Vintage (36 page)

When they had all gone Clare strolled across the lawns in the moonlight, listening to cries of the crickets and the croaking of the frogs. In the distance she thought she heard a rumble of thunder. Then that she had imagined it. Calling to Rougemont who, still pining for the Baron, slept outside her door, she had fallen, fully clothed, into bed.

Recalling that she had woken three hours later with a splitting headache the remnants of which still hovered behind her eyes, Clare acknowledged the oenologist’s apology.

‘We’re all a bit the worse for wear.’

‘You ain’t seen nothing.’ Halliday grinned. ‘Wait till the end of your second week.’

They found Albert Rochas in the far corner of the vineyard, where he was supervising a group of inexperienced pickers. While the chef de culture, purple with rage, drove off in search of the culprit who had left the loaded trailer by the roadside, Halliday went with Clare to the cellars, where the supervision of the vats was as fundamental to the harvest as was the picking of the grapes.

Jean Boyer, faced not with an inept troupe, but with gleaming and hostile inox in place of his familiar and unsanitary wooden vats, greeted them gruffly.

‘Need any help?’ Halliday cast an expert eye over the temperature on the inox as above them the grapes were pumped into the vats.

The old cellarmaster shook his head. He was not as baffled by the calibrated thermostats and electronic mysteries of the new technology as he made out. Adept at
priming a hand grenade and at wiring a detonator, he had made it his business to understand it.

Following Halliday’s glance, he took his glasses, one side held on with sticking plaster, from the pocket of his overalls and peered at the thermometer on the side of the vat. ‘Trente-deux degrés.’

As Halliday turned on the cold water, Clare noticed a load of grapes which was about to be pumped into the vat currently being filled.

‘Hey! Hold it a minute.’

‘Il y a encore de la place.’ Jean didn’t welcome the interference.

‘I don’t care how much room there is. Those grapes come from a different parcelle. They must go into a separate vat.’

Muttering that it had been good enough for the Baron, Jean reluctantly directed the gum-booted loaders to the adjoining vat.

‘Good on you, girl.’

Picking up a glass, Halliday opened the tap and drew the must from an earlier vat. He held it to the light.

‘Quelle couleur, Monsieur!’

There was grudging admiration in Jean’s voice. He had never known the wine to run so clear after only one day.

Clare smiled triumphantly.

It was a Pyhrric victory.

Twenty-four hours later, the rain, forecast for the Pyrenees and the Massif Central, fell in slanting sheets, dousing the grapes in the deserted vineyards.

The sun that streamed into Marie-Paule Balard’s bedroom as she flung open the shutters caused her, uncharacteristically, to swear.

‘Merde!’

‘Qu’est ce que tu as dis?’ Claude Balard sat up in bed. He could not believe what he was hearing.

‘Merde.’

‘Pourquoi merde?’

‘ll ne pleut plus.’

‘Et alors?’

Wrapping her robe de chambre around her,
Marie-Paule
did not reply. How could she explain that with the downpour of the past twenty-four hours, which had flooded the Bordeaux gutters and swelled the murky waters of the Garonne, had come renewed hope that Clare’s harvest would fail and she would yet be mistress of Château de Cluzac.

‘Je vais regarder le télévision.’

Trotting down to the salon in which the TV set sat oddly among the Louis XV chairs and canapés, she kicked off her pink slippers and settled down to watch the weather forecast, which she hoped would contradict what she had seen out of the bedroom window with her own eyes.

The news on the Pavé des Chartrons, confirmed by the sexy weather girl on TFl, was welcomed with relief at Château de Cluzac. After a day of enforced idleness the pickers streamed out towards the vineyards where the grapes, saved in the nick of time from destruction, were already drying in the breeze that came tenderly from the
south. The chef de culture had spent a few
early-morning
moments in the chapel, acknowledging the small miracle that had left his grapes none the worse for their wash.

Albert Rochas was not the only one to express his gratitude. Clare was scarcely able to believe that what she saw as her punishment – for defying her father, for thinking that she knew better than Halliday, for not following the lead of the other châteaux, for pushing her luck – had been averted. She offered up, to a God with whom she was unfamiliar, a brief litany of thanks.

For the next two back-breaking weeks, as the tractors, piled high with purple grapes, bumped their way once more along the paths towards the pressing house, and the troupe set about the vines with renewed vigour, filling their panniers in record time, she kept a weather eye on the sky.

Somewhat subdued, after the humiliating episode of the rain, and breaking her back to get her harvest in on time, she kept up the morale of the pickers as they systematically denuded the vines, watched as the bunches were sorted, scrutinised the fouloir-égrappoir, and supervised the cellars in which the skins of the grapes rose slowly to form a chapeau in the new vats. Dashing from vineyard to chais, and chais to vineyard, she brought in the last of the cabernet sauvignon, which were already fermenting in the neighbouring cellars.

In the winery she found Halliday, eyes everywhere as usual, at the top of a ladder. He was wielding an aluminium pole with which he broke up the purple crust of grape skins which had formed at the top of the vat.

‘This cap should have been pierced, Clare. I suggest you have a word with your cellarmaster.’

Jean’s years under the laissez-faire attitude of the Baron had made him lazy. Hoarse and utterly exhausted, Clare exhorted the cellarmaster to greater vigilance.

The last day of the harvest was traditionally celebrated with a wild party, at the conclusion of which the regular pickers, swearing undying friendship, would take emotional leave of each other for another year. As the preparations were being completed, Baron de Cluzac arrived, unexpectedly, back at his château.

The first intimation Clare had of her father’s return was when Rougemont, who had been at her side all day as the last of the grapes were gleaned, went suddenly berserk.

She followed the dog, who scampered, falling over himself, all the way from the vineyards to the château. In the courtyard, she found her father shouting, at the top of his voice, for Monsieur Boniface to pay the driver of his taxi.

‘Papa!’

‘Clare.’

Clare recognised the familiar look of disapproval in her father’s eyes as he took in her grape-stained hands, her dishevelled appearance.

‘It’s the last day of the harvest,’ she said defensively, then realised that her father was alone. ‘Where’s Laura?’

‘In Florida.’

‘Getting the big top ready for the wedding?’

‘There will be no wedding.’

‘Changed your mind?’ Clare thought of the money he had paid Viola for the divorce, with which she had bought the new casks now waiting to be filled.

‘Not exactly.’

‘Are you going to tell me?’ She had no time to play games.

Charles-Louis hesitated.

All had been going well in Florida. The orange groves needed less attention and were more predictable than his vineyards, and much of his summer had been spent cruising on the Laura Dear.

Back at the mansion, where the giant marquee was already under construction, Laura had entered the Baron’s quarters to ask him about some last-minute preparations. Although it was not yet noon, she had found her prospective bridegroom in the arms of Rosa Delaware.

Laura had been doing her best for some time to ignore the rumours that had been circulating about
Charles-Louis’
proclivity for women, many of whom she suspected were her close friends. Had she not felt that she was rapidly becoming a laughing stock, she might have overlooked what might, in other circumstances, have been regarded as an indiscretion.

Coming as it did hard on the heels of his seduction of her New York decorator, who had been unable to keep what she saw as her double triumph at the Spray mansion to herself, Laura flipped her lid.

Emptying a large Chinese flower vase (famille rose) of contract lilies over the copulating couple – so that the brass and mahogany bed resembled a lily pond – and shrieking like a harridan, she hurled everything in sight that was not battened down at the lovers, and told Charles-Louis Eugène Bertrand, Baron de Cluzac, to get the hell out.

The Baron’s subsequent remorse – he knew on which side his wheat-toast was buttered – got him nowhere. Before she had signed the pre-nuptial contract on which
they had agreed, and which would get Charles-Louis out of his financial difficulties, Laura Spray had had her butler pack his valise, and ordered the immediate dismantling of the marquee.

In reply to Clare’s question as to why there was now to be no wedding, Charles-Louis shrugged. He stepped over the pile of battered leather suitcases which the taxi driver, displeased with his meagre tip, had abandoned in the courtyard.

‘Changement d’avis. Send somebody out for my things.’

The end-of-the-harvest party took place in one of the disused cellars which had been festively decorated for the occasion.

That there was something to celebrate, that Clare’s gamble to wait until the grapes were fully mature before she brought them in had paid off, was in no doubt. Albert Rochas, tired as he was – as they all were – had been heard to express his satisfaction at the culmination of his year’s work, and even Jean Boyer who had finally come to terms with both Clare and the inox, in which the new wine was fermenting, allowed himself a smile.

Only the Baron refused to join in the festivities. Despite Clare’s invitation, he insisted on taking his solitary dinner in the salle-à-manger as usual.

‘Will you be going back to Florida, Papa?’ Clare was curious.

‘I have thirty orange groves in Florida.’

The sarcasm of his tone, which had once succeeded in diminishing her, left Clare unmoved.

‘I thought that Laura Spray…?’

‘Laura Spray is neither here nor there.’

From the contempt in his voice, Clare deduced that the woman he had been about to marry had been erased from his mind as if she had never existed. Her father’s ability to turn his back on women, as Baronne Gertrude had once turned her back on him, never to give another thought to those he wished to strike from his mental agenda, had not changed.

One person who had been delighted with the news that the wedding would not now take place was Biancarelli, in whom the Baron detected a subtle change which he was at a loss to explain.

When Charles-Louis had told her, almost as an
afterthought
, during his afternoon visit, that he had been thrown out of the Palm Beach mansion and that the wedding was cancelled, Biancarelli had, to his surprise, put affectionate arms round his neck.

‘Ce n’est pas la fin du monde, Bianca!’ he said,
submitting
to her embrace.

‘I didn’t say it was the end of the world, Charles. Je suis tellement heureuse.’

‘Happy?’

‘La reine de Palm Beach was not for you.’

Biancarelli’s concern was reflected in their lovemaking.

Dressed as usual in her guêpière, she had, with all the little tricks at her disposal, convinced him that he was the great lover, reassured him of his manhood, dispelled any lurking doubts that he was unloved. Her ministrations were marked by a new tenderness towards him which took him by surprise. He asked her if anything were wrong.

‘Je suis malade.’

‘Ill?’ Charles-Louis was impotent in the face of illness. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

‘There is no cure.’

‘Rubbish. What is the matter?’

‘You would not understand, Charles.’

‘Ah, a woman’s complaint.’ There was relief in his voice.

‘Men can suffer from it too.’

‘Now you are talking in riddles.’ He was not into innuendo.

Watched speculatively by his mistress from the depths of her lace-trimmed pillows, the Baron left her bed and put on his clothes.

‘A demain, Bianca.’

‘A demain.’

Although Charles-Louis could not quite put his finger on it, something about Biancarelli was different. At a loss to explain it, he decided to ignore it. Unable to live without women, he had never tried to understand them. It was not worth the effort. There didn’t seem to be much point.

Clare left the Baron, whose every movement was watched by Rougemont, to his solitary dinner. In the cellars, where the rowdy pickers were already assembled at long tables beneath the giant bunches of black balloons, symbolising the black grapes, which hung from the low ceiling, she took her place at the top table. Flanked by her chef de culture and her maître de chai, surrounded by the exhilarated troupe, who had worked so hard to bring in the Château de Cluzac grapes, she gave herself up to the merriment and allowed herself to become exceedingly drunk on her own wine.

Sidonie and her kitchen staff had excelled themselves. A triumphant version of her potage aux légumes, heavily impregnated with chives and basil from Monsieur Louchemain’s herb garden, preceded a Gigot Brayaude, local lamb cooked until it could be eaten with a spoon, accompanied by blackberry jam. This was
followed by Clare’s favourite tarte aux mirabelles, served with great bowls of yellow cream, whipped together with icing-sugar, over crushed ice, until it was thick.

The intervals between the courses were enlivened by enthusiastic songs from a dozen different countries accompanied by improvised music played on guitars and accordians. It was hardly surprising that the meal took four hours to consume.

When at last it was finished, the youngest of the harvesters, a boy from Andalusia, noisily egged on by his companions, approached the top table. Red in the face with embarrassment, to the accompaniment of
wolf-whistles
, he handed over the gerbaude, the traditional bouquet of flowers presented annually to the château owner by the pickers.

Kissing the boy on both cheeks, amid ribaldry and
catcalls
, Clare accepted the bouquet. Overcome with emotion, she rose, with some difficulty, to her feet.

‘So many countries are represented here…’ She
wondered
why the room appeared to be unsteady. ‘So many countries are represented here, that I shall stick to English, and hope that most of you will understand. First of all I would like to say how much I appreciate your patience and understanding…’

She waited for the mocking cheers to die down.

‘…in waiting for the grapes to become completely mature, and for working so very hard to make this such a wonderful harvest. As most of you who have been coming regularly to pick the Château de Cluzac grapes will know, this is my very first vendange. Thank you for making it what promises to be an outstanding one. I am sure you would like to show your appreciation to my maître de chai, Monsieur Jean Boyer…’

The applause reverberated round the cellars.

‘And my chef de culture, Monsieur Albert Rochas…’

Albert stood up bowing. It was the moment that made all the pruning and the spraying the fertilising and the ploughing worthwhile.

‘…who are the real stars of this evening. Merci, danke schön, danke, gracie, muchas grazias to all of you, and a special thank you for these wonderful, wonderful flowers.’

The cheering grew frantic. Clare held up her hand.

‘Before you leave Château de Cluzac, before you go back to your own countries and your day jobs, I would like you to join me in a toast to the spent vignobles of Château de Cluzac, which have performed so extraordinarily well. This will be followed by “Auld Lang Syne” with the words of which, I have it on the most reliable authority, you are all familiar.’

Clare filled her glass from the bottle on the table.

‘The vineyards of Château de Cluzac!’

The toast, accompanied by tears and laughter, echoed round the cellars. Glasses were filled and emptied, instruments struck up, and two hundred white table napkins were waved above the heads of the troupe as ‘Auld Lang Syne’, in a variety of strange accents, hit the rafters.

As Clare linked arms with Jean on her left, and Albert on her right, she caught sight of Halliday Baines, who had been called away to deal with a faulty temperature gauge at Kilmartin, pushing his way between the tables towards her.

‘Clare…!’

‘“Should old acquaintance be forgot…”’ Singing enthusiastically, Clare smiled as he approached.

‘Clare!’

‘What is it?’

Leaning across the trestle table, Halliday shouted to make himself heard above the noise.

‘Sidonie wants you…’