Joanne Harris - Blackberry Wine

Jay switched the radio off and reached for his shirt.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize there was a family connection.’

Mireille’s eyes went almost tenderly to the façade of the house.

‘Don’t apologize,’ she said. ‘It looks better now than it has in years. New paintwork, new windows, new shutters. After my mother died my father let it all go to ruin. Everything but the land. The wine. And when my poor Tony-’ She broke off abruptly, her hands twisting. ‘She wouldn’t live in the family house, héh, no. Madame wanted her own house, down by the river. Tony converted one of the barns for her. Madame wanted her flower garden, her patio, her sewing room. Every time it seemed as if the house was finished, Madame would think of something else. As if she was stalling for time. And then, at last, he brought her home.’

Mireille’s face twisted. ‘Home to me.’

‘She’s not from Lansquenet?’ That would explain the physical differences. The light eyes, small features, exotic colouring and her accented but accurate English.

‘She is from Paris.’ Mireille’s tone conveyed all her mistrust and resentment of the capital. ‘Tony met her there on holiday. He was nineteen.’ She must not have been more than a few years older, thought Jay. Twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. Why had she married him? This farmer’s boy from the country? Mireille must have read the question in his face.

‘He looked older than that, Monsieur Jay. And he was handsome, héh oui. Too much for his own good. An only son. He could have had the farm, the land, everything. His father never refused him a thing. Any girl from the village would have thought herself lucky. But my Tony wanted better. Deserved better.’ She broke off with a shake of the head.

‘Enough, héh . I didn’t come here to talk about Tony. I wanted to know if you were planning to sell the land.’

‘I’m not,’ he told her. ‘I like owning the land, even if I don’t have any serious plans for the vineyard. For a start, I enjoy the privacy.’

Mireille seemed satisfied.

‘You would tell me if you changed your mind, héh ?’

‘Of course. Look, you must be hot.’ Now that she was here Jay didn’t want her to go without knowing more about Tony and Marise. ‘I have some wine in the cellar. Perhaps you’d like to take a glass with me?’

Mireille looked at him for a moment and nodded.

‘Perhaps a small glass,’ she said. ‘If only to be back in my father’s house again.’

‘I hope you’ll approve,’ said Jay, leading her through the doorway.

THERE WAS NOTHING OF WHICH TO DISAPPROVE. JAY HAD LEFT the house much as it was, substituting modern plumbing for the ancient waterworks, but keeping the porcelain sinks, the woodstove, the pine cupboards, the scarred old kitchen table as they were. He liked the feeling of age in these things, the way each mark and scar told a story. He liked the worn-shiny flagstones on the floor, which he swept but did not attempt to cover with rugs, and though he oiled and cleaned the wood, he made no attempt to sand away the damage of years.

Mireille looked at everything with a critical eye.

‘Well?’ asked Jay, smiling.

‘Héh ,’ replied Mireille. ‘It could have been worse. I expected plastic cupboards and a dishwasher.’

‘I’ll get the wine.’

The cellar was dark. The new electrics had not yet been fitted, and the only lighting was a dim bulb on the end of a bitten flex. Jay reached for a bottle from the short rack by the stairs.

There were only five bottles left in the rack. In his haste to offer hospitality he had forgotten this; a bottle of sweet Sauternes was the last, finished the previous night as he typed far into the early hours. But his mind was on other things. He was thinking about Marise and Tony, and of how he could ask Mireille for the conclusion of her tale. His fingers tightened around my neck for a moment, then moved on. He must have forgotten about the Specials. He was certain there was another bottle of Sauternes in there somewhere, maybe an extra he had overlooked. Beside me the Specials moved imperceptibly, shifting, snugging, rubbing up against each other like sleeping cats, purring. The bottle next to me – its label read ‘Rosehip ’74’ – began to rattle. A rich golden scent of hot sugar and syrup reached his nostrils. Inside the bottle I could hear soft laughter. Jay could not hear it, of course. All the same his hand stopped on the bottle’s neck. I could hear it beneath his fingers, whispering, cajoling, shifting its shape and turning its label slyly downwards as it released that secret scent. Sauternes, it whispered seductively, lovely yellow Sauternes from the other side of the river. Wine to loosen an old woman’s tongue, wine to cool a dry throat, wine mellow aaaaall the way down. Jay picked up the bottle with a small sound of satisfaction.

‘I knew I had one left.’

The label was smeared, and in the dimness he did not try to read it. He carried it up the stairs and into the kitchen, opened, poured. A tiny chuckle emerged from the bottle’s throat as the wine filled the glass.

‘MY FATHER USED TO MAKE THE BEST WINE IN THE REGION,’ SAID Mireille. ‘When he died his brother Emile took over the land. After that it should have been Tony’s.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

She shrugged.

‘At least when he died it passed back to the male line,’ she said. ‘I would have hated to think it went to her, héh ?’

Jay smiled, embarrassed. There seemed to be something in her which went far beyond grief. Her eyes were flaming with it. Her face was stone. He tried to imagine what it must be like to lose an only son.

‘I’m surprised she stayed,’ he told her. ‘Afterwards.’

Mireille gave a short laugh.

‘Of course she stayed,’ she said harshly. ‘You don’t know her, héh ? Stayed out of sheer spite and stubbornness. Knew it was only a matter of time till my uncle died, then she’d have the estate to herself, just as she’d always wanted. But he knew what he was doing, héh . Kept her hanging on, the old dog. Made her think she could have it cheap.’ She laughed again.

‘But why should she want it? Why not leave the farm and move back to Paris?’

Mireille shrugged.

‘Who knows, héh ? Maybe to spite me.’ She sipped curiously at her wine.

‘What is this?’

‘Sauternes. Oh. Damn!’

Jay couldn’t understand how he had mistaken it. The smudgy handwritten label. The yellow cord tied round the neck. Rosehip, ’74.

‘Oh damn. I’m sorry. I must have picked up the wrong bottle.’

He tried his own glass. The taste was incredibly sweet, the texture syrupy and flecked with particles of sediment. He turned to Mireille in dismay.

‘I’ll open another. I do apologize. I never meant to give you this. I don’t know how I could have mistaken the bottles-’

‘It’s quite all right.’ Mireille held on to her glass. ‘I like it. It reminds me of something. I’m not sure what. A medicine Tony had as a child, perhaps.’ She drank again, and he caught the honeyed scent of the wine from her glass.

‘Please, madame . I really-’

Firmly: ‘I like it.’

Behind her, through the window, he could still see Joe under the apple trees, the sun bright on his orange overalls. Joe waved as he saw him watching and gave him the thumbs up. Jay corked the bottle of rosehip wine again and took another mouthful from his glass, reluctant somehow to throw it away. It still tasted terrible, but the scent was pungent and wonderful – waxy red berries bursting with seeds, splitting their sides with juice into the pan by the bucketful and Joe in his kitchen with the radio playing full volume – ‘Kung Fu Fighting’ at Number One all that month – pausing occasionally to demonstrate some specious atemi learned on his travels through the Orient, and the October sunlight dazzling through the cracked panes…