House of Peine (11 page)

The eldest and youngest Peines were working in the vines on a steep slope behind Saint Vincent. Clementine was checking the grapes’ sugar content by tasting them — pinot meunier just at that moment, and delicious those berries were too — and teaching Sophie how to green-prune, or throw away the stunted unripened grapes so the healthy plump ones could continue to prosper. They stopped what they were doing when the Deux Chevaux skidded to a halt, disgorged an irate Mathilde into the long grass and scattered violets at Saint Vincent’s feet.

“You need to come home at once!” she shouted up to Clementine. “There’s a wrinkled old hag in my bed and you must get rid of her.”

“The old soak has been into the pastis again,” Clementine grumbled to Sophie. “Tracking us down just so she can yell her vile nonsense at us.

“Come back when you’ve sobered up,” she shouted down the hill.

She couldn’t quite make out the particular swear words with which this was greeted, just shrugged and kept moving
along the row, tasting a big juicy grape here, plucking at a shrivelled little bunch of them there, waiting all the while to hear the rattle of the 2CV starting up again.

“Look,” said Sophie, pointing with her clippers. “She’s coming up.” They both stopped again to watch Mathilde
negotiate
the steep incline in her heels. It was quite a sight, that short skirt and those skinny legs manoeuvring their way over the steep uneven ground. If Clementine’s eyes were not deceiving her, there were dark patches under her arms and down the front of her shirt, too. Who would have guessed that Mathilde sweated?

“For Christ’s sake, it’s your house too,” the perspiring Peine panted when she got to the top, quite dishevelled. “I thought you would care about that, if nothing else, you useless heffalump.”

“You obviously want something from me to have come all this way, Mathilde, so I can’t be that useless, can I? But
regardless
of that, whatever it is, the answer is no. That’s what you get for calling me a heffalump.”

Something about being out there among her chosen vines with Sophie was giving Clementine a little extra va-voom. She could feel it and she liked it.

“For God’s sake, this is not about you being a heffalump,” Mathilde protested, “it’s about —”

But Clementine turned away. “Come on, Sophie, we don’t need to listen to this. There’s work to be done. The mannequin can come back when it has a civil tongue in its head.”

The mannequin did not appreciate this — her head looked angry and her tongue ripe for distributing a decent lashing.

“Well, you may not care about some smelly old witch taking up residence in my bed but I do and what’s worse she is feeding your great fat roundabout reject my precious Parisian chocolates!”

Sophie hunched her shoulders and prepared herself for the situation to explode. Mathilde never tired of baiting her sister about her pet, probably because she never failed to get a rise out of her.

“Would you mind telling me what it is that Cochon has ever done to you?” Clementine predictably combusted, miffed that her little friend had slipped off without her even noticing. He’d been there just minutes before, hadn’t he?

“Apart from choke on my underwear, crap wherever I seem to want to step in the outside world and offend me with his far-too-small and extremely pointless existence, nothing!”

“You are truly despicable,” Clementine said, her lips white and narrow. “Come on, Sophie. Let’s go down to the river. The pinot noir could do with some attention.”

But Mathilde stood in her way. “Screw the pinot noir,” she said. “Screw your stupid horse. There’s an old woman in my bed and you need to come and get rid of her.”

“What sort of an old woman?” Sophie dared to inquire, her interest piqued.

“You should really wait until at least three before you start tippling, Mathilde,” Clementine said as she moved to push past her. “You’re seeing things. There’s no old woman that I know of …” Her voice trailed off. “Yes, what sort of an old woman?”

“How many sorts are there?” fumed Mathilde. “She’s a thousand years old and smells like compost.”

“Does she have long grey hair all piled up on top of her head?”

“Yes. God knows what’s nesting in there. And she’s in my bed. I think she might even be wearing my clothes. Who the hell is she?”

Clementine did know someone who answered this
description
. “La Petite,” she murmured. But La Petite usually arrived
the day before the vendange began, never ever any sooner. And Clementine had just tasted the chardonnay; it was the first to be picked and was at least a week away. “How strange.”

“Who is La Petite?” Sophie wanted to know, further intrigued. “What’s strange?”

“Apart from the old trout festering in my bed, which by the way has my own personal Frette linen on it?” Mathilde complained.

Clementine ignored her.
“La Petite Noix,”
she told Sophie. The Little Walnut. It was a good name, even Mathilde could see that, for the old woman did indeed look like a wrinkled nut, but the moniker had long ago been shortened to just La Petite. “She’s a grape-picker,” Clementine continued, but she was more than that. Much more. For as long as Clementine could remember, La Petite and her extended family of Romanian gypsies (or were they Lithuanian? No one was sure, not even the gypsies) had descended on the House of Peine for the harvest.

They would turn up — she could not fathom how they knew when to arrive — just in time for the grapes to be picked; would work like navvies for the week or 10 days the harvest took; then would disappear again. The next year, they would swarm back, never exactly the same bunch but always exactly the same number. Sometimes a husband would be missing but a cousin would be there instead, or a mother would be nursing an infant but her eldest daughter would be picking for the first time. The only person who remained constant was La Petite, the matriarch of the family, a tiny crumpled bundle of burning energy and intuition.

Where they were before Champagne (Bordeaux, someone had once suggested) or where they went after (Alsace?), Clementine did not have a clue. She’d known La Petite all her life but could barely remember a single conversation with her.
This was not really as strange as it seemed, as the world was full of people with whom Clementine could barely remember a conversation — and that was the world right at her doorstep, too, not the big wide one. Until Sophie came along, she just didn’t converse. Olivier, on the other hand, had always had a soft spot for La Petite, whispering away to her late into the night in the days before he spent all his time at Le Bois. And in recent years Clementine was pretty sure La Petite had joined him there. Her father had a lot to say to the old woman, it seemed, though she could not imagine what.

For her to turn up in Mathilde’s bed, though, was most odd. She had certainly never stayed in the house before. She usually had one of her brood build her a little shack just below them in the hawthorn bushes beneath Saint Vincent. A nephew or a cousin of a nephew had once told Clementine that La Petite liked being downwind of such a great big holy person.

“She is foul!” Mathilde was saying. “And she’s mad. Insane! Talking all sorts of drivel. And she’s feeding your stupid pig all my chocolates and he’s dribbling on my peignoir.”

“What is she saying?”

“Who cares?” Mathilde snapped. “I just want the haggle-toothed old crone out of there, now, so go and do something about it.”

Clementine put her finger to her chin and looked up at the sky as though seriously deliberating this possibility. “No,” she finally said. “Do it yourself. It has nothing to do with me. Besides I don’t care if she is in your room — she can stay there forever as far as I am concerned.”

Actually, Clementine was if not frightened of La Petite at least wary. There were lots of rumours about her and even the other gypsies spoke in hushed tones about her “evil eye”. She knew things that no one else could possibly know, so they said, and whether or not this was true Clementine had on many a
previous occasion felt the heat of those little black raisin eyes boring into her flesh. Whatever her skill or power, there was definitely a patina of mystery smothering the old bird, always had been. And hers were not feathers that begged to be ruffled. Clementine meant it — if La Petite wanted Mathilde’s room, she was welcome to it.

“Oh, ’Mentine, please, can’t you help?” Mathilde’s voice was so sweet and delightful and the change so abrupt that Sophie nearly choked stifling a laugh. “I’ve been in Reims and got so many orders for your champagne that I’m really quite exhausted. I had no idea you were so talented. The
restaurateurs
, the wine sellers, they just could not get enough of your champagne, you really are such a clever thing.”

“Do it yourself,” Clementine told her again, not falling for this at all. “I’ve already told you. It has nothing to do with me.”

“You useless fat cow!” Mathilde cried, whipping around to start the perilous walk back to the car. “I hope your stupid stunted pony gets diabetes. And why are you throwing those grapes on the ground? That’s money in the bank, you know. I’m not playing footsie with the bank manager just so you two useless sluts can throw it all away.”

Clementine’s jaw dropped to her chest in amazement. It was a well-known lament of the winemaker that the grape grower was reluctant to throw away the green berries to help plump up the ripe ones. It was the age-old battle of quality versus quantity and it raged in plots like this one all over the globe. She just never in a million years would have expected Mathilde to give a damn.

When Clementine and Sophie got back to the house in the early evening, Mathilde was sitting at the bottom of the stairs with an empty drink in her hand and a murderous expression on her face.

“That old sow won't even let me in now,” she said. “For God's sake, Clementine, do something!”

Clementine looked half-heartedly up the stairs. Sophie too.

“Or if you won't, get your forlorn little shadow here to do it. Isn't it time she made herself useful?”

Clementine looked at her forlorn little shadow and felt such a pleasant rush of something delicious that she could not help herself. She smiled, a great huge grin that smoothed out her creases and took 10 years off her age.

Sophie, seeing this, basking in it, grinned right back.

“Okay,” she said, quite happily. “I'll do it.” And she leapt up the stairs, light as a feather, taking them two at a time.

In the hall outside Mathilde's room she knocked gently at the door which swung open to reveal La Petite sitting up in bed applying the last drops of Mathilde's Clive Christian to the
insides of her elbows. Cochon was curled up on top of the covers, his head on a pillow.

“Ah, the Little One,” La Petite cackled, clearly delighted. “Come in, come in, sit down. I've always wanted to meet you.”

Sophie was bewildered. “Me?” she asked, looking behind to see if either of her sisters had followed her up.

“Of course, you,” La Petite said, patting the bed beside her with a tiny crooked claw of a hand.

“You know about me?” Sophie asked, going straightaway to where the hand had patted and sitting down in that spot. On the other side of the bed Cochon lifted his head off the pillow for just a moment before flopping back down with a miniature sigh. He had chocolate on his chin and looked extremely pleased with the way his afternoon was turning out.

“Of course,” La Petite said, and she lifted that curled claw toward Sophie and stroked her cheek. Her wizened hand felt much softer than it looked and her black eyes twinkled as she gazed deep into Sophie's. “You remind me of your
grandmother
,” she said softly. “She had a heart just like yours.”

Sophie could not hide her shock. Tears filled her eyes and wobbled above her lower lashes. In the evening light of the bedroom they looked like lavender-coloured lakes, which made La Petite smile. Actually, it seemed more to Sophie like a severe case of indigestion (especially as there was definitely a burp involved) yet she was immediately flooded with a warm rush of emotion. In an instant she trusted the old woman with all the aforementioned heart.

“I don't know anything,” she told her, the words tripping over themselves in their hurry to get out. “About any of them. Not a thing. My grandmother? I've never heard a word about her. Nor really about Olivier. Nothing nice, anyway. I mean what was he like? Was he always so … complicated? That's what everyone tells me but I'm not sure I even understand
what that means. Am I like him at all? Even in the slightest?”

La Petite waved her little bird hand to slow Sophie down. “Hush, hush,” she said. “All in good time.” She hauled herself up in the bed, eliciting a series of trumpeting sounds from beneath the covers. She laughed, delightedly. “Beans!” she cried, then pulled the covers up to her chest and wriggled back into the pillows. “I was sorry to hear that your father had passed,” she told Sophie. “Truly I was. But not sorry for him. No, not at all. Was he like you? Well, once, I think, he also had your heart, Little One. Just not the armour for it. And one's no good without the other, heh? When Mary-France went …
pouf
, so did he. It's a shame, no? But sometimes with great love that's just the way it is. He saw something in the middle one's mother that might have saved him but I think the damage had already been done. And your
maman
probably brought him his last bit of happiness but she had troubles of her own and that's a while ago now, heh? It's a long time to be unhappy and he never wore it well or kindly. It's been hard, I think, for the fat one, especially.”

Sophie sniffed away her tears. “She's not really that fat,” she pointed out loyally. “She just dresses funny.”

There was a muffled snort from outside the bedroom door where Clementine had been hiding and listening, Mathilde — just then poking her in the ribs — right behind her. At the sound of their scuffling La Petite laughed uproariously, which sounded a lot like a very old boiler finally giving up the ghost.

“That always gets them!” she cackled in a spirited aside as though she were constantly catching out corpulent siblings. “Come in, 'Mentine, let me look at you.”

There was no point pretending she wasn't there, so Clementine slunk into the room, head down, her face beetroot red.

“Hello, La Petite,” she mumbled, giving Cochon her own version of the evil eye when she saw his head on the pillow. But when she shifted her look instead to the old woman, she forgot about the horse. She had always been ancient, La Petite, but now she appeared to have moved on to a whole different level. She was so tiny in that bed, in her skin. It was as though she had somehow abandoned herself. “Are you all right?” Clementine asked with genuine concern.

“It depends what you would call all right,” La Petite answered wheezily but cheerfully.

“But the vendange …” Clementine's concern was first and foremost for the harvest.

“I'm sorry, 'Mentine, I have picked my last grape,” the old woman said mournfully. “I knew it was a bad sign when I looked at a beautiful vine heaving with
petit verdot
down in the Medoc and all I could think of was sitting down with a pipeful of tobacco and a cup of elderflower tea. Don't worry,” she said, seeing the woeful look on Clementine's face, “I won't be leaving you in the lurch. The gang will be here in time. I just came on ahead because I need a comfortable spot to stop for a while and I like this one. These sheets are so soft. And maybe where I'm going there'll be more of this perfume, hm?”

There was another muffled sound from outside the bedroom.

“Yes?” Called La Petite, winking at Clementine and Sophie. “Can I help you?”

Mathilde strode through the doorway again, glaring at her sisters. “You're falling for this crock? You two really are stupid!” She turned to La Petite. “Get up and get out.”

La Petite fixed her with a stare that instantly stripped away her anger, leaving only the vaguely unfamiliar sensation of fear. It was a while since she'd had a drink and her bravado was
diluted. She recalled what the old woman had said to her earlier and regretted coming into the room.

“You are right to be fearful, Mother dearest, it's the only way forward,” La Petite said with a hint of wickedness.

“You see!” Mathilde, cheeks burning, heart hammering, turned to Clementine. “She is mad. We should call the police and have her thrown out before she says another word. Get the gendarmes!”

“Scared of what a sick old woman has to say, heh, Mathilde?” La Petite suggested slyly. “Afraid that I'll remind you once more of the daughter who pines for you at home?”

Clementine and Sophie both turned around, openmouthed, to stare at their sister.

“You have a daughter at home?” Clementine asked, feeling sick.

“What would you know?” Mathilde spat at the old lady. “And anyway, she won't be pining for me.”

Sophie looked at Clementine and read her fear. “How old is she?” she asked but Mathilde didn't hear her, her face was pinched and she was pointing her finger at La Petite.

“You'd listen to the mad ramblings of this old crone? You're both as crazy as she is!”

La Petite made a big drama of counting on her bent old fingers. “She must be what, 10, by now?”

Clementine and Sophie shared a look of great relief. At least this meant Benoît was not the father. Clementine felt almost giddy. For a moment. Then incredulity crept in. “You've been here all this time and you have a 10-year-old daughter at home?”

“Edie, yes. And a husband,” La Petite pointed out
helpfully
. “George. Olivier told me all about them.”

This stopped them all in their tracks. “Olivier?” All three women asked at once.

“Your father,” La Petite agreed, nonplussed. “You do remember him, don't you? Good-looking. Red hair. Liked a drink.”

The Peine sisters swapped astonished looks. This didn't happen that often and felt quite strange. Mathilde noticed for the first time that Clementine actually looked younger than her age. Clementine noticed that Mathilde's eyes were a pale yellowy green, the exact colour of ripened chardonnay, just like her own. Sophie noticed that if you took away Clementine's redness and plumpness and Mathilde's blondness and tightness, the sisters were actually quite alike.

“I certainly wouldn't call Olivier good-looking,” Mathilde said eventually, which was somewhat beside the point.

“He talked to you about Mathilde?” Clementine asked La Petite. How could he keep hurting her like this, that wicked old man?

“Of course,” said La Petite. “And her daughter. And you,” she added coolly, after a dramatic pause. “And your daughter.” After another one.

Sophie's hand flew out and clutched Clementine's arm just as her eldest sister started to sway.

“Your daughter?” It was Mathilde's turn to be incredulous. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Leave her alone,” Sophie warned.

“How the hell would you ever have a daughter? I mean who —”

“Don't you dare!” shouted Clementine. “Don't you dare. La-a-a-a! La-a-a-a! Don't you dare. I won't have it. La-a-a-a!” She was quite hysterical, slapping away at Sophie's soothing hands as though she were a gnat, her eyes unfocussed and crazed.

Mathilde started babbling at her just as Sophie started babbling at Mathilde, while Clementine just kept madly
trilling. La Petite witnessed the whole ridiculous scenario as though it were the funniest part of her favourite TV sitcom.

Then into this uproarious cacophony walked quite the
best-looking
specimen any of the Peines had ever clapped eyes on.

They fell silent in an instant.

He had smooth dairy-milk-chocolate skin and shiny dark hair that fell in delectable waves around his ears and halfway down his neck. He was tall with broad shoulders but slim hips and when he smiled he had the most beautiful mouth full of straight white teeth and lively brown eyes that twinkled like disco balls.

The three healthy hearts in that room (not counting Cochon's) all stopped beating while they drank him in. La Petite (whose heart had indeed seen better days) saw this and felt supremely content.

“Hello,” the best-looking specimen said, lavishing them all with a separate somehow secret look. “I'm Hector, La Petite's great-grandson — or something like it.” He turned to the grinning imp in the bed. “Can I get you anything, La Petite?”

The Peine sisters, in their hurry to keep this gorgeous object in their sight, to feast on him some more, all turned around at the same time but in different directions, banging into each other and getting in a clumsy tangle that required the eldest to stand on the middle one's toes and the middle one to reciprocate with a well-placed pinch on that plump rump.

Sophie simply stood in the midst of this tussle totally goggle-eyed. She could imagine herself in this dark one's arms so vividly that it felt embarrassing to have anyone else in the room. It would happen, she just knew that. She always knew it. It would happen and it would be lovely and then it would end. He would take a little piece of her away with him and leave her with nothing. And she would settle for that. Happily.

Clementine too felt a strange squirmishness in her groin just looking at Hector but it turned almost immediately to resentment that no one like him would ever give her the time of day, let alone throw his toned brown arm over her naked skin in the warmth of her bed down the hallway. She would never get within coo-ee of that delightful flesh. She was too plump. Not pretty enough. Sophie was right, she dressed funny. She didn't dare even dream that the likes of Hector would curl up and spoon her. There was no point.

Mathilde, on the other hand, had great faith in her ability to take that lithe muscular body, wrap her thighs around it, do whatever she felt like, then send it packing. She licked her lips and turned slightly side on to the young Adonis so that the bone of her hip jutted out and accentuated the length of her legs. She could teach him a thing or two, she thought to herself, and it had been a while, so she might even bother. If there was one thing Mathilde liked it was a well-built ship in the night. She would happily cut a slice or two off young Hector and send him sailing. It was just the way she liked it.

La Petite watched all this on the faces of the Peine sisters and smiled to herself. He was a good boy, Hector. Strong but sweet and obliging. He would help her do what Olivier had asked of her. She'd waited, as she'd promised, until he himself was gone and his daughters were together and there was now much to be done. But right now she was hungry.

“Who can cook in this place?” she asked. “Hector loves
magret
of duck, with
gratin dauphinois
, don't you, Hector?”