Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

‘I need to make a home of my own,’ I say, despite my throat squeezing and getting tighter and tighter. ‘I don’t want to just keep avoiding making a life for myself. I have to find my own place in the world, and I think that might be here,’ I look out over the valley in front of me and let its beauty wash over me all over again, ‘with Cecil and Henri and the sheep.’

  He looks at me crestfallen.

  ‘And your place is wherever the next job is. You’re a travelling wine man.’ I feel the hot tears rolling down my face. ‘Look, this is everything you wanted.’

  His phone beeps into life. He looks at it.

  ‘He’s sending a car from the château, now, to take me back to the gîte and pack,’ he says, dazed. ‘Then I’ll be on my way. He wants me out there as soon as possible. There’s a plane in a few hours.’

  ‘This is your world, your life. You have to go.’

  ‘We could make it work.’ He holds my face in his hands. ‘Long-distance relationships do work.’

  I shake my head and now the tears are flowing freely.

  ‘It won’t, and I won’t ask you to give it up. It’s what you live for, to be free of any roots. But me, I need to start putting down some of my own, not getting choked by those of the past. I can’t live waiting to start my life in the future, wondering if there’s something better round the corner, waiting for you to come home. I need to live for the now and make every day count.’

  He is holding my face, tears are escaping and sliding down his cheeks. There is nothing more to be said. He must go his way and I must stay, we both know that. He pulls me towards him and kisses the top of my head over and over. Then he draws back and pulls off one of the leather bracelets from around his wrist and ties it on mine. We both laugh through our tears.

  ‘Never, ever, take it off. Promise me,’ he says hoarsely.

  ‘I won’t. Ever.’

  ‘You are going to be a fantastic wine-maker, Emmy Bridges. I’m going to read about you. One of the new wave of women making wine with love and nurturing. “The Tinker Bells of French wine-making” they’re calling them in the press, making Old World French wines fantastically.’

  ‘And you are to be a top wine-maker in a top New World winery, Isaac.’ Then I drop my head. ‘I’m just not sure I can do this on my own.’

  ‘But you did it. And what’s more, you did it your way. You followed your instincts and you must do that now.’

  There is a honk of a horn as I turn. A silver Mercedes turns into the yard.

  ‘That’s for me. It’ll take me back to the gîte and then to the airport. I’m leaving now, Emmy. You could still come . . . be impetuous.’

  I sniff and shake my head.

  ‘You could ask me to stay,’ he says quietly.

  I shake my head again.

  ‘I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t ask you to give up everything you’ve dreamed of. You have to want it for you. Besides, we’d be a nightmare together. You’d want to bring in all your modern wine-making techniques.’ I try to laugh through the tears.

  The driver beeps again.

  ‘Go! You have to go!’

  Isaac takes my face and kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before. Then he turns and runs to the car without looking round, gets in and the car spins out of the yard and off down the lane.

  Madame Beaumont is there behind me, holding the bottle.

  ‘Put the table and chairs over there, where I can see the vines,’ she says, and I make big sweeping arm movements and wipe away the tears, then move the table and two chairs.

  ‘Bring another,’ she says, pointing to a chair.

  ‘Oh, Isaac’s gone,’ I say through my tight throat. ‘He, erm, Monsieur Lavigne offered him a job in South Africa,’ I say. ‘It’s a great opportunity for him to be part of a big cooperation.’

  ‘Yes, bring the chair anyway,’ she nods. Then with her gnarled fingers she starts to open the wine before handing it to me to pull the cork. Henri’s head is hanging contentedly over the gate and Cecil lies down with an ‘oomph’ just beside us.

  The wine is poured into three glasses as she insists, even though I tell her again that Isaac’s gone. And then I sit and look out at the vines.

  ‘To new beginnings.’ Madame Beaumont raises her glass to the vines and then to me. Then she sits back and sips, her face beaming with pride and pleasure.

  ‘So you’ll stay? You’ll take over, look after them?’

  ‘Yes.’ I am crying and smiling all at the same time. ‘I’ll stay. I’m ready. I know my mum is with me wherever I am, not just in that house. I’m going to tell Dad to go ahead and sell it. It’s time we both spread our wings.’

  ‘And now a family of your own to look after.’ She looks at the vines.

  ‘I think I started putting down my roots here some time ago. But it’ll just be me. I’ll take over the vineyard,’ I say.

  Madame Beaumont says nothing, then: ‘Just wait.’ She continues to look out over the vines, her glass held to her chest. ‘Sometimes the naughtiest and wildest of grapes take a while to understand what they need to do next.’

  I frown and she sips her wine, closing her eyes with absolute contentment. I follow her and look out too, imagining my dad and sister and my best friend, Layla, coming to visit next summer. Who knows, maybe Isaac will drop by on his way again someday? I shut my eyes and let the winter sun warm my face.

  ‘Of course, you could turn that big barn into a new winery. And there would have to be new tanks and a destemmer crusher. And then there’s the yeast. We’d need proper cooling systems,’ I can hear him saying. ‘Emmy? Emmy?’

  My eyes spring open and I turn round. Isaac is standing there. I look for a silver Mercedes.

  ‘He’s gone. Got him to drop me off at the end of the drive. Realised it’s time I stopped running and put down some roots too . . . so, I’m not asking if you’ll have me, I’m telling you, I’ve decided to stay.’

  I jump up and run at him, wrapping my arms round him, his head burying in my neck, entwined, like we’re putting down roots together.

  Madame Beaumont is smiling to herself.

  ‘Like all good wine, sometimes the most unlikely of grapes can make the most characterful wines together.’ Madame Beaumont is talking to her vines as if telling the children about their new family. Then she turns to Isaac and me.

  ‘That’s not to say there won’t be a few explosive chemical reactions along the way. Old methods and new ones. But the harder you work, the deeper your roots will go and the more rewarding and colourful the taste will be.’

  She laughs to herself and Isaac reaches out to the table and picks up a glass. I do too, but neither of us is letting go of the other now.

  ‘To a classic vintage, individual in every way,’ Madame Beaumont says, and we all raise our glasses, Isaac to me, me to Madame Beaumont and Madame Beaumont to the vines, and Cecil stands up and joins in with a ‘whoo, whoo, whooo’, too.

  I have new boots just for the occasion, and a new spade, with a pink ribbon round it. A present from my dad when he arrived yesterday with Jody and the boys. Dad stopped off in town to buy it. He’s really starting to find his way around, he’s been out so many times now.

  ‘OK? Ready?’ Isaac slips an arm round me and we all begin to walk out of the yard and up the lane, towards the new parcelle of land that now belongs to Clos Beaumont after the former owners decided to retire, and we were given first refusal. We’ve called this parcelle ‘Dad’s Lot’, because Dad put up the money for it after selling the house.

  Just as we’re about to leave, a white van pulls into the busy car park and Cecil feels it’s his duty to get up and ‘woof’. It’s a British van and down the side of it, in purple writing, is ‘French Affairs’. The door opens and out jumps Candy from the driver’s seat, and Nick from the passenger’s. ‘It’s not
like my old soft top,’ she says, and I shriek and hug them both.

  ‘You made it!’

  ‘You don’t think we’d let you mark today without us being here too, do you?’ Nick says, smiling.

  ‘We were on a buying trip for antiques for Nick’s new shop.’ Candy points to the van.

  ‘Or some stuff we bought second-hand in France and fancied up!’ we all say together, and laugh.

  ‘We wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Besides, I’m writing a piece for Wine Magazine all about it, and on my blog, of course. Who’d’ve thought it would have got me so much feature-writing work?’

  ‘OK, now I’m ready.’ I smile at Isaac, and we make our way up the lane in the glorious spring sunshine, looking out over the pruned vines. The buds are just starting to burst with green leaves.

  ‘Here we go again. A new vintage,’ I say to Isaac as we walk arm in arm. It’s been a busy winter, some changes, a blend of old and new. We bought new tanks and a new destemmer crusher, but we’ve agreed to stick with the wild yeasts and the original vines. But we’ve taken cuttings and are growing new ones from the old. Isaac and I have spent the winter pruning, putting in new trellis systems, wires along the ground that we will lift on to wooden stakes as the vines start to grow, to help the grapes grow off the ground. Easier for picking, too.

  At the entrance to the new vineyard, everyone is there. Monsieur le Maire, Monsieur Lavigne and Bernard, Jeff and Gloria, the Obels, and our second home owners who have already booked to help with the grape harvest again. Cecil is standing beside Isaac and in the distance I can see Madame Beaumont’s black and white cat inquisitively following up the road. Henri is there, too, lifting his head and sniffing the air in the new vineyard. Colette is trying out her English from her new English classes on Dad, who is there with his new friend from the DIY store, Shirley. She helped him pick out the colour scheme for his new flat, apparently. Jody is there with the boys, whom Jeff is chasing around in the newly ploughed field. Mr and Mrs Featherstone are there, on their own. Charlie is away, exploring new business opportunities, Mr Featherstone tells me, whatever that might mean. But Mr Featherstone is back at the wheel of Featherstone’s Wines, with Lena by his side. He’s downsized, only taking on small, exclusive artisan vineyards.

  ‘Bienvenue, tout le monde,’ says the mayor.

  ‘Wait!’ I put up a hand. ‘Madame Beaumont?’ I look around and down the road and then I see her, following us up the hill, on her new red mobility buggy, filming everything on her new iPad, and I smile with relief.

  ‘OK, we can start.’ I turn back to the mayor, and Madame Beaumont arrives and parks next to me.

  ‘Vous êtes arrivé à votre destination,’ says the sat-nav on her iPad in a deep, sexy French voice.

  ‘We are here today to celebrate new beginnings, but also to remember the past,’ he nods to Madame Beaumont. ‘Isaac?’

  Isaac steps forward and with the new spade digs a hole, and then I step forward and put in a rosebush next to the first of our new vines.

  ‘This rosebush is being planted to honour those that fought and fell in love during the war. We want to honour their memory and their legacy. For those that made us who we are today,’ Isaac says, and digs in the rose bush.

  ‘The first of many,’ I say, and everyone cheers and claps.

  Gloria steps forward and hands round a tray of sparkling white wine. We all take a glass.

  ‘To Clos Beaumont,’ I say, and we all raise our glasses.

  ‘And,’ says the mayor, ‘a toast to the future, for Petit Frère, no longer living in the shadows of our bigger neighbour, Saint Enrique, proud that we can stand up and be who we are. No longer the poor relation but a rapidly growing wine region in our own right, thanks to the word on the net.’ And we toast Candy, who blushes. ‘And to new wine-makers.’ They all turn and toast me, and I blush too.

  Just then Isaac’s phone rings. He looks apologetically at me. I shrug and nod for him to answer it.

  ‘Nope, sorry, mate, can’t help you. I’m staying put in France now. Yes, take me off your list.’ He finishes the call and hangs up. ‘Australia,’ he tells me, shoving his phone back into his pockets. And for a moment I wonder if he wishes he was moving on now the seasons are changing again. He wraps an arm around me.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he laughs. ‘Well, someone needs to be around in case you fall in the wine tank again.’

  ‘To individuality and uniqueness,’ says Madame Beaumont. ‘It’s the rich mix that makes Clos Beaumont truly special.’ And we all raise our glasses and drink to that.

  ‘Oh, and by the way, I have you all down for picking at the harvest again this year,’ I say beaming, pointing round the group, and everyone laughs and agrees, and raises their glasses once again.

  As the sun begins to set over Clos Beaumont and its new family members, the little vines that will need caring for, I photograph them.

  New beginnings, I type and send to Layla. She sends back a text straight away. And here, Auntie Emmy!! And sends me a blurry, black-and-white photo of what appears to be . . . her twelve-week scan.

  I’m beaming from ear to ear as we walk back down the hill, to Le Phénix, Gloria’s new café and bar, where we toast new beginnings and putting down roots all over again. Because I know my roots are very firmly here with Isaac for as long as these vines need me.

  ‘Just one thing,’ Isaac whispers in my ear as we sit looking out over the wide river, back towards the humpback stone bridge. Ducks are paddling by the edges, a fish jumps and lands with a splash, and those big white birds are still honking their way down the river, low along the water. The rowers pass, followed by the little motor boat with the coach shouting instructions through a loud-hailer. There are fairy lights in the trees around us, and Gloria switches them on to celebrate the opening of her new business.

  ‘Yes?’ I say to Isaac.

  ‘Y’know that you’re supposed to be my close friend, like I told Madame Beaumont?’ His face is up close to mine and I laugh.

  ‘Yes, well, that was when we hardly knew each other,’ I joke.

  ‘Well, now that we do know each other,’ he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small blue velvet box, ‘do you think I could be your fiancé even?’

  I look down at the little ruby ring and back at him as he pulls it out of the box and holds it to my finger.

  ‘Will you be with me for ever?’ He looks slightly nervous. ‘What do you say, Goldy?’ I reach out and hug him, my wild, curly blond hair falling over my face, feeling like all my vintages have come at once, but this is the going to be the best vintage yet.

  Jo Thomas takes us on a mouth-watering journey through her favourite French food.

  1. Oysters – Arcachon

  Whilst I was writing The Oyster Catcher, I stayed at a writing retreat in France. Every Sunday morning, as the church bells rang out, the Arcachon oyster men would arrive in the town square and set up stall. People would arrive with big plates ready to be loaded up for their Sunday lunch. And so I did the same thing. They were wonderful.

  2. Sweet Chestnuts (châtaigne) – the Ardèche

  My family and I holidayed in France when I was a child, and we would always camp in the same place every year – a forest in the Ardèche called La Châtaigneraie. We were surrounded by tall chestnut trees and prickly husks on the ground: a good reminder to always wear something on your feet! Recently, I discovered Châtaigne liqueur, which inspired my novella, The Chestnut Tree. You can add it to white or sparkling wine as you would crème de cassis in a Kir or Kir Royale. Just gorgeous.

  3. Rosé wine – Provence

  I have been told that the best rosé comes from Provence. One of the things I love most about writing in France is the petit rosé regularly offered to me by the wonderful local bar owner, as though it is as simple as having a glas
s of water or a coffee. It seems to be part of the fabric of everyday life. I adore this light, dry, aromatic wine, which reminds me of the lavender-covered hills of Provence – perfection.

  4. Camembert – Normandy

  I love cheese! But I really love Camembert – the softer and creamier the better. Before serving, I take it out of the fridge and let it stand until the smell lets me know it’s ripe and ready to be cut, scooped on to the plate and eaten with crusty French bread and big, fat beefsteak tomatoes.

  5. A really good steak – near Bordeaux

  When I visit the region of France just outside Bordeaux, the one thing I really want is a good entrecôte. We go to a restaurant across the Dordogne River and sit outside in the open air, looking over the river, under strings of coloured lights that hang from tall trees. The steaks are cooked outside on hot grills, sizzling and spitting, dark brown on the outside and pink in the middle. They are best served with frites and salad, of course! Add a sauce made from shallots and Bordeaux red wine and you have steak bordelaise.

  6. Charentais melon – Poitou-Charentes, western France

  To finish a meal, I like nothing better than a gorgeous small charentais melon – like a cantaloupe – light green and striped on the outside with sweet, orange flesh inside. I could eat these for breakfast, for lunch with charcuterie, and for dinner as dessert. And I often do! When I buy them at the market I love to pick them up and smell them. If they smell fragrant and floral, they’re ripe and ready to eat.

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