My Grape Escape (8 page)

I didn’t join in. “So they won’t let me in now? Is that it?”

“Don’t jump to conclusions yet. I have thought out a plan of attack. We may have to fight for it, but I believe our chances are excellent. I will write a letter supporting your candidature, and let it be known that you were taught Criminal Law by an inexperienced teacher-”

“My mark wasn’t my teacher’s fault. I was the one who bombed that exam.”

“That approach won’t serve us,” Mr. Partridge replied. “I will explain that your teacher’s lack of competency is the reason for that atypically low mark.” Mr. Partridge made a funny little sound of satisfaction, a sound someone would make without realizing it as they preened themselves in the mirror. “With that and my recommendation
,
I am sure they will find a place for you.”

The phone line went silent. I couldn’t believe how quickly he would torpedo my teacher’s reputation just for the glory of getting one more student into the Master’s program
.
He was waiting for a thank you, I
reali
z
ed
, and my reiteration that, as any sane Oxford student would say, I wanted a spot in the coveted Master’s program more than life itself. I opened my mouth but no words came out.

“They will want to interview you,” he added. “You must return to Oxford immediately.”

I twisted the black phone cord around my wrist. Back to Oxford? Now?

“Are you still on the line Laura?”

Stone walls flashed through my mind beside polished flagstones and a centuries old wooden statue of the Virgin Mary.

“
Non
,” I whispered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“
Non
.” It came out in French again, louder this time, and sounded like the response of an impetuous five-year-old who had just been ordered to give back the
bonbon
she had stolen from her brother.

“But I can hear you. You must still be on the line.”

“I meant the Master’s program.”

A pause of disbelief. “You mustn’t worry about it not being fair tactics, you know. That is simply the way - ”

“No!” It came out in clear English this time and louder still. We were both stunned into silence for a few seconds. He spoke first.

“I simply don’t understand,” he admitted, peevish.

“I…I appreciate your offer,” I stumbled over my words. “I really do. It’s just that…maybe that Criminal paper is a sign that I’m not meant to do the Master’s program after all.”

“Nonsense! You mustn’t undersell yourself. You must know by now that one thing we value above all at Oxford is self-confidence. It is imperative that you believe in yourself
,
Laura. You will never get ahead otherwise.”

Did I still want to get ahead, Oxford style? That was the question. What I really wanted was to watch the clouds float by and make toilet paper roll dolls and wake up in my own little house in France.

“I’m not certain I want to get ahead anymore,” I said.

I knew that in his Oxford office Mr. Partridge was shaking his head in disbelief.

“Laura,” he began, his voice soothing now. “I believe that perhaps the pressure has affected your judgment. I suggest that you take a day or two to think things over. Not any longer than that, mind. If we are to be successful we must start campaigning as soon as possible.”

Telling an Oxford student that the pressure had got to them was just about the worst form of insult. A month ago I would have done almost anything to prove Mr. Partridge wrong, but now…

“Thank you for the offer,” I said. “I appreciate your efforts. Truly. But I believe I’m coming to the conclusion that perhaps law isn’t for me after all.”

“Did you get accepted to a Master’s program somewhere else?” he demanded.

“I didn’t even apply anywhere else.”

“Then what on earth are you going to do?”

I turned this question over in my mind for a good while. “I have no idea,” I said, at last. Part of me vibrated in panic while the other half soared with relief.

Mr. Partridge didn’t say anything for a moment. I knew how bizarre my answer sounded to someone inside the Oxford universe, a place where every step up was minutely planned and anticipated, where a choice that turned its back on academic or professional achievement was unthinkable.

“Are you absolutely certain you don’t want to take a few days to think this over?” His voice had now taken on the hushed, soothing quality I’d heard being used with mental patients.

This was my last chance to go back to my old life. From day one though, I had hated studying law and I knew now with every cell in my body that I would always hate studying law. There were so many other things I had discovered I loved however - smooth wooden banisters running under my palm and old stone wells. Maybe we had lost our paradise in Marey, but that dream had allowed me to realiz
e
what I loved and, more importantly, what I did not.

“I’m sure,” I said.

Chapter 9

I was still sitting with the phone cord twisted around my wrist when Franck crept back into the room.

“Bad news?”

I wasn’t quite sure how to answer. Was it bad news? I wasn’t sorry so much as stunned.

“I got a 2:1,” I said.

“That’s what you wanted, right?” Franck asked, unsure. “Isn’t that a good mark?”

How asinine to have spent two years sacrificing everything just to be awarded a number that meant nothing in the real world.

“It’s what I wanted. We won’t be going back to Oxford though.” I peered up into Franck’s face, expecting shock and disapproval, but I only saw a huge smile. “I told Mr. Partridge I didn’t want to do the Master’s program after all. I have no idea what we’re going to do next,” I admitted.

Franck pulled me up from the bed and gathered me in his arms. I nestled my head under his chin and inhaled his familiar smell of apples and freshly cut wood. “That is the best news I have heard in a long time.” He kissed my forehead and then that tender spot behind my earlobe. “I happen to be good friends with the unknown.
Allons
, I have a chilled bottle waiting for us downstairs.”

In the days that followed I often felt that sickening feeling of teetering on the edge of a cliff with imminent disaster directly below. I had absolutely no idea how Franck and I were going to earn enough money to eat and have a roof over our heads, let alone figure out what we really enjoyed doing in life. This, however, was alleviated by moments of untrammelled glee that I associated with being in elementary school and hearing on the radio that it was a snow day.

Franck didn’t know any better than I did what the future held; this didn’t bother him in the slightest. He was confident that, thanks to his capacity for hard work and the protection of his guardian angels, we would thrive. Still, despite my worries, that “
non
” during my phone call with Mr. Partridge had come from somewhere deep inside me - a place that I hadn’t listened to in a very long time.

Franck and I slowly came to the decision to move back to Vancouver to figure things out, closer to my family and a better job market than Burgundy. We couldn’t stay
chez Germain
indefinitely if we were going to build our own life.

“If only we’d got that house,” Franck often said, with more wistfulness now than bitterness.

“If we had
got the house
,
we’d have a huge mortgage to pay, tons of repairs to do, and no money to do it with,” I reminded him. Of course, part of me lusted for that lost project just as much as Franck. Still, it had taught me to dream again and nobody – not even a scheming notary or rich buyers from Switzerland - could take that away from me.

I finally bought our airline tickets back to Canada. I also did my best to placate my family by telling them I was going to try to qualify as a lawyer in Vancouver. It wasn’t dishonest, really. Most of the time I believed that I would have no choice but to go that route. How long could I play hooky for, after all?

Then just five days before we were scheduled to leave for Vancouver, a short scribbled note arrived from Franck’s family notary. The handwriting was appalling. Franck and I sat on the warm stone steps to the kitchen with André hovering behind us, squinting at the note in an attempt to decipher the Maître Lefebvre’s hieroglyphics.

“I think that this says ‘
maison
.”’ André pointed to one of the more legible scrawls.

“And that looks like the number eighteen written in Roman numerals,” Franck said.

“Doesn’t that say ‘Magny’”? I asked them, pointing to another word.

Mémé came out and swatted us off the steps with her dishtowel. She had no patience for loungers in her path. She had just finished making about thirty or so quiches and needed to take them across to the freezer in the
grange
.

“What’s that in your hand?” she demanded of Franck.

“We’re not quite sure,” Franck said. “It’s from Maître Lefebvre.” She plucked it out of Franck’s hand and scanned it with her habitual authority.

“Charming Eighteenth Century Village house located in the centre of Magny-les-Villers,” she read, without pausing. “Wonderful view on the Roman church across the street and exquisite oak beams in attic. Call for further information.” She passed the note back to Franck and marched across the gravel courtyard with her bags of quiches.

“How could you read that?” Franck called after her.

She emerged from the barn a few seconds later, mid-shrug. “His writing is exactly the same as his father’s. His father wrote my divorce settlement.” She snapped her dishtowel at an errant wasp, dismissing any further questions on that subject.

Franck touched my arm. “His office must be closed now, but do you want to go to Magny and see if we can find the house he’s talking about?”

I grimaced. My heart had been broken over the property in Marey. I couldn’t picture wanting to buy any other house for several months, maybe years, at least.

His touch turned into a light caress. “It’s not far for us to go. It would be a nice walk.”

“It’s probably already sold,” I said.

“I doubt it,” Mémé said. “Why would he bother sending you the note otherwise? I don’t think Le Maître would make such an effort unless he really needed to get rid of something.”

I sighed, realizing that Franck was not going to give up until he had seen the house, one way or another. “There’s no point in going to Magny today. We probably wouldn’t even be able to tell which house he is talking about. Go ahead and call him tomorrow morning to make an appointment, just to satisfy your curiosity. Don’t forget we’re leaving in five days, though.”

Franck scanned the note again. “I have a good feeling about this.”

I had no feelings about it at all. I wasn’t ready to fall in love again.

The next morning, Franck had called Le Maître before I had even crawled out from under our duvet. Of course Franck urged the secretary to make the appointment as soon as possible, but apparently it was unthinkable for Le Maître to meet us before three o’clock that afternoon.

Leaving for the scheduled rendezvous, I felt as cynical as a jaded divorcée in the lead up to a blind date. By three o’clock the temperature was hovering around forty degrees Celsius. Standing in the sun, even for a few seconds in my light dress, gave me the impression I was being baked alive. We took shelter in the alcove’s shade of the little Roman church where I had poured my heart out to the Virgin Mary statue just days before. I didn’t even spare a cursory glance around me to try and figure out which of the six or so village houses we would be touring. It didn’t really matter; I was determined to be unimpressed.

Half an hour later Le Maître came roaring up in his Renault and took out two of the scarlet rose bushes planted alongside the church in his attempt to park. Le Maître emerged, shrugged an apology to the flattened flowers, and made his way over to us. We stood up and he shook our hands.

“Madame, Monsieur Germain,” he intoned with an air of unshakable professionalism that was undermined by the wine vapors which emanated from his pores.

“
Bonjour, Maître
,” Franck said. “Which house will we be visiting?”

Le Maître waved vaguely toward the three houses on the opposite side of the road. “That one.” He patted his pockets. “
Mon Dieu
, where are the keys?” This was annoying but it also made me less wary. It didn’t appear that, unlike Maître Ange, Maître Lefebvre could organize a scam even if he wanted to. Franck and I exchanged a look and retreated to the cool of the nave once more.

After five minutes of searching every pocket and tuck in his clothing as well as emptying out the glove compartment of his car, Le Maître made an irate call to his
secrétaire
. He demanded what she could have possibly done with the keys to the house. It was clear from the vastly entertaining string of swear words that followed this brief exchange that she basically told him to go to hell.

Just when I was sure that the visit was not going to happen, a huge bundle of long, iron keys was extracted from some hidden rear pocket of Le Maître’s pants. It was incredible that he could have missed them in his body search. The wine consumption at lunch must have been prodigious indeed.

Le Maître triumphantly dangled the key ring in front of us. I had always loved old keys, and these ones were spectacular, but that didn’t mean I wanted the house that went with them. I had to keep a clear mind.

He beckoned us across the street and we followed him underneath a little archway of stone, which the enamel plaque on the crumbling plaster wall designated as the “Passage Saint-Martin”. Le Maître veered to the right and began to climb a flight of large stone stairs, each one about seven feet wide.

Mid-climb Franck stopped in his tracks and I bumped into his back. “These have to be from the local quarry,” he said, pointing down at the ripples of pink and ochre that ran through the stone. Uh oh. His grandfather (the fabled Pépé Georges who could sulk for days and who was now one of Franck’s squad of Guardian Angels) had worked all his life in the local quarry; Franck had a soft spot for anything that came from there.

The first door the Maître unlocked was a run-of-the-mill metal door, painted an unedifying shade of gray. I peeked around Franck and was satisfied to see the walls of the veranda itself were unpainted concrete. Ugly. The veranda was roofed with pieces of glass that magnified the heat. I was sure I was going to keel over while Le Maître tried several keys unsuccessfully.