Joanne Harris - Blackberry Wine

Jay followed his gaze across the railway cutting, taking in, as if for the first time, the breadth of the allotment, the neat straight rows of vegetables, the cold frames, the hundreds of plastic planters, dozens of fruit trees, thick stands of raspberries, blackcurrants, rhubarb. Funny, he’d never thought of it as trespassing before.

‘Oh. D’you think they’d want to take it back?’

Joe didn’t look at him. Of course they would take it back. He could see that in the old man’s profile, in the calculating look on his face – how long to replant? How long to rebuild? Not because they wanted it, but because it was theirs to take, their territory, wasteland or not, theirs. Jay had a sudden, vivid memory of Zeth and his mates as Zeth booted the radio into the air. There would be the same expressions on their faces as they pulled up the railway, broke up the greenhouse, tore up plants and bushes, bulldozed through the sweet drifts of lavender and the half-ripened pears, unearthed potatoes and carrots and parsnips and all the arcane exotica of a lifetime’s collection. Jay felt a sudden brimming rage for the old man, and his fists clenched painfully against the bricks.

‘They can’t do that!’ he said fiercely.

Joe shrugged. Of course they could. Now Jay understood the significance of the charm bags hanging on every surface, every protruding nail, every tree, everything he wanted to save. It couldn’t make him invisible, but it might… might what? Keep the bulldozers away? Impossible.

Joe said nothing. His eyes were bright and serene. For a second he looked like the old gunslinger in a hundred Westerns, strapping on his guns for a final showdown. For a second everything – anything - seemed possible. Whatever might have happened later, he believed in it then.

Marseilles, March 1999

THE TRAIN REACHED MARSEILLES AROUND NOON. IT WAS WARM but cloudy, and Jay carried his coat over his arm as he moved through the aimless crowds. He bought a couple of sandwiches at a stand by the platform, but was still too nervous, too energized to eat. The train to Agen was almost an hour late, and slow; almost as long as the journey from Paris. Energy drained away into exhaustion. He slept uncomfortably as they nudged from one small station to another, feeling hot and thirsty and slightly hungover. He kept needing to take out the leaflet again, just to be sure he wasn’t imagining it all. He tried to get the radio to work, but all he could get was white noise.

It was late afternoon when he finally reached Agen. He was beginning to feel more alert again, more aware of his surroundings. He could see fields and farms from the carriage, orchards and ploughed chocolate-coloured earth. Everything looked very green. Many of the trees were already in flower, unusually early for March, he thought, though his only experience of gardening was with Joe, a thousand miles further north. He took a taxi to the estate agent’s – the address was on the leaflet – hoping to get permission to view the house, but the place was already shut. Damn!

In the excitement of his escape Jay had never considered what he would do if this happened. Find a hotel in Agen? Not without seeing his house. His house . The thought lifted the hairs on his forearms. Tomorrow was Sunday. Chances were that the agency would be closed again. He would have to wait until Monday morning. He stood, hesitating in front of the locked door as the taxi driver behind him grew impatient. How far exactly was Lansquenet-sous-Tannes? Surely there would be something, even something basic like a Campanile or an Ibis or, failing that, a chambre d’hôte where he could stay? It was half-past five. He would have time to see the house, even if it was only from the outside, before the light failed.

The urge was too strong. Turning back to the bored taxi driver with unaccustomed decisiveness Jay showed him the map.

‘ Vous pouvez m’y conduire tout de suite ?’

The man considered for a moment, with the air of slow reflection typical of that part of the country. Jay pulled out a clip of banknotes from the pocket of his jeans and showed them to him. The driver shrugged incuriously and jerked his head towards the cab again. Jay noticed he didn’t offer to help with the luggage.

The drive took half an hour. Jay dozed again in the leather-and-tobacco scented rear of the cab, whilst the driver smoked Gauloises and grunted to himself in satisfaction as he blared without indicating through files of motorway traffic, then sped down narrow small lanes, honking his horn imperiously at corners, occasionally sending flurries of chickens squawking into the air. Jay was beginning to feel hungry and in need of a drink. He had assumed he would find a place to eat when they reached Lansquenet. But now, looking at the dirt lane down which the taxi jolted and revved, he was beginning to have serious doubts.

He tapped the driver on the shoulder.

‘C’est encore loin ?’

The driver shrugged, pointing ahead, and slowed the car to a rumbling halt.

‘ Là .’

Sure enough, there it was, just behind a little copse of trees. The red slanting light of a modest sunset lit the tiled roof and the whitewashed walls with almost eerie brightness. Jay could see the gleam of water somewhere to the side, and the orchard – green in the photograph – was now a froth of pale blossoms. It was beautiful. He paid the driver too much of his remaining French money and pulled his case out onto the road.

‘ Attendez-moi ici. Je reviens tout de suite .’

The driver made a vague gesture, which he took to be agreement, and, leaving him to wait by the deserted roadside, Jay began to walk quickly towards the trees. As he reached the copse he found he could see more clearly down towards the house and across the vineyard. The photograph in the brochure was deceptive, showing little of the scale of the property. Being a city boy Jay had no idea of the acreage, but it looked huge, bordered on one side by road and river, and on the other by a long hedge, which reached beyond the back of the house on to more fields. On the far side of the river he could see another farmhouse, small and low-roofed, and beyond that the village – a church spire, a road winding up from the river, houses. The path to the house led past the vineyard – already green and leggy with growth among drifts of weeds – and past an abandoned vegetable plot, where last year’s asparagus, artichokes and cabbages reared hairy heads above the dandelions.

It took about ten minutes to reach the house. As he came closer Jay noticed that, like the vineyard and the vegetable plot, it was in need of some repair. The pinkish paint was peeling away in places, revealing cracked grey plaster beneath. Tiles from the roof had fallen and smashed onto the overgrown path. The ground-floor windows were shuttered or boarded up, and some of the upstairs glass was broken, showing toothy gaps in the pale facing. The front door was nailed shut. The whole impression was of a building which had been derelict for years. And yet the vegetable plot showed signs of recent, or fairly recent, attention. Jay walked around the building once, noting the extent of the damage, and told himself that most of it looked superficial, the work of neglect and the elements. Inside might be different. He found a place where a broken shutter had come away from the plaster, leaving a gap large enough to look through, and put his face to the hole. It was dark inside, and he could hear a distant sound of water dripping.

Suddenly something moved inside the building. Rats, he thought at first. Then it moved again, softly, stealthily, scraping across the floor with a sound like metal-capped boots on cellar concrete. Definitely not rats, then.