Grape Expectations (9 page)

  Not only was Sophia learning to speak French like a native, she was also learning to eat like a native. Every day at school she had a three-course lunch consisting of, for example,
salade d'endives
,
boeuf bourguignon
and
tarte aux pommes
. Sean and I would salivate over her menu which was dutifully copied to the parents at the start of the month on a single-page calendar meal-planner, presumably to make sure we didn't feed them the same gourmet feast that evening. There was little chance of that.

  Ellie was ecstatic to fetch Sophia from school each day with me. We'd arrive at school and they would greet each other with glee.

  'Mummy, I don't love Ellie,' said Sophia one day on our way home.

  'What do you mean?' I asked.

  'If we love each other then we'll make babies,' said Sophia.

  I explained that this was incorrect. It was only when two grown-ups like a mum and a dad loved each other in a very special way that this amazing feat could take place. She looked dubious. When I got home I told Sean about our strange conversation.

  'Whoa!' said Sean. 'That's my fault. Sophia asked me where babies come from yesterday. I explained that it happens when two people love each other.'

  We agreed he should follow up with some clarification on his rather broad explanation.

Mike, the one who called Saussignac 'Saucy Jack', Bev, his wife, and their two young sons arrived to visit for a few days' holiday. Mike and Bev were old university friends of mine and we were looking forward to catching up… we also hoped that the extra help would accelerate the renovations.

  While Bev and I kept the children occupied, Mike and Sean set to preparing the ancient kitchen for the new one we had ordered. This involved some tile removal and a minimal amount of plumbing, which they vowed would be done in half a day.

  Every time we walked past, Mike and Sean were deep in discussion surrounded by myriad tools, books and countless plumbing supplies. A few hours later the car would roar off on yet another visit to the
quincaillerie
, our local hardware store. Later, the discussion would continue even more earnestly over a beer or two. Five days and countless bags of plumbing equipment later, not a tile had been removed and the plumbing job was complete but leaking.

  The next time Jean-Marc came round I asked him to fix the work they had done. He took a look, shook his head, then ran out to his van for a toolbox.

  Five minutes later he declared:
'Ça fonctionne!'

  Mike and Bev left as my parents and the hoar frost arrived. It transformed our farm into a scene from
The Lion, the Witch
and the Wardrobe
. White ice crystals hung delicately off telephone wires, trees and vineyard trellising, and covered the ground like shimmering snow. In the sun it was like necklaces of diamonds; stunning but extremely cold; the coldest winter in living memory.

  Mum and Dad were in a state of shock. Not only were they finding it hard to accept that we had left our successful city careers for a very risky rundown farm, they were new to grandchildren and they were frozen. Their modern house maintained a comfortable 20 degrees no matter the weather. We were maintaining an uncomfortable 10 degrees with the heating on full blast... until the heating packed up.

  It was 29 December and there was no answer from the office of Lambert the Handsome. Fortunately, Jamie had Jean-Marc's mobile number.

  To help my parents stay warm during the emergency I encouraged them to remove the old wallpaper in the salon. Working with a steamer and climbing up and down ladders to remove streams of nicotine-laden, velvet-flocked, burgundy wallpaper soon increased their body heat. By the time Jean-Marc arrived the salon was like a sauna.

  After half an hour he emerged from the boiler room covered from head to toe in a thick layer of black soot.

  
'Ça fonctionne,'
he declared triumphantly.

  'You must have the heating off each time the tank is filled and for a minimum of six hours afterwards,' he scolded. I nodded and showed him to the basin. I kicked myself for not remembering that Jamie had mentioned this handy tip on one of his winery visits. This was the first time we had filled the fuel tank and it had slipped my mind. All these small errors were costing us money we didn't have.

  At least it gave a critical boost to the renovations: my parents were so exhilarated by removing the foul wallpaper that they steamed on regardless that the heating was now
'en fonction'
. Once the paper was off they were so taken with the room's potential, they painted it. By the time they left the salon was transformed.

  The charming
broyeur
that had been reinstalled in our brand new bathroom developed a leak. I called Monsieur Lambert, since except in emergencies everything had to go through
le patron
, and Jean-Marc appeared.

  
'Qu'est-ce que vous m'avez cassé aujourd'hui?'
(What have you broken for me today?) he asked with a twinkle in his eye. This became his first question each time he saw me, providing much merriment.

  These breakages in the house were due to lack of foresight on my part and were beginning to rival Sean's in the vineyard. The
broyeur
was blocked by debris from a past era. I kicked myself again for not having cleaned it when Jean-Marc removed it for the bathroom fitting. Too many trips to Monsieur Bonny and visits from Jean-Marc were making our bank balance look sick. We were guzzling through our savings and we hadn't tackled a full winemaking cycle or any investment expenses yet.

After the cutting, the next job in the pruning cycle was pulling the discarded canes off the trellising. In our region the vines grow on a vertical trellising system with three rows of wire running between upright poles that run the length of the vine row. The vines grow up this vertical surface so there is as much sun exposure as possible for their leaves in the growing season. Once the winegrower has cut the canes they don't fall to the ground since the vine has attached itself to the trellising during the growing season using little tendrils. The tendrils that looked so delicate holding the canes onto the trellis in summer became hard and tough as wire in the winter. Pulling the canes off the trellising was tough and sometimes dangerous work as the canes could whip back unexpectedly. Protective eye gear was obligatory.

  With the pressure of spring's arrival mounting I asked our neighbour, Sonia, to look after Ellie so I could help. Sonia had a son named Alane of a similar age to Ellie and a daughter of a similar age to Sophia, plus she had trained to look after young children. Sonia and her husband Fred's house was the nearest of the new houses on the road that took us into the village, a mere hundred metres away. We could not have wished for a more ideal neighbour. Ellie was two months away from her first birthday. The outing to Sonia would give her some light relief from her usual entertainment of watching me roll paint or sand old wood windows.

  Donning goggles, winter rain gear and large rubber boots, I waddled out like the Michelin man. After two rows I was exhausted.

  'Get on with it or we'll never finish in time!' Sean snapped. He was focused. I never wanted to do vineyard work and now I was out there, an unwilling helping hand.

  Cécile, our vineyard advisor, inspected Sean's pruning, pronounced it
'très bonne'
, and wanted to know where he had done his training. Sean nearly kissed her. He didn't own up to being largely self-taught on two vines in our back garden. I felt bad about my unwilling attitude. Sean was facing the real transformation, responsible for growing our livelihood, learning new skills in a language he was only starting to grasp. Seeing the look on his face at Cécile's compliment, I felt a deep empathy for him and realised his rough attitude since we arrived was partly due to this subtle but intense stress.

  Cécile convinced Sean to sign up for a two-day course she was running on managing vineyard pests and diseases. At the last minute he decided he wasn't confident enough in his French and asked me to go. I walked into the training room several minutes late after dropping Sophia at school.

  'Please give me a brief introduction: your name, the size of your vineyard, how long you have been installed and your viticultural experience,' said Cécile. My heartbeat pounded in my cranium. I hate group introductions and in a room full of local farmers, I felt totally out of my depth.

  'Nicolas Demetier, seventy-five acres in Monbazillac, installed since birth, fourth generation
viticulteur
,' said the first.

  I withered into my seat as the rest of the men followed in a similar vein. My turn, the last, came around too fast.

  'Caro Feely, twenty-five acres in Saussignac. My husband has been installed since September,' I said, feeling the lack of several generations of vineyard knowledge.

  A day of rapid-fire French followed. The less I concentrated on the words, the more I understood. The minute I tried to 'understand', the words became a torrent of incomprehensible sounds. Cécile took us through endless slides of photos of pests and diseases and how to combat them. We went for lunch and I tried not to make a fool of myself. Seated beside me was a farmer from Saussignac, Pierre Sadoux, a thin rake of a fellow who smoked rolled cigarettes and had a ready smile. He repeated the name of his property but I didn't recognise it. I could barely say Haut Garrigue, the name of our own farm. Understanding and pronouncing the names of those around us remained impossible.

  At the end of the first day I was bushwhacked by language difficulties but also terrified by what was lurking in our vineyard.
Ravageurs
lay around every corner and the sprays required to slay them were more frightening. Even the sprays for organic producers like us weren't too appetising. I spent the evening showing Sean the photos of the monsters resident in our vines, terrifying creatures ranging from red and dragon-like to spotted and horned. Fortunately, most were invisible to the naked eye.

  I was convinced the following day could bring nothing as gruesome but Cécile distributed an innocent-looking booklet called 'Risk Evaluation' to take home. Sean and I read it in horror. The winery was more petrifyingly dangerous than all the
ravageurs
in the vineyard put together. It was home to four killers which regularly took their toll on winemakers: carbon dioxide asphyxiation, mechanical accidents, falling from height and electrocution.

  Jamie warned us that the electricity in the winery was far from robust. We resolved to get it replaced and to put a security barrier around the top of the vats in the main winery. There were certain things that, even with security measures, remained dangerous, like carbon dioxide and some pieces of machinery. Ellie got her fifth tooth that night and between getting up to administer paracetamol I had nightmares about winery killers.

  In late winter or early spring the trellising posts that have rotted at the base must be replaced. Some farmers had moved to metal posts, which lasted longer but had a propensity to attract and conduct electric and radio waves, creating 'noise' in the vineyard. Regardless of the type of post, it needed to be bashed into the ground. Sean checked out the prices of mechanical post-bashers and concluded that, while an attractive idea, it was not an option for us.

  Stephan Ranzato, a 7-foot-tall, solidly built local winegrower who was also a part-time salesman for trellis posts and accessories, offered to lend us his 50-kilogram manual post-basher; a massive
cloche
, or bell, used to bash the trellising posts into the ground. He delivered it, unfolding himself awkwardly out of his tiny Renault. I felt he was doing us a huge favour lending us his equipment when he barely knew us. I leapt forward to grab it.

  
'Merci beaucoup,'
I said. 'Don't worry, I'll take it in.'