Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘Yes!’ The key slides in and I turn it.

  Brrrrr, brrrrr, and then nothing. Isaac is banging on the bonnet, hair soaked, shouting at me to stop.

  ‘Come on!’ I shout, this time turning the key and standing on the accelerator – at least I think that’s it – and the engine roars into life. ‘Yes.’ I touch my necklace again. ‘Thank you.’ I raise my eyes briefly to the skies. Then I look down at the gear stick. In addition to its being on the wrong side, I’ve never seen one like it. The wind and rain is pelting against the window and there’s a loud rumble of thunder, only I’m too busy trying to work out which gear reverse is, lurching the car forward and backwards, to worry about how many elephants to count.

  Finally with a grind and a crunch I find reverse again just as a huge lightning bolt cracks across the sky. But the lights on the tractor in the valley below are still moving slowly forwards.

  I spin the van backwards and then, with another crunch and grind, let it lurch forwards. This time instead of counting elephants as another clap of thunder bangs overhead, I’m kangarooing down the road, throwing me forwards and back. Isaac is behind me in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Come on, Emmy, you can do this,’ I say out loud. I have to get to the vines!

  Suddenly I put my foot down on the accelerator and the van shoots forwards, whining for me to change gear. I pick a gear and press on the accelerator again. I’m careering down the road, turning a corner, this way and that. I’m doing it. I’m actually doing it. As I turn another corner, a small car is coming in the opposite direction. I swerve left.

  The driver lets out a blast on the horn.

  ‘Argh!’ I swerve really hard back the other way. Wrong side of the road! The other driver honks again as the car passes me. I hit the accelerator, panic pushing me to drive ever faster. I don’t even think I’ve remembered to breathe until I see the turning into Clos Beaumont and I take a huge gulp of air as I swing into the yard and slam on the brakes.

  Cecil is there, barking like crazy.

  ‘Doucement, doucement,’ I tell him, getting out of the car in bare feet in the wind and rain. ‘Steady, lad,’ and I bend to pat his head to let him know it’s me.

  Henri is thundering up and down his field, dipping his head, matted mane flying and then kicking out with both front feet, first one side and then the other.

  I run to the French doors where my wellies are upside down on sticks. One of Nick’s inventions. He really has turned out to be the Linda Barker of Petit Frère. I hope he and Candy are finally telling each other how they feel, I think quickly as I pull on the boots, grab the big torch from the chai, hike up my dress and begin running down through the vines, stumbling and slipping now over the wet clods of earth and stones. Through the first parcelle and into the next. The vines seem to be leading me, pushing me back on track as my wellies gather clods of earth, slowing me down, and my breathing gets heavier. The smell from the soil is like nothing I’ve ever smelled before: a rich mix of nutrients, minerals, vitamins and herbs. I suck it up to keep me going. I can see the lights of the tractor and I pick up speed, trying to push my arms faster and faster, punching through the air in front of me, urging my lagging legs to follow suit.

  The wind is whipping my eyes as I’m blinking against the rain. My hair has fallen from its hairpins, and my French pleat is no longer. My lungs are hurting as I run from side to side across the worn path, despite trying to drive myself forward.

  I think the rain may actually be easing up, thank God, and the thunderstorm passing. I take a big breath of relief, just as I hear the sound that makes my blood run cold once more. The sound of a tractor’s roar and ripping roots.

  ‘Arrêtez! Arrêtez! Stop!’ I shout, waving my arms, and I’m running towards the big round lights of the tractor. But it isn’t stopping. I have to make it stop and I run even closer, throwing myself in front of the next couple of vines into its sights. I look up like I’m staring into the mouth of a hungry tiger, hoping it’ll stop and find another prey, but instead this one just keeps rumbling forward.

  ‘Oomph!’ Suddenly all the wind is knocked out of me as I’m barged off my feet and clear of the vine, only not by the tractor coming towards me, but by a blow to my side. I’m thrown to the ground with a thud and there’s breathing as heavy as mine beside me.

  ‘Isaac? What the hell are you doing? How did you get here?’

  ‘Ran down through the château vines . . .’ he pants, standing in front of me, bent over and holding his knees. ‘And what do you mean, what the hell am I doing? What the hell are you doing? You could get yourself killed!’ he suddenly roars at me.

  I stagger to my feet, glaring at him, then dodge him and run back in between the vines.

  ‘He’s not doing this. He’s not ripping up the vines! Not the tendresse vines! Did you know about this? Was it all part of the plan?’ I shout.

  ‘Emmy,’ he grabs hold of both my arms, ‘I swear, I knew nothing about this. You have to believe me.’ He looks right at me and I know he’s telling the truth. Then I shrug him off and start to wave my hands in the air just like I was on that first day trying to get Madame Beaumont’s attention to give her back her purse, only this time I am fighting for so much more – her history, everything she stands for – and maybe what I do too now, I realise. I don’t want these vines to go any more than she does.

  ‘Arrêtez!’ I shout. ‘You’re not taking them, you big bully! They belong here! You’re not hurting them. Take me first!’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I hear Isaac say and then he’s right beside me as he begins to wave and shout too.

  ‘Arrêtez!’ he yells. ‘Stop!’

  Suddenly the tractor’s engine cuts out and the lights dim. It takes a moment for my eyes to readjust. Then I hear Charlie’s voice. He must have come through the château vines too. Why didn’t I think of that?

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asks evenly, though I can’t see him as my eyes are still blinded by the headlights.

  ‘I’m stopping this vandalism!’ I shout in his direction.

  ‘These are old vines. They need to go.’

  ‘Yes, they’re old. Their yield might be low, but it has so much more character, depth. It’s . . . what makes Clos Beaumont a medal-winning wine.’ My eyes start to make out his figure beside the tractor with Bernard at the wheel.

  ‘We can re-create it, can’t we, Isaac?’ Charlie asks smoothly, turning to Isaac, as I do. Now covered in mud splashes, his hair wet and pushed back off his face, Isaac is looking much more like his usual self than he was earlier.

  ‘Actually—’ he starts.

  ‘Actually, you can’t,’ I cut across him. I can’t let him take any of the blame for this.

  ‘Emmy—’ he tries.

  ‘You can’t re-create it, because first, new vines will never give you the character like the wine we’ve just made. And—’

  ‘Emmy—’ Isaac warns again.

  ‘The reason it tastes like it does is because of these vines.’ I point to the vines to my right, not yet touched by the tractor, but practically kissing it.

  ‘What are you talking about? Isaac?’ Charlie looks at me as if I’m mad.

  ‘Isaac had nothing to do with this wine. I made it,’ I announce, and there’s a gasp from the wine-makers who have also gathered in the vineyard and are muttering in French in surprise and then, ‘Bravo’ rustles in amongst the growing group.

  ‘Hear, hear!’ I hear Candy and Nick’s voices and they lift my spirits.

  ‘And the reason I made it is because it’s not the claret you asked for. It’s not a blend to roll out. It is as individual as Madame Beaumont. It is full of life and vitality. It tells you about the soil it was grown in, the love it’s nurtured with. It tells so much more than your supermarket blend, it is a story, a story of a woman’s life.’


  ‘Hear, hear!’ I hear again, and a sniff or two. And a whoop this time, the loudest from Isaac beside me, clapping.

  ‘That’s great and we’ll use it in the marketing.’ Charlie is now trying to guide me away from the vines by putting his hand in the small of my back again. This time I shake him off. ‘Selina is here and I’d really like to get this deal in the bag.’

  ‘But that’s the thing, Charlie. There is no deal, because Selina wants you to re-create a good, honest claret. This isn’t a good, honest claret. Far from it. It’s a unique wine. A breed all of its own.’

  ‘A what?’

  The moon suddenly appears from behind the dark clouds, which are rolling off into the distance, and throws a silver sliver across the vines.

  ‘These grapes,’ I point. ‘They’re not part of the blend. That’s why Madame Beaumont never conformed to the AOC labelling, because her wine has a hint of something else in it . . . something from her past, which makes it special. These are grapes,’ I point again, ‘very old tendresse grapes. Her wine is a one-off.’

  There is a silence around the gathered throng, finally broken by Charlie swearing loudly and then the stomping off back to the château and the metaphorical sound of a medal being stripped from round his neck. Then we watch as the tractor starts up and begins to reverse out of the vines.

  Isaac scoops me in his arms.

  ‘I am so proud of you,’ he smiles, and kisses me all over again in the silver moonlight, in amongst the vines, who I swear are whispering a sigh of relief, ‘for so many reasons. You are a one-off vintage, Emmy Bridges.’

  Then we walk back together through the vines. He slips off his jacket and puts it round my shoulders, leaving his arm around me too, and we walk in the silver shard of moonlight, to the farmhouse, euphoric, reckless and neither of us knowing what tomorrow will bring.

  ‘Wait!’ I suddenly stop him. ‘What about you and Candy?’

  ‘Candy and I . . . she’s great but we’re just friends. I never . . . I didn’t want to fall in love with you. I tried to distract myself. I thought you were falling for Charlie and his charms!’ We both manage a little laugh. ‘I think Candy’s found someone far more deserving of her affections than me.’ He smiles and puts his finger to my chin. I smile back as he pulls me closer and kisses me again, making me feel as though the missing piece in the jigsaw of my life has finally been found.

  That night, back in Clos Beaumont, on my last night there, I take Isaac by the hand and lead him to join me in my bed, where he kisses every part of my body and tells me time after time how proud he is of me, and this time I follow my instincts, give in to my feelings, and our bodies finally join as one, as the moonlight rises over the vines, and I know this night will stay with me for ever. If only I didn’t feel this was goodbye. And finally, our bodies entwined, like the roots of the vines I’ve come to care for, I fall into the deepest sleep, knowing I’m also falling in love.

  The next morning I’m awake early. I turn gently to look at Isaac’s sleeping face, drinking him in. Fighting the urge to wake him and pick up from where we left off last night, I slide from under the covers. Madame Beaumont is coming home today for a visit and if she feels she can cope they’ll let her out. I have to check everything is as organised as it can be.

  I pull on my sweatshirt, breathing in Isaac’s smell, letting it fill my lungs and make my body feel alive all over again. I wonder how long the smell will stay with me after he’s gone. Quickly I push the thought away, putting it into a little box in my head and closing the lid. I’ll take it out and think about it later, after today is over.

  I creep downstairs and into the newly painted and redesigned living room. Nick worked really hard to get this looking gorgeous. And the lilies are doing a great job of taking away the smell of paint. The heavily embossed wallpaper looks so striking, as does the green wing-back chair by the fire.

  I poke my head into the downstairs bedroom. The bed is made up with new linen and again, a bunch of flowers scents the room. As well as a light by the bed, there is a jug and glass. He’s thought of everything. I briefly think about him and Candy and feel so pleased for them. Then I remember Gloria last night. Who was that man she was with?

  I use the downstairs bathroom and shower with the hand attachment over the bath, holding the end on to the tap to stop it spraying everywhere. It’s a knack I’ve acquired over these past few weeks and I wonder why I ever complained that the one at home was old and useless. It’s luxury compared to this.

  I make coffee and take one up to Isaac, waking him by gently saying, ‘Good morning,’ and putting the coffee on the wrought-iron table by the bed.

  He opens his eyes sleepily and just for a moment I panic, wondering what his reaction will be. Then, seeing me, he smiles and I know he feels like I do. I break into a smile too, thankful it wasn’t all a big mistake. He reaches up, pulls my head to him and kisses me softly, making me dissolve into the covers with him. Then he wraps his arms around me, pulling me in all over again. But thankfully I have the resolve to pull away, or Madame Beaumont will arrive and I’ll still be in bed!

  ‘I have to go and check the barrels,’ I groan.

  Reluctantly, he lets me go. Saying goodbye is going to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, to Isaac and to here. I’m just going to enjoy the time we have together, I think to myself.

  ‘I’ll come and help,’ he says, sitting up. I take in his smooth chest and rounded shoulders and the tattoo on his shoulder. I reach out and touch it.

  ‘What is it?’ I run my finger over it.

  ‘It’s a hawk. A Swainson’s hawk. A migratory bird,’ he pauses. ‘California is the Pacific highway for migrating birds, y’know,’ he adds, trying to brighten things. ‘It’s like the superhighway for birds travelling between Alaska and Patagonia.’ He looks at the tattoo. ‘It gives me wings.’ He doesn’t look at me but I know what he means. Just like a migratory bird that leaves when the season changes, so is Isaac getting ready to leave. He pulls his knees up and sips his coffee.

  ‘Come on,’ he suddenly says, ‘we have wine to check.’ He tugs at the corner of the bedclothes that I’m sitting on, just like on his first day, but this time I’m the one who laughs.

  ‘Go on then!’ I goad him, and suddenly he yanks back the covers playfully and I rush out, shrieking with laughter and excitement, running downstairs or I’ll never get out of there.

  I put the oven on to warm through yesterday’s croissants, go to the back door and open it. It’s cold, and I wrap my arms around myself and make my way across the yard, to where Cecil is sleeping in his kennel.

  ‘Bonjour, Cecil.’ He raises his head and give a deep ‘woof’ then lumbers to his feet. I go to the shed on the far side of the yard to get his feed. There is a wonderful smell of fruit in the air, coming from the chai, and if nothing else I know that I have got Madame Beaumont’s wine safe. It may not be worthy of a medal any more, but word’ll get around that it’s a great vintage. Monsieur and Madame Obels from the shop will be passing it on by now, after our degustation guests were so grateful to them, and Candy’s blog is getting loads of hits, so maybe she could sell it online. But I must talk to her about getting some help with the vines, pruning and harvesting.

  I feed Cecil and Henri.

  ‘She’ll be home today, Henri,’ I tell him and pat his neck. Then, seeing the sheep there, I realise it’s probably time for them to get to work in the vineyard, keeping down the weeds that are starting to sprout so I open up the gate to let them out. They tumble and bounce off each other, playing follow my leader as I shoo them away from the yard and down into the vineyard. After a while they stop running and jumping over each other and drop their heads to grass that’s grown between the vines during the harvest.

  I stand and stare as the sun starts to make its way up the sky and that low mist I have come to know weaves its way throu
gh the vines on its early morning meander.

  It is going to be so hard to say goodbye. I wrap my arms around myself as I stare out over the vines across the valley. My heart squeezes.

  Suddenly a kiss is planted on the back of my neck and I lean in to him, breathing him in before turning to face him, still wrapped in his arms.

  ‘Hello,’ he smiles down at me.

  ‘Hello,’ I smile back.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yup, I’m just going to check the barrels but it’s all good out here.’

  ‘Look, Emmy, about me going . . .’

  ‘Let’s not. Not today.’ I can’t bear to talk about it now.

  ‘But you could come with me, we could travel together. Please, think about it.’ He stares at me with those dark eyes. I shake my head. I wish we could, with every bit of my body aching to say yes, but I can’t. I have to go home.

  ‘I have people that need me.’ I turn to go but he holds my elbows.

  ‘What about what you need? Your sister is there. She could look out for your dad. We could visit, maybe even look at getting a season on an English vineyard. I’ve heard they have them.’

  I let out a laugh.

  ‘I have never met anyone like you and I know I never will again. I’ve finally found what it means to belong. I want to belong to you.’ He takes both my hands and I can’t speak.

  The lid of the box is finally being forced fully open in my head and I really don’t want it to. I slam it shut. I don’t want to think about it. I swallow and blink back the tears that are threatening to fall.

  ‘I’ll have to check the barrels. We’ll talk later,’ I say through my tight throat, and go to turn and leave quickly before he sees that my eyes are filling again with little pools of salty tears.

  ‘I’m going up to check the vines,’ says Isaac. ‘See what damage was done last night, see if we can save the ones that did get pulled up.’