The Rainbow Bridge (10 page)

Gaston paused, Louise could hear his knuckles cracking under the pressure he was putting on them. ‘He smiled at me, Louise. He smiled apologetically, like someone asking forgiveness for not being able to conclude a game, because right then he needed both hands to control his horse. I, like a fool, was shouting at him to surrender. He nodded, but at that moment his horse bucked and threw him forward. I could see that he was losing his seat. I let go of my reins and reached out with my left hand to steady him.’ Gaston’s voice dropped. ‘My one consolation in all this is that he realised at that moment that I was trying to help him. I remember the look of gratitude in his eyes – a word of thanks on his lips.’

Louise saw a glint on Gaston’s cheek and looked away.

‘We fell together. As we did so he dropped his sword; he had no loop or sword-knot to prevent it falling, and he fell on top of it. I remember the tearing sound as the blade went through him. You saw me pull a sword from his body? That wasn’t mine; it was his. I knelt beside him then and watched the life fade from his eyes.’ Gaston could hardly speak. ‘Louise, I could have been kneeling at my brother’s deathbed.’

A clock ticked laboriously in a corner of the room. The silence grew till it was more than Louise could bear; she had to do something. Without thinking, she turned and knelt in front of Gaston and rested her head and arms on his knees. He stroked her hair.

A hundred and forty years had done nothing to erode Louise’s love for Pieter, the Master’s apprentice, who had
held her so tight in that dusty room above the Oosterport in her native Delft. But this was a different kind of love. Here, she was a guest of Gaston’s mind. It was as if their consciousnesses had merged. But the touch of his hand brought home to her just how much she had missed by her early death and for a moment the loss threatened to overwhelm her. She must grab at every moment: to feel, to touch, to hold and above all understand.

Gaston’s hand continued to stroke her hair but his thoughts had wandered to a countryside Louise had never seen before. The image focused and she found herself gazing at a gnarled old tree on a slope above a country road. A girl was sitting under the tree, her eyes fixed on the road below. Louise felt drawn to her, as Gaston obviously was. But here Louise checked. Was she going too far? Had she any right to invade Gaston’s private thoughts? Reluctantly she pulled her mind away and the image faded, leaving her with a mixture of longing and a deep sadness. It was some time before either of them spoke.

‘Louise,’ Gaston asked in a whisper, ‘am I really touching you?’

‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘it shouldn’t be possible, should it? Gaston, I’m so sorry … about the Pont de Chasse. I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘No, I’m glad you did. I feel happier now I have told someone. You see, I’m not a monster, am I, Louise?’

‘No, you’re not a monster, Gaston.’ She slid out from under his hand then, and walked across the room to her picture, the touch of his hand lingering like a memory on her hair.

From Brussels south to Paris the roads were better. They
were making good time and Gaston was preoccupied with getting his troop into perfect order for a triumphant entry into Paris. News would, of course, have reached the capital, both of their coming and of their success in Amsterdam, but this was the official confirmation of the diplomatic coup, and the presentation of General Daendels’s reports. Louise kept to herself and her portrait remained in its case.

Monsieur Morteau waited until Colette’s blistered feet had recovered from her long walk, and dark smudges of exhaustion no longer circled her eyes, before putting Jean Brouchard’s plan into action. Take her out with you into the vineyards, the miller had said, and teach her about your vines. What Colette needs is sun and air, and above all something to occupy her mind.

Colette’s eyes widened when M. Morteau presented her with a pair of sabots that were suitable for work in the fields.

‘Come, my dear,’ he said, ‘It’s time for me to introduce you to my class of ’92. They hold great promise, my little grapes. In a week or two it will be their harvest, and we will be too busy to give them the attention they deserve.’ As he spoke he watched her face closely. Was that a little flash of interest? Perhaps Brouchard was right.

Colette hurried through her few chores and then asked Madame Morteau if she could go. She anticipated objections, or lamentations about her complexion, but Madame seemed to know about the arrangement and even produced a pretty, wide brimmed hat, trimmed with forget-me-nots, to protect her from the sun. Colette was touched. She kissed her benefactor and managed to whisper, ‘Merci, Maman,’ and the words didn’t stick on her
tongue.

Farm gates opened from the rear of the winery directly on to the slopes above. Colette could see M. Morteau gazing up at the geometric outlines of vineyard, each field a corduroy of lush green vines. He turned, saw her standing in the gate, and swept his arm in the direction of the fields as if inviting her to enjoy his pleasure and his pride. She felt a little guilty; she had been inclined to think of Gaston’s father as an old fuddy duddy, kind-hearted but possibly a bit odd. Now, looking at the regimented beauty of the slopes, she began to revise her opinion. This really was a creation, not just a part of the landscape. The gravelly soil crunched under her feet as she climbed towards him.

Eight men from the village worked all year in the vineyards. At six o’clock each morning they would appear in the yard, stretching and talking among themselves in low voices. Then M. Morteau would come out and give them their tasks for the day. They would disperse up the slopes, or into the cool recesses of the winery and the cellars beneath, as they had been directed. Today they were high on the slopes; she could see their heads above the vines, working in a line, talking no doubt, moving methodically towards the skyline.

‘So, you have come, my dear, and with a becoming hat too!’ His eyes sparkled. He reached out and lifted a bunch of grapes. ‘Now, let me introduce you to … how shall I say,’ he lowered his voice, ‘to some of my less able pupils.’ Colette suppressed a smile; so he really did talk to his vines! ‘Here, put your hand under them and feel them through the palm of your hand.’

Colette slid her hand under the bunch. ‘You see, even without squeezing you can tell that they are still hard. Poor dears, they are deprived of light down here, but used in
moderation, they have their place in our wine. They give it life, zest if you like.’ He winked at Colette and then raised his voice: ‘Do you hear that, you dunderheads, you may not be the brightest, but life would be dull without you.’ This time Colette had to laugh as she imagined rows of brightened faces looking up. ‘That should keep them happy,’ he concluded. Colette, bemused but delighted, was inclined to agree.

As they climbed the slopes, M. Morteau continued to address her and his vines without much distinction between the two, but Colette soon realised that there were lessons hidden behind his seemingly casual talk. She learned how the angle to the sun and height of the slope determined the hours of sunlight the grapes enjoyed. He would pick up handfuls of soil so that they could compare the changing colours reflecting the strata underneath.

To begin with, all the vines looked identical to Colette. M. Morteau had nicknames for them, but for now he told her their formal names: Fromenteau, Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, words that seemed to roll in the mouth. When they approached the line of workers the men stood back respectfully, but when M. Morteau spoke with them they talked easily, pointing out damaged plants or stakes; a curled leaf absorbed them for some minutes.

‘What are they doing?’ Colette asked when they had climbed on further.

‘Oh, they are de-shading the bunches. For the last weeks before picking, every grape must get as much sun as possible, so they are removing any leaves that are shading the fruit. Now, up here we are in the scholarship class. The sweeter the fruit, the stronger the wine and the better it will last. Here, hold a bunch like you did before.’ The grapes felt warm, almost sensuous in her palm, straining to burst
their skins. ‘Now we will taste. First we nip the skin with our teeth, because this is where the colour and the first flavours lie. You have heard a bell being struck?’ Colette nodded, ‘Well, this is the moment when the clapper strikes.’ Colette nipped and noticed the small explosion of tastes on her tongue. ‘Now, take in the flesh and move it around in your mouth; notice how your tongue and mouth taste different things in different parts. What you are tasting now are longer flavours; in our wine these will linger like the dying tones of our bell. We will pick a bunch and take them down to Maman.’

That evening, when the last bell rang from the church, Colette listened to the note until it faded to nothing. She thought about Gaston without rancour for the first time. Perhaps he had to go away for a while and wear his lovely uniform. But she was here, and if M. Morteau would let her, she would learn all she could about the vineyards. She would do this for Gaston. And even if he came home with a beautiful wife on his arm, she would still have a place here; it would be enough just to be near him.

Colette’s introduction to the work of the winery was to be a baptism of fire. In two weeks the pickers arrived and the vintage was upon them. How the migrant workers knew when to sweep down on Les Clos du Bois, she did not know, but quite suddenly the yard was full of men and women, tough as the vines themselves, and as black from the sun as the grapes that were waiting for them. There were demands for water, bedding, bread, oil, and all in vast quantities. Colette was overwhelmed; how could Maman, Margot and herself manage? But she hadn’t reckoned with the counter invasion that took place as the villagers poured
in, pushing her politely aside and taking over the greater part of running the house. The baker’s oven never cooled. As soon as the bread was baked and stacked to cool, the butcher appeared with joints of mutton and goat that were thrust into the oven to cook in the declining heat. A huge cauldron mounted on three stones stood in the yard, simmering over a low fire, continually charged with beans, barley, onions, cloves of garlic, herbs and the chopped up smaller cuts of meat, even bones. Someone had to keep stirring with a long paddle to stop it sticking. Just to smell it made one hungry.

Colette found that she was the only person who did not have a special task, but her very idleness gave her the role she needed; she became everyone’s messenger. At one minute she would be down at the mill shouting into M. Brouchard’s ear that a sack of barley was needed. Next she would be telling M. Morteau, up with the pickers, that the light winepress had broken. Then there would be a plea for water from the pickers. If she didn’t know who to go to, she found out, and if she didn’t know what the message she had been given meant, she transmitted it faithfully and asked questions later. Soon she knew the names of all the key players in the drama, and even knew intimate details of machines that she had never heard of before.

To begin with, the village workers kept an eye on her to see that she didn’t have any trouble from the migrants, who were not above making a pass at any girl if they could. They soon noticed however that she could look after herself; she could be quite like Madame Morteau if she chose.

The grapes came into the yard in purple torrents, but up on the slopes they were being treated with reverential respect. Colette was surprised to come across a pile of
discarded grapes that looked to her like the pick of the crop. ‘Why throw these out?’ she asked the foreman who was supervising the work. ‘They look perfect to me.’

‘They are the aristocrats, Mademoiselle, so fat they’ve split their skins.’ He laughed. Then dropped his head in embarrassment. ‘Pardon, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘No offence.’

As she trudged down the hill, Colette thought about his remark and his embarrassment. So, for all the family’s efforts at concealment, the villagers knew about her aristocratic origins. What pleased her, though, was that he had forgotten it. She was becoming accepted. She was singing to herself when she reached the yard.

The frenetic activity didn’t stop at sundown. Torches and lanterns were lit, a motley of instruments: oboes, pipes, drums and stringed instruments of various shapes appeared from nowhere and were tuned. Both migrants and villagers then took off their shoes, rolled up their trousers and skirts, and climbed into the shallow foot-press, stamping down the piled grapes with their feet. The music started, and with arms linked over their shoulders, they began to tread the grapes, slowly rotating to the wild skirl of the music. The mush would get more and more liquid as the grapes were broken open by the pressure of their feet. ‘It’s a gentle way of extracting the juice,’ M. Morteau told Colette. ‘Why don’t you join them? It will be soothing for your feet.’ And Colette joined in, to the delight of the workers, and felt the grapes popping between her toes. One by one the treaders would drop out and sit, purple legged, drinking their ration of wine while others took their place in the press. Their energy seemed unbounded. When she mentioned this to one of the village workers he laughed and said that the migrants fought for the privilege of coming to Les Clos du
Bois because they were better fed and looked after here than anywhere.

The kitchen was reserved primarily for the family, full-time workers and the more senior village folk who had come to help. They sat shoulder to shoulder about the great table, silently addressing the urgent matter of food. The crude plenty of the yard was augmented with roast meat and fowl and the wine was stronger than that which M. Morteau allowed to flow outside. Often the locals would sing – peasant songs with haunting melodies. Occasionally a gypsy violinist would be invited into the kitchen and Colette would feel her feet tapping involuntarily under the table. If only Gaston could have stayed, instead of rushing off before the harvest, her happiness would have been complete.

Like the vines she now tended, Colette put down roots and grew. Madame might still shake her head over her darkening complexion but M. Morteau watched her looks ripen, and he nurtured her like his vines, encouraging her to respond to the soil and the right mixture of sun and air. She was a ready pupil as, little by little, he followed Jean Brouchard’s advice and introduced her to the secrets of his trade, telling her his stories, and letting her taste his vintages until they lived for her as they lived for him.

Cadet Morteau had been gone from the winery for almost a year before he was granted home leave. During that time he had been drilled, shouted at, punished for minor misdemeanours, had shot pistols till his ears rang, slashed and thrust at both his comrades and at straw dummies, and had ridden until he was so saddle sore he could neither sit
nor walk. He had had no time to think of home, and if he had thought of girls it had got no further than sideways glances at the handkerchief-waving pretties who loved all hussars as long as they were safely on horseback. There had, of course been clumsy passes at barmaids who knew how to handle cadets better than the cadets did their horses. He had been working on his moustache, shaving it so that it appeared to droop down each side of his mouth. His hair was braided into plaits fore and aft of his ears.