowed into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, a place no one’s seen inside for years.
