by Jo Thomas
‘Bonjour! We heard Madame Beaumont was coming home,’ Gloria calls and waves.
‘Yes, they’re bringing her back tomorrow, and if she’s happy, she’ll stay.’ I grin, feeling almost light headed that I have got all the wine into the barrels, even if one naughty one does pop its cork every now and again. And we – or should I say I – have blended it and bottled two bottles ready for tonight’s tasting at the château.
‘We couldn’t let you do it all on your own.’ Gloria steps forward and kisses me on both cheeks, just like a French woman. Since taking over in the kitchen during the vendange, Gloria seems to have transformed in front of our eyes. It’s like she’s lived here all her life. ‘I thought we could help clean, get the house ready. I’ll check over the books one last time and I could make a few more meals to put in the freezer for her. I bought some chestnuts and mushrooms too.’ She lifts her heavy basket. ‘Albert sells them from his garden gate on the other side of the river and Sophie on the flower stall outside the church gave me these.’ She puts a bunch of roses in a jug. ‘Said they were in full bloom and past their best, but they smell wonderful.’ She puts her nose to them and I can’t help but smile. If anyone is in full bloom, it’s Gloria.
‘I want to make sure we’ve got her page on the Featherstone’s website and my blog pages looking their best too,’ Candy joins in.
‘And I’m going to finish the wood pile, but I picked up some new linen in the market, thought it’d look nice on the beds.’ Nick waggles a blue plastic bag at me.
‘Thank you so much, all of you. You are really good friends.’ Suddenly, for no reason whatsoever, huge tears start to fall, and the three of them rush over and hug me and I really will be so sorry when we leave here and go back to being agents at Cadwallader’s.
‘Right come on, the quicker we get going, the more time we’ve got to get ready for tonight’s big do at the château. Thought we could get changed here. Charlie says he’ll pick you up at six. I have got a dress that is going to knock Isaac for six,’ Candy instructs us.
I immediately look at Nick, who gives his head a little shake and looks to the floor. He hasn’t told her how he feels and I wish he would. But then, I realise with a rush of blood to my cheeks, who am I to talk? I’m hardly being honest with myself. Then Candy’s voice cuts across my thoughts.
‘There’s no way he’ll be able to turn me down tonight,’ she says with relish, and I blush some more. For a moment none of us says anything as Candy starts pulling out the huge bag from the back of the van.
‘What you mean . . . you’re not . . . ?’ The words are out of my mouth before I’ve engaged my brain.
‘Emmy!’ Gloria chastises me good-humouredly.
‘Sorry.’ I hold up my hands. It’s none of my business! But I can see Nick’s spirits lifting from the floor, and my stomach has flipped over despite my telling it to behave, as if it were a lively toddler at a family dinner.
‘Not yet. Honestly, at first I thought it was quite quaint but now, enough’s enough! Tonight’s the night,’ she beams, pushing out her large bosom as Nick’s spirits hit the floor again.
‘Right, everyone, let’s get cleaning,’ Gloria rallies us, pulling out her yellow Marigolds from her basket, and we all follow her into the house.
‘We should get that downstairs bedroom on the other side of the living room sorted for her,’ she instructs, ‘make up the bed. And then if she wants to move in there and out of this room she can.’ I look around the one room that has been her home for so many years. I wonder what she’ll think when she sees we’ve opened up the rest of the house, the facelift we’ve given it all. I get a pang of nerves. I hope she likes what we’ve done, I really do.
‘I’ll do that, and I thought more flowers, not just in here but in the bedroom too,’ says Nick, pointing at the kitchen table, which is now back in its rightful place after the harvest.
‘Oh, Nick, you’re so thoughtful, you’ll make some lucky man a very lovely husband one day. God, why can’t you be straight?’ Candy sighs and turns away to pull her computer from her bag.
I look at Nick, willing him to say something.
‘Actually—’ I say.
‘Actually, you’re right.’ Nick gives me a warning look. He’s worried that he’ll lose her as a friend if he says anything, I know, and I should respect that, because I understand how he feels. And I want to hug him and for someone to hug me too. ‘I hope to make someone a lovely husband one day,’ he says as he stares at the back of her head in longing as she puts the laptop on the table and opens it.
‘And I’ll tidy up in here, leave all the paperwork in order, and then I can cook at the same time,’ Gloria says, pulling out groceries from the basket.
‘I’ll finish in the chai, then start upstairs.’ I clap my hands together and leave them to it. It’s time I started packing too. I’ll probably move back into the gîte tomorrow until we leave. I’m sure Madame Beaumont won’t want me staying here once she’s home.
For the next couple of hours we work away to the sound of Nick, chopping wood with every bit of frustration in his body. By lunchtime, when he arrives back in the kitchen, he’s bright red, sleeves rolled up, hair dishevelled and sweating, an axe hanging by his side.
‘Oh, Nick,’ Candy’s eyes widen in surprise. ‘You look . . . ever so . . .’
‘Knackered?’ he finishes for her.
‘Like Bear Grylls,’ Candy corrects him, and I swear she gives a little shiver followed by a little laugh.
‘À table,’ Gloria calls us to the table she’s laid up inside. Despite it being a glorious day out there, it’s chilly, not eating-out weather. She’s carrying over bowls of steaming soup.
‘Soupe de poisson,’ she announces. ‘Hope you like it. And cassoulet to follow. That’s sausage and beans, Candy.’ Candy smiles and Gloria puts a basket of bread on the table.
She pulls up a chair and puts an open bottle of wine on the table.
‘I think we should have a toast,’ she says, and Nick joins us from having washed his hands and face and pours the wine into small tumblers.
‘To Clos Beaumont and all it’s given us.’ Gloria beams as if she wants to say more but doesn’t.
We all raise our glasses.
‘To Clos Beaumont, where we all learned to be ourselves.’ Candy holds up her glass and nods to me, and I quickly look at Nick.
‘To us,’ I say, and we all clink glasses and then tuck into our soup, followed by the wonderful cassoulet with thick sausages, lardons and fat, soft beans. I look at the dish and smile, remembering Mum, Dad and Jody and the stolen sausages that had been meant for our tea. Then, I touch the necklace round my neck that Mum gave me, the curly E and think how proud she would be to see me here today.
‘OK,’ Candy instructs, after we’ve eaten a gorgeous Camembert, ‘let’s clear up and then we can use the other room for changing. It’s exciting!’ She claps her hands and my stomach twists with nerves as I stand to clear up our plates. I realise I’m straining to see out of the window into the yard. There’s no sign of Isaac, and why should there be? His work here is done.
I’m so nervous, I need some fresh air. I decide to take a walk up to the churchyard to check on the grave while the others start getting ready for tonight, when the judges will taste the two bottles of wine I’ve blended. It won’t be the finished product but it’ll give them a good idea. If they like it, and it wins, it’ll cause a real buzz. Charlie will be delighted.
Charlie . . . I think as I walk. But my mind keeps flipping back to Isaac, his excited eyes as we blended the wine, and that kiss. Did it mean anything or was it just a moment of madness?
Back at the farmhouse, after my walk, Candy has turned the middle living room into a changing room, with her dress draped over one chair, a big make-up box, a selection of shoes, and heated rollers on the windowsill and in
her hair.
‘Now if you can just lower this mirror,’ she’s telling Nick. ‘If we push the clock along, I can rest it on the mantelpiece.’
He does and as he moves it, all of a sudden the clock strikes the hour. We all look at each other. And then it strikes the hour again.
‘Wow! That clock hasn’t worked since I’ve been staying here, and who knows how long before that?’ I tell him.
‘Looks like it just needed bringing back to life,’ Nick says, looking at it. ‘It’s beautiful. Could be worth a bit, too.’ He picks it up and Candy takes it off him.
‘I could look it up on eBay,’ she says, turning it upside down and looking underneath. ‘Just need a date or a make.’ As she turns it upside down, a yellowing folded piece of paper falls from the back of the clock and flutters down in front of the old black fireplace.
We all look at it, and both Nick and Candy nod to me to pick it up. It smells . . . musty, like a second-hand bookshop. I look at them then, take the paper to the window and carefully unfold it and start to read.
‘Chère Nancy, my dearest Nancy,’ it says in simple French. ‘I know you wind the clock every day and so that’s why I’m leaving this note here . . .’ My French is improved but not good enough yet. I hand the note to Gloria, who carries on translating, reading aloud slowly.
As you know this year’s vintage has gone from the chai. It has not been taken by my officers; rather, I have made sure they don’t get it. It is safe in the cellar. You can sell it. It will keep you and your family going until I can return and be with you once this awful war is over. Let the new tendresse vines we have grafted and planted be a reminder that I will get back to you, soon. Keep them well.
Stay safe, keep our little one safe too until I am back with you once more. I will love you for ever. Always tell our daughter that her daddy loves her too. Tell her to be proud of who she is.
Yours forever, Frederic x
When I look around there isn’t a dry eye. Each of us is sniffing, red eyed, tears rolling down our cheeks.
‘That’s why there’s no gravestone for him,’ I say hoarsely. ‘Those vines are his legacy.’
‘What?’ Candy blows her nose on the big spotted hankie Nick has handed her, and then hands it back to him. He pockets it without a second thought. ‘Who’s Frederic?’
‘Wait.’ I run into the kitchen and pick up the picture by Madame Beaumont’s bed, and the silver badge, and take them back to show the others.
‘I think it’s Madame Beaumont’s father.’ I pass round the picture. ‘He was a young German soldier. They were very much in love. But he returned to Germany and never came back.’
Gloria is still blowing her red nose on a small tissue and I nod.
‘The vines are really rare, practically wiped out from this area in the mid-eighteen hundreds. He must have replanted them from a surviving vine.’
‘In which case, if this note hasn’t been read before, and it doesn’t look as if it has . . .’ Nick says.
‘The wine must be in the cellar!’ Candy suddenly jumps up and down with excitement and we all run to the door leading down to the cellar, somewhere even I haven’t ventured before. We push it open. It’s dark, there are cobwebs hanging all around and there is a wooden staircase.
This could be the answer to all Madame Beaumont’s financial worries.
‘I can’t believe I actually thought it might be there.’ I rub my hair vigorously after a quick shower, feeling foolish, having got carried away with the romance of it all, as if I was in some episode of Scooby-Doo and everything was going to come right.
The cellar door is very firmly shut again. There was nothing there, nothing but empty crates, dustsheets and empty wine bottles.
‘And now I’ve got cobwebs in my rollers,’ Candy squeaks.
‘We have to hurry, we have to be at the château by six thirty,’ Gloria rallies us, and we all disappear to different corners of the house to dress.
I put on my other dress, bought from the market – a straight, simple yellow cotton halter neck – wrap a cream scarf around my shoulders and borrow some high heels from Candy. Then I pin up my hair in a French pleat with Candy’s help and dress it up with jewellery, and for the first time in weeks put on foundation, mascara, blusher and, finally, a lick of lip gloss.
When we’re dressed we join Gloria in the kitchen. She’s looking fabulous in smart wide-leg trousers and an elegant top. She looks a completely different woman from when she arrived, and not a fan in sight.
‘You look amazing. New clothes, and is that a new scarf, too?’ I ask, and she smiles.
‘Jeff bought it for me, in the market,’ and at first none of us says anything but we all smile.
‘I didn’t know you and Jeff had been to the market together.’ Candy can’t help herself.
‘We didn’t. But he did take me to the tea dance last Sunday.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, as we’re leaving next week, I thought, why not?’ Gloria throws the brightly coloured scarf around her neck with a flourish.
‘Quite right,’ I say, and hug her. ‘So are you and Jeff . . . ?’
‘Oh, no, nothing like that,’ she says seriously, and I feel myself dip a little. It would have been lovely if Gloria had found a little happiness for herself. ‘We’re just friends. Good friends. But it was lovely to be taken out. Made me feel . . . well . . . less invisible, I suppose.’
‘Well, you’re certainly not that in that outfit and scarf,’ Nick says, coming into the room in smart blue trousers, a white shirt, a change from his usual pink choices. ‘You look gorgeous.’
‘You look lovely yourself,’ Gloria smiles up at him. And he does.
‘Thought I’d give the pink a miss. Don’t want to give out the wrong signals.’ He smiles at me and I return it, but Candy’s not listening.
‘Nick, do me up, would you?’ Candy turns her back to Nick.
‘Way too subtle,’ I whisper to him, and he coughs to clear his throat.
‘Actually, perhaps you could, Emmy?’ and he goes out, much to Candy’s chagrin.
‘I have no idea what’s got in to him today. He’s being so moody,’ she complains.
‘Maybe there’s something on his mind . . . or someone,’ I say as I zip her into her tight, floral dress.
‘Uh?’ She takes a sharp intake of breath and turns to me.
‘You don’t think . . .’ she gasps, her hand over her mouth.
‘Yes?’ I nod and smile.
‘You don’t think he fancies . . .’
I raise my eyebrows and nod more.
‘You don’t think he fancies Isaac, do you?’
I drop my head in despair.
‘Who wouldn’t?’ I hear myself saying flippantly, feeling foolish at the same time.
‘Come on, guys, time to go.’ Nick comes in and hurries Candy out. ‘Do you want to come with us?’ he asks me.
‘No, I’ll hang on for Charlie. I’m sure he’ll be here soon,’ I say, deep down wishing I was going with them. I wave them off and then I wait, sitting at the table and chairs, looking out over the vines, a wrap around me for warmth, clutching the two bottles of Clos Beaumont I’ve made. Anxiously, I watch the sun starting to set and wish that this wasn’t the last time I was going to see it here.
By the time Charlie arrives, my heart is beating so fast and I’m not sure if it’s because I haven’t seen him in so long and am nervous about the date, or that I’m just terrified we’re going to miss the judging, or that I know I’m harbouring a secret in these bottles and am terrified of being found out.
‘Sorry, got held up . . .’
He looks freshly showered and cool in his suit. He leans in to kiss me and I quickly turn my head so he kisses my cheek, and I get into the car.
‘OK
, let’s go. Finally, I get to go on a date with you,’ he says smiling, and he spins off towards the château. I clutch the two bottles as if my life depends on them.
‘What’s the news on Madame Beaumont?’ Charlie asks, and I’m pleased about that.
‘She’s coming home, tomorrow. If she’s happy, they’ll let her stay.’ I feel like I’ve done my job. Looked after everything while she was away.
‘Tomorrow? Really? I didn’t know,’ Charlie says, interested.
‘She only rang yesterday, when we were . . .’ I stop. ‘When Isaac was up blending the wine. Completely forgot to tell you. Sorry.’ Although why I’m apologising I have no idea. We fall into silence for the rest of the way up the hill to the château.
Charlie pulls up, spraying gravel, in the busy car park. I get out with the precious bottles and he bleeps the car shut, doing up his jacket button as we walk through a stone archway. As I step through it I catch my breath. On the other side there are long flaming bamboo torches all the way down the path to the stone building, lighting the way and the stone walls behind it.
As we reach the door, there is a maître d’, wishing us ‘Bonsoir’ and guiding us through the low doorway, down a corridor with worn flagstones on the floor, past two large rooms with dark panelling on the walls and big fireplaces. In the first room there is a small group standing round, mostly speaking French. They’re not drinking, I notice. But I recognise the château owner, Monsieur Lavigne, who turns and raises a hand at Charlie, who returns the wave and hurries me along.
‘The judges,’ Charlie whispers, and takes hold of my elbow, guiding me up the hall. The walls are covered with thick tapestries. In the next room I can see a long table with bottles of wine in pairs and an envelope under each, which will have the maker’s name on it. We stop and Charlie shakes hands with the man in there, putting out bottles of water and glasses.
‘Je vous présente Emmy Bridges.’ Charlie holds out a hand to me by way of introduction but I can’t shake hands because I have a bottle in each. Charlie switches into English. ‘She has been helping my wine-maker, Isaac Allen.’
