Vintage (34 page)

By the morning of the Bordeaux marathon, as runners from the United States and Europe as well as from all over France, converged on St-Estèphe, chefs de culture were looking anxiously to both their grapes and the sky. As the annual tensions which accompanied the run-up to the vendange were beginning to be felt, preparations for the forthcoming harvest were being completed throughout the Médoc.

In the wineries, century-old vats in outmoded pressing houses had been hosed down and dried out; stainless-steel cuves scrubbed clean as saucepans; cement vats scraped; mechanical harvesters taken to pieces, cleaned and reassembled. Everything in the cellars, from mechanical stemmers to electric wiring, had been meticulously checked out, and in a thousand châteaux the casks and vats that would receive the pressed juice lay waiting.

At Château de Cluzac, Albert Rochas had begun to take regular samples of grapes to the laboratory in Bordeaux, where Halliday Baines assessed them for acidity level and sugar content; with letters piled high on his desk, Monsieur Boniface dealt with applications from the hundreds of pickers (many of them regulars) from all over the world, who were soon to descend on the château; while in the kitchens, together with the wives of the estate workers, Sidonie made preparations to feed them.

The ingredients for Harvesters’ Stew, almost obliterated by time and spilled grease, from her tattered recipe book, had remained unaltered since the days of Baron Thibault: 50 kilos of beef (cut into 4 cm squares),
50 fine onions, 60 small pieces of garlic and 40 peeled cloves, 160 carrots, 4 fistfuls of cooking salt, 2 fistfuls of pepper, celery and ground cloves.

Larding the pieces of beef with the garlic and cloves, Sidonie would put them into giant iron cooking pots, add cold water, bring it to the boil several times, and painstakingly remove the foam before throwing in the chopped vegetables, reducing the heat, and letting the stew simmer, so that only a bubble broke the surface, for several hours.

Placing a slice of gros pain into the soup plate of each weary harvester at the end of the first day’s picking, she would ladle the very hot stew over the bread. Eaten with thickly sliced tomatoes from the château gardens, accompanied by fiery mustard, and washed down with young wine, it was a meal fit for the gods.

As the annual drama drew nearer, the tourists returned home, the visites to the chais tailed off, and the protagonists prepared for countdown, Clare felt increasingly isolated and alone. She was not short of expert advice. Jean Boyer, Albert Rochas and Monsieur Boniface had lived through a great many more vendanges than she, but as harvest time drew nearer none of them seemed to have time for her.

Monsieur Boniface was busy with his applications in the estate office; Sidonie was up to her eyeballs counting out piles of plates and sacks of potatoes; and in the vineyards Albert Rochas paced anxiously up and down the rows of vines like a mother hen.

Halliday Baines was equally preoccupied. He not only had his vineyards to look after, but had stepped up his marathon training. This year he was determined to be accepted into the Commanderie du Bontemps de Médoc, a privilege awarded to the winner who would, in addition, receive the equivalent of his weight in wine. Apart from
providing Clare with the address of a winemaker in Spain, who would give her a reasonable price for her old barrels, his one flying visit had been spent in the vineyards in the company of Albert Rochas. He had declined Clare’s invitation to stay for lunch.

‘Maureen’s filing for divorce,’ he said, as she walked him to the jeep. ‘She wants to marry Chris.’

‘It was on the cards.’

They laughed, remembering the mind reading.

‘It’s different when it actually comes to it. Billy’s settling into his new school.’

‘About the harvest. Is it true that I have to start picking on a Monday?’

‘That’s the calendar of men…’ Halliday switched on the ignition. ‘The calendar of nature is something else. Don’t worry about the harvest. I’ll tell you when to start picking.’

‘When will that be?’

‘When your grapes are ripe.’

While Halliday was physically absent, Alain Lamotte was mentally remote. Although they had resumed their business dealings and the incident at Assurance Mondiale was not directly referred to, Clare was aware that she had treated Alain extremely badly and that he was still wounded in his pride. Knowing only too well what it was like to feel rejected, she had bought him a tie with butterflies on it and tried to put things right.

‘Look Alain, I’ve told you how sorry I am about what happened. Can’t we be friends?

‘I thought we were friends.’

‘It doesn’t feel like it.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

Since the night in his office, Alain had been more obsessed with Clare than ever. Despite his humiliation,
and against his better judgement, he knew that he would continue to help her with the château until she was on her feet.

Delphine had remarked his preoccupation – which she had attributed to the demands of Assurance Mondiale – for which she had suggested a week’s holiday in Morocco. Alain had turned down the idea on the grounds of
commitments
in Bordeaux, but which were in fact at Château de Cluzac. Even the two little girls had noticed.

‘Papa est toujours faché avec nous,’ Amélie had complained, when Alain had curtly refused to play tennis with her.

‘Papa doesn’t mean to be angry with you.’ Delphine was in the garden preparing a barbecue over which Alain would preside. ‘Sometimes your papa works too hard.’

She was not entirely convinced by her own explanation for Alain’s unaccustomedly short fuse and his moroseness. There were days when she could scarcely get a word out of him. When Harry Balard – with whom she had played a mixed doubles at the Primrose – had suggested that she keep a closer eye on her husband, she had reported the conversation to Alain, who had immediately passed it on to Clare.

‘If Delphine ever found out about us, she’d go straight back to Paris with the children. I know my wife.’

‘There’s nothing to find out,’ Clare said briskly.

‘Malheureusement…’

‘Come on Alain. You love Delphine. Delphine loves you. Leave Harry Balard to me.’

Careful not to go anywhere near Alain’s office, they held their frequent meetings in the Bureau d’Acceuil, where the agenda was strictly business.

‘I saw Philip Van Gelder.’ Alain lit a cigarette. ‘I was coming out of the Cité Administrative…’

‘The tax office?’

Alain nodded.

‘Van Gelder was just going in.’

‘Et alors?’

‘Afterwards I had lunch at La Tupina. Van Gelder was at the next table…’

Clare waited.

‘He was talking to Monsieur Huchez and Monsieur Combe!’

‘What about?’ Clare wondered what the South African wine-grower had to do with the fisc.

‘Unfortunately I couldn’t hear what they were saying.’

Clare had other things to think about. Not only was she worried about the harvest but about Grandmaman. She had been to Notre Dame de la Consolation to discuss the matter with Tante Bernadette.

‘I thought perhaps that you could have a word with her…’ Clare had walked round the convent gardens with the Reverend Mother, who stopped to chide a sister as she hoed the dry beds.

‘Vous devez ramasser les courgettes quand elles sont encore petites. Elles ont plus de gout.’

‘Entendu ma Mère.’

Clare hadn’t come to talk about the optimum size of courgettes.

‘Grandmaman is your mother.’

‘Maman abdicated that role long ago,’ Tante Bernadette said.

Recalling the fateful day of her wedding, when she had left her bridegroom at the altar, Bernadette took Clare’s arm. ‘She has not spoken to me in nearly forty years.’

‘Grandmaman is sick. She needs urgent medical
attention
. Is there nothing you can do?’

‘I shall pray for her.’

‘That’s not quite what I meant.’

‘“More things are wrought by prayer…”’

‘You sound like Grandmaman.’

‘I am her daughter. A fact your grandmother seems to have forgotten.’

‘Grandmaman doesn’t talk to Papa either.’

‘The de Cluzacs are a law unto themselves, Clare. I am surprised you haven’t found that out.’

Stopping for a moment as they paused at a gate in the stone wall at the end of the vegetable garden, Bernadette looked up at the autumnal sky. ‘When I was a small girl, Maman used to take me to the harvest festival at
St-
Emilion
– I think about it every year – that was where my grandmother lived…’

Passing into the Contemplative Garden, she led Clare to a wooden bench in an alcove formed by a yew hedge, and lowered her voice.

‘Every year, on the Sunday before the vendange, the people of St-Emilion would gather in the church on the hill. There was a very old Abbé… Abbé… His name escapes me. It’s not important. He was the parish priest. One Sunday, I must have been about ten years old, he told us about the wedding at Canaan, at which Jesus turned the water into wine: “The wedding guests were all assembled when the mother of Jesus said to Him, ‘They have no wine…’” At which point of course everybody laughed.

‘After the sermon, the Abbé blessed the congregation, the choir from the Cathédral Saint-André in Bordeaux sang a Gloria by Monteverdi, the church doors were
flung open and we poured out into the sunshine. The Jurade of St-Emilion, in their cardinal-red robes, preceded by pipes, drums, trumpets and heraldic banners, led the way down the steep cobbled streets to the monolithic church…’

‘Monolithic church?’

‘An old stone monument with subterranean passages. It was used by the Jurade for their induction ceremony. The stage was lit by torches, and as each new applicant arrived the leader of the Jurade asked his Jurats, “Are you willing to open the doors of your cellars and your houses to our new candidate?” Of course they replied, “We are.”

‘When the ceremony was over, the Jurade left the church and climbed to the top of the King’s Tower where the Procureur proclaimed the new harvest. The trumpets were sounded, the Jurade cried out “Allelujah!”, and the rest of the day was spent eating, drinking and telling stories to go with the wine. I remember it as if it were yesterday.’

Bernadette turned to Clare.

‘I will pray for Maman. And for your harvest.’

Although Clare had little faith that Tante Bernadette’s prayers could influence either Baronne Gertrude’s intestines or the Château de Cluzac grapes, there was always the niggling suspicion that lurked in the mind of the unbeliever, that in the next world – should it of course turn out that there was such a thing – she might just be proved wrong.

The imminent harvest had for weeks now provided le tout Bordeaux with its sole topic of conversation. The marathon, which many of the Bordelais would turn out to watch, provided a little light relief.

Every year, as Madame la Présidente de l’Equipe Tendresse de l’Association des Joyeux Tartineurs (the Association of Happy Sandwich Makers), Marie-Paule Balard manned the buffet at the finishing line. This year she was assisted by Christiane.

Things at the Balard residence had gone from bad to worse. The thwarted Claude, whose temper had not improved, had not given up for a moment his ambition to own Château de Cluzac; Harry was still importuning Marie-Paule at regular intervals for funds and had become increasingly secretive; and Christiane was even more besotted with Halliday Baines, for whose benefit it was that she had volunteered to help her mother with the sandwiches.

While Halliday, an élite runner who had spent nine months training for the marathon, looked upon it as a personal measuring post, and Alain Lamotte aimed annually at improving his time, Jamie, who started in the back row and made a game out of passing as many people as possible, joined in purely for enjoyment.

Refusing to agonise over what he ate on the night before the big race, he had refused to let Clare sign him up for the high-carbohydrate Diner de Pâtes which was given by Baronne Philippine de Rothschild at Château d’Armailhacq and attended by two thousand runners. Instead he took her to dinner at Le Chapon Fin – an erstwhile haunt both of Edward VII and Toulouse-Lautrec – where they could be alone.

‘I’ve been short-listed for the Oxford job,’ he told Clare as, waiting to be served, they caught up with the news.

‘The Oxford job?’

‘The one I told you about. It’s a blue-chip job.’

‘Great.’

‘I went to see Grandmaman last night; I knew you’d want an up-to-date report. If anything, she seemed slightly better.’

‘Perhaps Grandmaman’s right after all. About the body fighting its own battles.’

‘Miranda’s gone back to her flat. She’s organising a memorial service for Barnaby…’ Jamie leaned back as the white-aproned waiter approached with their order.

Clare did not want to talk about Miranda. She looked at Jamie’s plate with its thick tournedos on a bed of fried bread and foie gras.

‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

‘I’m only running to St-Estèphe, not Sparta. I’m not in good nick anyway. I was up nearly all night doing emergency surgery. A group of schoolkids ran in front of a bus in the High. You’ve never seen such a mess. Fortunately no one was killed. One poor little girl had several fractured ribs, her humerus poking into the brachial artery, and the bone right through the skin in her forearm. Compartment syndrome. By the time I got to her the pressure had risen and the blood supply to the muscle was almost cut off. I had to do a fasciotomy – separate the fibrous layer – before the muscle died… Am I boring you?’

Clare picked up her knife and fork. ‘Sorry Jamie.’ She seemed to spend her life apologising lately. ‘I was thinking about my grapes.’

The marathon of the Châteaux of the Médoc and the Graves, routed through the Bordeaux vineyards, was rated among the ten most beautiful of the world. Unlike any other marathon, it was a three-day affair, marked by celebrations both before and after the race, which ended where it began, at the port of St-Estèphe.

The festivities included a gastronomic Great Trade Fair at La Chapelle, a photographic exhibition (to entice people to the Maison du Vin), aeroplane rides and boat trips, boutiques, side shows and amusements set up in Les Allées Marines along the banks of the Gironde, fancy dress and entertainments, jazz bands and bungee jumping, buffet suppers by the dozen, and wine-tastings along the route. By the time the runners had assembled on the quayside on the second day, excitement had reached fever pitch. The entire Médoc was en fête.

Halliday Baines’ technique, which he had put into practice in marathons from Sydney to Fukoka, had been learned the hard way. Scorning the idea of a running coach, he had worked out for himself the best way to optimise his performance. Aware that, as the heart muscle became stronger, the oxygen delivery became more efficient and the blood flow through the muscle fibres was increased, he knew that it was important not to overdo it. The more you overdid it, the more likely you were to crash, and, even if you didn’t actually injure yourself, you’d find that you were actually running more slowly instead of faster. The stronger the muscles, the more effectively they contracted, the faster it was possible to run (using the same amount of energy) before hitting the pain threshold.

While Halliday’s method entailed distinguishing between what the mind perceived and the body perceived, Jamie’s game plan was to put one leg in front of the other for 42.2 kilometres, until he was presented with the
T-shirt
awarded to all finishers.

With his number, 24, fastened to his singlet with safety pins (courtesy of Sidonie), Jamie was directed to the far reaches of the colourful field, while Halliday was pampered with a private dressing area and given a
privileged
position near the starting line. Oblivious of the buzz of excitement around him and the broadcast music, interrupted from time to time by announcements – ‘Time spent in wine-tasting will not be deducted from the running time!’ – he concentrated on his strategy. Although ability, training and experience were major factors in the race, and temperature and wind factors also had to be taken into consideration, what distinguished the good runner from the not-so-good was the ability to focus his attention for long periods. While ‘disassociating’ was not advised for beginners, it was recommended for those determined to run fast. Allowing the mind to wander slowed one down. Staying focused concentrated the body systems so that a steady pace could be sustained, energy conserved and running-form maintained.

Dividing the 42.2 kilometres of the race into four, Halliday had worked out exactly how long to spend on each segment and estimated his finishing time. His calibrated ‘pace table’, written on a piece of paper and covered with clingfilm, was taped to the back of his number (7) for easy reference.

Unlike Halliday, Jamie chatted amiably to his running-mates, a practice frowned upon by serious runners, while waiting for the Président du Conseil
General to fire the gun. He was concentrating not so much on concentrating as on keeping cool.

For every litre of fluid lost, the heartrate increased by eight beats and the temperature rose accordingly. In the interests of proper hydration, it was recommended that sixteen ounces of water an hour be drunk before the race. For several days now, to the amusement of his students in the hospital, Mr Spence-Jones had been unable to pass a water fountain in the corridor without stopping for a quick drink.

He had downed a litre of Perrier at breakfast, after which, for obvious reasons, he had had nothing to drink until five minutes ago, when he had polished off a can of Fanta which would be absorbed by the body before it reached the kidneys. After that, it was a question of avoiding dehydration by stopping frequently to refuel.

Notwithstanding the physical discomfort of drinking such large quantities, he would replenish his fluids every hour from the refreshment stands, manned by the local population and set up every two kilometres along the route. Remembering his physiology, he knew that it took thirty minutes for the air-conditioning effects of fluids to migrate through the system and be released as sweat. In the unlikely event that he would get as far as the closing stages of the race, it would be a case of fluids ‘on’, rather than fluids ‘in’, and he would use his sunhat as a vessel from which to douse himself with water.

At eleven o’clock sharp, to the accompaniment of
martial
music, the several-thousand-strong column, serious runners interspersed with clowns, pyramids of balloons and a variety of fancy dress (from cave men to South Sea islanders in grass skirts), moved towards Pauillac via Château Phélan-Ségur and Châteaux
Haut-Marbuzet
and Marbuzet.

Following the race on her bicycle, for which there were parallel lanes, Clare cycled her way from Jamie in the back row, to Alain Lamotte, who had positioned himself as close to the starting line as possible without blocking faster runners, until she drew level with the élite runners, in whose midst she picked out Halliday, where the punishing pace was rapidly separating the men from the boys.

Two hours into the race, many of the competitors, their faces contorted with pain, had hit the ‘wall’ and dropped out. Having made sure that number 24 was not among them, she cycled to the Maison du Vin, in search of refreshment which was laid on by the Rugby Club.

Delphine Lamotte was queuing up with her two
children
at the buffet, while at the long bar Harry Balard – who registered Clare’s appearance in the mirror – was buying a drink for his sister Christiane, who had taken a break from the Happy Sandwich Makers.

Making her way towards the food, Clare noticed Harry Balard leave Christiane, whose eyes were glued to the TV screen, presumably for a sight of Halliday, and elbow his way determinedly through the throng in the direction of Delphine Lamotte.

Guessing that Harry was up to no good, Clare
intercepted
him. Blocking his path she opened Jamie’s coach bag, which was slung across her body, and removed a white plastic packet. She held it in front of her so that it was visible to no one but Harry.

‘Un mot à Delphine Lamotte et vous êtes mort,’ she warned him.

‘Salope!’

Harry Balard turned on his heel, but not before several shocked Médocains almost dropped their loaded trays as they heard him insult Clare de Cluzac.

‘What was all that about?’ Delphine asked innocently at the table where Clare had joined her and the children.

‘It was nothing.’

She was not about to tell blonde Delphine Lamotte, in her blonde designer shorts, her Ray-Bans resting nonchalantly on her streaked hair, that she had stopped Harry Balard from denouncing her husband and thereby saved her marriage.

‘Peu importe…’ Shrugging her shoulders, Delphine removed the paper from two drinking straws and stuck them into the children’s Coca-Cola. ‘Harry Balard is not my favourite person.’

‘Papa! Papa!’

Amélie and Joséphine Lamotte jumped up and down excitedly as they caught sight of their father on the TV screen.

Following their gaze, Clare saw Alain Lamotte, teeth gritted, running as if he had glue on his shoes, and looking as if he were about to drop from exhaustion.

‘Alain won’t give up,’ Delphine said proudly. ‘When he wants something he goes for it.’

Leaving the Maison du Vin, Clare rescued her bicycle and joined the other cyclists, one of whom was dressed as a penguin, pedalling slowly in the midday heat.

Happy to have saved Delphine Lamotte from having her illusions about her husband shattered by Harry Balard, she made her torpid way through the parched countryside; past refreshment stands selling oranges,
biscuits and dried fruit; past First Aid stations offering massage and anti-blister blocks; through village squares, criss-crossed with bunting, where brass bands played, runners massaged their cramped limbs, and refreshed themselves in the fountains.

Leaving her bicycle near the finishing point, she pushed through the crowd and found herself standing beside Biancarelli, who had closed her shop for three days.

‘What number is your Jamie?’ Biancarelli shouted above the blaring speakers, which were broadcasting a continuous commentary on the race.

‘Twenty-four!’ Clare yelled.

‘Je vous envie.’

Biancarelli looked different somehow. As if the bounce had gone out of her.

‘I thought you had a poor opinion of men. And marriage.’

‘J’ ai changé d’avis.’

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘Oui.’

‘Félicitations.’

‘Félicitations, pfui!’ Biancarelli shouted to the amusement of those around her. ‘I have as much chance of marrying him as marrying the President of France.’

‘He’s already married?’

‘I think so. I don’t know. It’s out of the question.’

The voice of the commentator reached fever pitch as the first runners came within two kilometres of the port. Clare pricked up her ears as the number seven was repeated over and over.

As Halliday Baines, ahead of the field, approached the finishing line, and the crowd behind them surged forward to get a better view, Clare took Biancarelli’s arm.

‘Am I allowed to know who it is?’

‘You would be the last person…’

Having mastered concentration on the fast track, Halliday, looking straight ahead like a blinkered horse, had transferred it to his road runs. For the past
forty-one
kilometres it had stood him in good stead.

Ignoring his blistered feet, concentrating on overtaking the dozen or so competitors he had strategically allowed to overtake him earlier on in the race (no sooner had he outstripped one of them than with grim determination he concentrated on reeling in the next), managing to convince himself that the world would end immediately after the race, disregarding his sore muscles, matching his thoughts to his pace, straining to think positively, to block out his mind drift, he had passed one runner after another.

He told himself how tough he was. That he had trained hard. That he was nearly through. That he was the greatest. That he deserved to win. How tough he was. That he had trained hard. That he was nearly through. That he was the greatest. That he deserved to win. How tough he was. That he had trained hard. That he was nearly through. That he was the greatest. That he deserved to win. Running steadily, having managed to shake off all but one of his challengers, he was followed at only a very few paces by a six-foot Dane with flaxen hair.

‘Numéro sept. ’Alliday Baines d’Australie. Et numéro quarante-six. Lars Pedersen de Danemark…!’ The voice through the loudspeaker was hoarse with excitement.

Saving his best mental image until last, Halliday thought of Billy. I’m doing this for you, kid. He was half a training shoe in front. I’ve always told you you’ve got
to be the best. Half a stride now ahead of the Dane. You want me to teach you the Three Kings, Billy? You’ve got to concentrate on the cards. If you want to get on in life, Billy, you’ve got to give it all you’ve got. Don’t let yourself be pipped at the post, Billy. Never look round. Never check the scenery. It’s where you’re going that’s important, not where you’ve been. Keep going, Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy… Billy!

‘’Alliday! ’Alliday!’

Christiane Balard’s voice came from somewhere in the crowd as Halliday Baines, looking neither to right nor to left, came into view. As he advanced towards the finishing line, where TV cameras, race directors and Red Cross workers with drinks and aluminium blankets waited, Clare willed him to win.

‘’Alliday! ’Alliday!’

Christiane’s voice reached a crescendo.

‘Vite! Vite!’

Cheered on by the crowd, the two finalists, their legs seeming to intermingle, their bodies strained to the limit after forty-two kilometres on the road, scraping the very bottom of their physical barrels, summoned up the final vestiges of their reserves.

Halliday, his legs going like pistons, breasted the tape first. Ignoring Christiane who appeared with his bush hat, ignoring well-wishers with cups of water, ignoring TV interviewers with microphones, looking neither to right nor to left, not slowing his pace, he continued to run.