Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  The French doors open suddenly and Nick steps in, shaking his wet hair, his glasses splattered with raindrops.

  ‘Woah! It’s a biggie,’ he says. He’s holding a paintpot in each hand.

  I pull the door to firmly behind him, hoping to shut out the storm. But as I do the next flash of lightning is bigger than the last and I jump again and count elephants in my head.

  ‘And I found a load of paint out in the wood store. Thought maybe we could give some of the walls a quick lick, just to freshen things up before Madame Beaumont comes home,’ Nick beams.

  Another flash and bang follow quickly on the heels of the last, making my nerves jangle, and I start the count over again.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Nick asks, still standing next to me holding the paint.

  ‘Yes, fine, um, just worried about the last parcelle of grapes, that’s all.’

  ‘What, worried the rain will damage them?’

  I nod.

  ‘Oh, don’t let me give you anything else to think about then,’ says Nick, stepping down into the room to put the paint on the table. ‘Just me with silly makeover ideas again.’

  ‘It’s a lovely idea, Nick.’ I follow him into the room, stripping off my coat, and suddenly I feel quite choked by his efforts. By the efforts of everyone. ‘In fact, I could do with something to take my mind off things.’ Not just the storm, but the fermenting wine in the chai, I think, but don’t say. ‘I can’t do anything until this rain stops . . . except worry.’

  ‘Well, in that case, if we all pitch in we could get it done over the weekend before we have to go back to the office on Monday morning.’

  ‘Really? You’d give up your weekend to do this?’

  Nick nods and smiles.

  I suddenly get a pang of sadness. Our time here together at Clos Beaumont will all too soon be at an end.

  ‘And I thought I could put some soups in the freezer,’ says Gloria, ‘and finish these books. It’s been fascinating looking back over them. They’re like a history lesson. Do you know, there’s a whole year, just at the end of the Second World War, when there was absolutely no vintage at all? Nothing. I wonder what happened to stop the harvest here then. Look,’ she points to the book and the worn, brown page dated 1945. ‘There’s just a line through it.’

  There’s another flash and I suddenly remember to count elephants in my head, but lose count and can’t remember if I did five or did it twice or went straight to six.

  Nick goes out and comes back in with paint, brushes and old sheets, and starts handing them round.

  ‘Come on, Candy, bring your phone and you can add the finished pictures to your blog. Or have you got some poor unsuspecting punters to come for a day’s painting party?’ and we all laugh.

  There’s another flash of lightning, only now it doesn’t feel nearly as frightening as the last storm here. As I pick up my paintbrush and take a tin of paint from Nick, I actually forget to count elephants at all as the thunderstorm rumbles off into the distance.

  It’s Monday morning and the gang are back at Featherstone’s. I’m here on my own. The rain has finally stopped and I walk through the vineyard to the graveyard to leave fresh flowers from the hedgerows at Clos Beaumont on the grave Madame Beaumont tends.

  On my way back I still talk to the vines, even though, apart from in the last parcelle, the grapes are all gone. It’ll be time for pruning next, but by that point I’ll be back in Cadwallader’s office, looking out at the space of green between the two tall buildings. My mind flits back to the fermenting wine in the chai. It has been in the forefront of my mind all weekend. The temperature has been gently rising, in spite of all my efforts. I’ve been checking it three times a day, sometimes more, and at night too, tiptoeing across the yard in the pitch-black with just the hoot of the owl and the swooping of bats for company. But there’s been no drop. It just keeps going up. This morning I’ve left all the barn doors open in the hope that the ferment will cool down and start behaving itself again. I’ve also been mashing down the cap regularly, with the long pole that looks like a giant potato masher. I was hoping this would cool it, but it hasn’t.

  The first time, standing on the edge of the tank pushing down the skins, was terrifying, but the more I do it, the more I’m getting used to it.

  As I walk, thinking about the juice, my phone rings. I pull it out, expecting it to be Dad. But it’s Madame Beaumont.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame Beaumont,’ I say in delight.

  ‘Bonjour, Emmy,’ Madame Beaumont replies.

  ‘Comment allez-vous?’ I ask, smiling. She looks so much better.

  Madame Beaumont rolls her head from side to side in a ‘comme ci, comme ça’ way.

  ‘They have moved me to a rehabilitation unit, to convalesce, they say. I want to come home but they think I am weak and need help to get back on my feet. But I will be home soon. But tell me, how’s the juice?’

  I take a deep breath. My flurry of happiness slips away and worry pushes its way back into my head.

  ‘Actually, it’s a little warm.’

  ‘You could try pumping it over, get some air through it, if it’s still warm,’ she suggests. ‘But if it’s cooling off, leave it be. You’ll be able to judge it.’

  I wish I had her confidence.

  I start to tell her about the harvest, the degustation and my family’s visit.

  ‘So you just have the last parcelle to pick?’ she asks.

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘When you come to the final parcelle . . .’ she has dropped her voice.

  ‘Yes?’ I frown a little, anticipating special instructions. Suddenly there seems to be an altercation at Madame Beaumont’s end, possibly with a member of the nursing staff.

  ‘Madame Beaumont? Allo?’ I call at the screen. ‘What is it? Madame Beaumont?’ But the screen goes black. Not again! I think as I try to ring her back but get no reply. I sigh and shove the phone back into my pocket.

  Back at the chai I start getting out the pump and pipes. I have no idea how to pump the wine over. Perhaps I could check on YouTube. There’s no way I can ask Isaac because I can’t tell him what I’ve done …

  ‘Hey!’ Isaac is standing in the doorway to the chai and he makes me jump. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,’ he grins.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’m just . . . tired.’ But my cheeks are burning with guilt. Should I tell him the temperature’s rising? Or should I leave it, pump it over and hope that it settles down? I get a whiff of his aftershave, woody and lemony, taking me right back to that night of the mites. My insides lurch. It seems to happen every time I see him, reminding me of his touch. It stirs something in me. I have to get him to go. I can’t let him know what I’ve done to the wine. I have to hope I can put it right on my own.

  ‘How’s the wine? Behaving itself?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say quickly but it comes out really high pitched and doesn’t sound like my voice at all. ‘Fine,’ I lie again and hate myself for doing it.

  ‘Thought I might pump it over,’ I say as coolly as I can, turning on the hose and starting to hose down the floor, by way of keeping him at the door.

  ‘Pumping it over? You shouldn’t need to at this stage. Are you checking the temperature?’ he calls over the sound of the hosepipe.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I say, turning away from him, hoping not to give anything away.

  ‘Do you want me to check it—’

  ‘No,’ I cut across him, far more abruptly than I mean to, turning the hose in the direction of the door again. Then I stop, the water pouring away between us.

  ‘Don’t you trust me? I’m not lying,’ my mouth suddenly charges off without taking my brain with it. ‘I mean, check it if you want,’ I wave a hand at the tanks at the far end of the chai, beyond the lake I’m creating, ‘if you don’t believe me.’ I hate myse
lf for calling his bluff, but if I can get this juice to calm down on my own he’ll never know I went with the wild yeasts, and I will have done the best I can.

  ‘No, no, I believe you.’ He takes a step back. ‘Sorry.’ He holds up his hands. ‘It’s just I told Charlie I’d be overseeing this. He’s the boss.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m sure you’ll get your money when the wine’s made,’ I say, really not meaning to be so short, but wishing he’d just go. I don’t want to let him down – he’s put his trust in me, leaving this wine to me – but if he does find out, he’ll never speak to me again. That thought suddenly makes me feel really wretched. But I just want this wine to have the best possible chance of winning. It’s a risk worth taking, I think, suddenly shocking myself. My mind flits back to that first day at the gîte, when I couldn’t even choose which bedroom to have. I can hear Madame Beaumont’s voice in my head telling me to trust my instincts, and I have, and I know Isaac will agree with what I’ve done when he tastes it, I think, suddenly feeling quietly confident.

  ‘I just don’t want you to think I’ve abandoned you, what with all the wine we’ve had into the winery.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say, feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself, not able to look him in the eye.

  ‘I need to get back anyway. Just thought you might like the company now the others have gone.’ I can feel him looking at me. ‘But I can see I got it wrong. I’ll come back tomorrow to taste the juice.’ And with that, he turns and marches back to the van, getting into it with a slam of the door. Only when he’s driving towards the gates do I look up at the back end of the van.

  What am I doing? I need him to sort this out. ‘No, wait!’ I call, and I run into the yard, but the van pulls out on to the road with a spin of wheels on dirt.

  ‘Isaac!’ I call, and run down the track. But he’s gone. The little tail-lights are disappearing at speed.

  ‘Bugger!’ Now I really am on my own and I really do have to get this right. I’m going to have to pump it over. I head back to the chai and start to climb the ladder with the big, heavy pipe over my shoulder.

  ‘Bon nuit,’ I say quietly to the vats as they burble and bubble away that night, and I turn off the brown light switch with a thunk. I ache and am wet through from the pumping over. Every now and again the pipe attempted to flip out of the vat, spraying me with juice, but I managed to catch it in time and get it back in, with just a soaking for me.

  It’s colder tonight. I shiver, deciding to shut the big doors. The last thing I want now that the wine is nearly ready for barrelling, is for anything getting into the chai, like the wild boar that roam these parts.

  Only a few more days to go and it’ll be in the barrels, safe and sound. Isaac is coming up tomorrow to taste it and I need it to be behaving itself by then. I’m nearly home and dry. And I find myself drawing in a deep breath as I pull the doors shut and lock them. I look out at the clear moon throwing light right across the vineyard. It’s definitely chillier tonight, which I hope means the wine will cool down, and a good dry day tomorrow will allow us to start the final parcelle. Exhausted but happy, I pull my hoodie around me and head for bed.

  The mist is twisting and weaving its way through the vines when I push back the shutters the next morning. The orange sun is creeping its way over the horizon and I feel a little jump of joy. I can harvest the final parcelle.

  I dress quickly, pulling on my hoodie, which still has a faint trace of Isaac’s aftershave. I catch myself smiling as I breathe it in. I just hope he’s happy with the juice today. I’d hate for us to part on bad terms now. He was such a help when Madame Beaumont had her fall. But once this wine is barrelled and blended, he’ll be on his way to his next job and I’ll be back in the call centre. We’ll probably never see each other again. Suddenly I have a strange feeling pulling at my stomach, twisting, like the feeling I had when I first arrived here. A feeling of homesickness only stronger, a yearning, only it’s not home in the UK I’m thinking about. I take a deep breath and run downstairs. Isaac will be here soon and I want him to see how well the wine is doing.

  I can smell it as soon as I reach the chai doors. It’s way stronger than before. That must be a good sign. It smells like a summer pudding, all different red fruits, blackberries mostly. I yank back the door and the smell hits me right in the nostrils and eyes at the same time as juice hits my boots, gushing and pouring over and around them.

  ‘Shit!’

  The deep red juice, with its white foaming top, is cascading over the side of the tank like Niagara Falls, hitting the bottom and sending up waves of spray before spreading out across the uneven floor like the tide rolling in, fizzing with galloping and leaping white horses, filling rock pools and inlets in its unstoppable surge.

  ‘Oh no, no, noooooooo,’ I wail, and run to where the juice is cascading. I have no idea what to do!

  I try to put the ladder against the tank but it’s knocked this way and that as the juice tumbles out. My heart is racing, my breathing shallow and quick. I have to stop it. I shove the thermometer into my hoodie, push the ladder against the tidal wave, push my weight against it and begin to climb. It bounces away from the wall every now and again, but I manage to get myself to the top and lay against it, dangling the thermometer over the edge. It’s the longest few seconds of my life for it to tell me what I already know. The temperature’s way too high! It’s completely out of control.

  Quickly, I climb back down the ladder – well, half climb, half jump – and the ladder comes with me, hitting me hard on the shoulders and head.

  ‘Ouch!’ I bat it away and it falls into the sea of red around me. I run to open the doors at the far end of the chai, hoping the wind that has picked up will help cool the juice. It will certainly have dried off the final grapes ready for picking, I groan to myself. It’s perfect picking weather.

  Ridiculously, I try to sweep out the juice into the yard, hoping it will slow down soon with the cooling air.

  Why didn’t I listen to Isaac? What made me think I knew best, an angry voice keeps shouting in my head.

  I find a cardboard box – an empty wine box – and rip it up, then in desperation I try using it to fan the juice that’s still bubbling over the edge.

  It’s no good. It’s not working. I give up, exhausted. I have let everyone down. There’s only one thing I can do. My hands are shaking, my throat tight and my eyes prickling as I dial the number.

  The phone rings at the other end and the huge tennis ball in my throat moves into my mouth. My top lip is damp and there is a rushing noise in my ears that could be the runaway juice or plain fear.

  ‘Hello?’ answers a lazy voice, like he’s just woken up, like on that first morning here. I desperately want reassurance but I know I have to enter the dragon’s den.

  ‘Isaac.’ I swallow like I have a mouthful of sand.

  ‘Emmy?’

  ‘I think you’d better come . . . quick.’

  ‘What the . . . ?’

  Even though I’m expecting Isaac he makes me jump right out of my skin when he arrives.

  ‘It . . . the temperature went up,’ I say, my back to him, hosing down the floor, adding water to juice. My sleeves are soaking and there are droplets of juice and water dripping from my fringe and earlobes.

  ‘How?’ He marches towards the tank, pushes the ladder against it and climbs it, ignoring the juice still rolling down the side and over him too now. He shoves the thermometer in and confirms that indeed, the temperature has risen.

  ‘But you were checking it, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, three times a day, sometimes more.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘I thought it would go down, what with it being a cooler night.’

  ‘You thought it would go down?’ He laughs incredulously and it stings, like salt in a wound. ‘It isn’t a dolls’ hospi
tal; we’re not playing here. This is science!’ He quickly climbs down the ladder, tasting the juice off his finger. Then he looks around and grabs the old glass jug cafetière from the side, puts it in the flow of juice to fill it and then sips from it.

  ‘This shouldn’t have happened with the yeast mix I gave you. I’ve used it before. It should control even the trickiest of grapes. But this?’ He sips again and I think my heart might actually burst out of my chest I’m so nervous. Then he looks at me, raising his dark eyebrows, and his eyes meet mine. He sips again, slowly.

  ‘You did add the yeast, didn’t you, Emmy?’

  There’s a long, painful silence, like I’m watching a silent movie: there’s drama all around but no one’s speaking. My stomach is swirling like a washing machine on spin cycle; the noise in my ears has turned to white noise.

  I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. I’m paralysed in his gaze, those big, brown eyes rendering me speechless.

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ I stutter, not able to pull away from his gaze. ‘I . . . I . . .’

  ‘You didn’t, did you?’ He sips at the juice again, shaking his head. ‘You didn’t add the goddam yeast!’ he suddenly shouts. His face darkens even more. ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘I, erm . . . I forgot about it. What with the excitement of my family being here and everything . . .’

  ‘What did you do with it?’ he repeats.

  I swallow. ‘I tipped it away.’ I feel so stupid. I just want the floor to open up and swallow me. He tosses the jug of juice aside and then, his nostrils flaring widely, he glares at me once more and then storms out. I hear the car door open and slam shut and the wheels spinning as he tears out of the yard and down the lane.

  As the car disappears from earshot, all I’m left with is the sound of running juice. Every glassful that tumbles over the edge is a glassful of Madame Beaumont’s income from next year. How could I have been so stupid to risk that? And on top of that, I’ve lost Isaac’s respect. Not that I realised I wanted it . . . until now. But all I can think about now is the anger in his eyes, and my own eyes well up with hot, angry, salty tears that begin to spill over. I brush them away with my sleeve. I have to do something.