Peter Mayle - A Good Year

Max thanked her, and stood nursing his croissants while Madame Passepartout brought him up-to-date on the current state of French bread (not what it used to be), and the morals of the baker’s daughter (not what they should be). A reply clearly wasn’t expected, and while Max helped Madame Passepartout carry her equipment into the kitchen he had time to study this voluble new addition to his life and household.

At a guess, she was in her early fifties, but despite her age and her substantial build she was not yet ready to abandon the clothing of youth. Tight and bright was the Passepartout style, with an orange tank top and turquoise leggings, stretched to the maximum, relieved by a pair of sparkling white tennis shoes on surprisingly dainty feet. Her black hair was cut almost as short as a man’s, her dark eyes bright with curiosity as she now looked around the kitchen.

There was a sharp intake of breath. “ Ho la la! Mais c’est un bordel. An old man living alone. One can always tell.” She stood with her hands on her hips, her lips clenched in disapproval. “This won’t do for a nice boy like yourself. Dust everywhere! Mice, no doubt! Probably scorpions! Quelle horreur. ” She filled the kettle to make coffee and took a cup and saucer and a plate from the dresser, looking at them with deep suspicion before rinsing them in the sink. Shaking her head and clicking her tongue, she wiped the table free of dust and told Max to sit down.

Breakfast was served, a novelty for Max that he found very enjoyable. And while he ate his croissants and drank his coffee, Madame Passepartout’s stream of chatter continued without a break. She would arrange everything, she told him, from lavender essence (a sure protection against scorpions) to furniture polish to toilet paper-doubtless Monsieur Max preferred the refinement of white to the more common pink-and while she chattered she prepared her weapons for an assault on the stove, which in her professional opinion hadn’t been cleaned since the Revolution.

“Bon,” she said finally, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves that matched her leggings. “By lunchtime, you will see a difference here. Now you must go. I cannot clean around you. Allez! ”

Feeling as though he were back at school under the thumb of a benign but domineering matron, Max was more than happy to do as he was told. His instincts told him that Madame Passepartout might prove to be a treasure once he had found a way of turning down her volume.

Distracted by Roussel’s visit the previous evening, Max had put off his intended tour of the property. Now, like any new landowner, he wanted to explore his land, and his exile from the kitchen provided the impetus he needed. In the dossier he’d been given by Maître Auzet was a copy of the plan cadastral, a detailed map showing the various parcels of land, each meticulously numbered, that made up the twenty hectares surrounding the house. Taking the plan with him, he stepped outside and stood in the courtyard for a moment, listening to the cigales and the muttering of pigeons, the heat of the day coming down on him like a blanket.

For once, there was no sign of Roussel and his tractor, and the vines- his vines, he reminded himself with a sudden prickle of excitement-extended in an unbroken sea of green in every direction. Behind the house, an alley of cypress trees, untrimmed and shaggy, led down to the tennis court. All those years ago, it had seemed so big, and the net so high. Now it had shrunk to a scruffy patch, the net sagging on its posts, the whitewashed lines on the balding court faded to near invisibility.

He moved on into the rows of vines, his feet kicking up puffs of dust. The soil was thin and dry, marked by a network of fissures, but the vines looked healthy enough, with bunches of grapes beginning to form in pale clusters. Bending down, he picked a couple of grapes and tasted them: bitter, and filled with pits. It would be weeks before they would be juicy and swollen with sunshine, and probably years before they would become drinkable wine. He began to get a sense of the patience required to be a winemaker; patience, and luck with the weather. And an oenologue. He wondered if Nathalie Auzet was having any luck finding someone.

By now, he was several hundred meters from the house, and had come to a low stone wall that separated one parcel from the rest. He checked with the plan and found that the land beyond the wall formed the limit of his property. In contrast to the other level parcels, this one sloped away gently down to the east before ending at the road.

Hopping over the wall, Max found a noticeable difference in the soil-or, rather, the lack of it. The texture of the land had changed abruptly, from sand and clay to rock, and the surface appeared to consist entirely of jagged limestone pebbles, blinding white in the sun, warm to the touch, an immense natural radiator. It seemed unlikely that even the most undemanding of weeds could find sufficient nourishment to grow here. And yet the vines appeared to be healthy, the leaves a bright green, the tiny grapes coming along nicely. He made a mental note to ask the oenologue how the vines could flourish in such inhospitable surroundings.

He was turning to go back to the house when he felt the electronic tickle of his phone vibrating in his pocket. He took the call sitting on top of the wall, the heat from the stone coming up through the cotton of his shorts.

“What’s the weather like down there?” There was a wistful tone to Charlie’s voice as he asked the question that so often begins a conversation between someone in the north and someone in the south.

“Oh, the normal. I was going to send you a postcard. You know, the old chestnut: ‘The weather is here, wish you were beautiful.’ Let’s see. It’s about eighty-five and sunny. How is it in London?”

“Don’t ask me. I think I’m getting webbed feet. Listen, I think I’ll be able to slope off for a day or two at the end of the month. There’s an international real estate symposium in Monte Carlo on the future of luxury properties.” There was a dismissive snort from Charlie. “A bunch of wide boys seeing what they can unload on the Russians, I expect. Anyway, I’ve been delegated to represent Bingham & Trout, and I thought I could drive over afterwards and take a look at the chateau.”

“Great, Charlie. That’s terrific. You’ll love it here. I’ll alert the staff.”

“You do that. What’s happening with the grapes? Any joy on the wine doctor?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m seeing someone on Sunday who has contacts in the business. Could be promising.”

“Hmm. What are you up to today?”

“Well, I’m in the vines at the moment, getting to know the grapes. Then I’ve got some tidying up to do in the courtyard. And then I’ll probably go down to the village for lunch. Not exactly hectic.”

“Max?” Charlie’s voice sounded almost serious. “Tell me the worst. Is it really wonderful down there?”

Max looked across the vines toward the Luberon and the great sweep of blue sky, and thought of life without suits or meetings or office politics, without traffic jams or polluted air. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is.”

“Lucky bastard.”

Max spent the rest of the morning starting to sort through the contents of the barns, clearing a blocked drain in the stone bassin, making a list of supplies that he was going to need to restore the courtyard to its previous respectability: weed killer, a truckload of the fine gravel that he remembered were called grains de riz, pruning shears, a rake. He’d never had a house before, let alone a large country house, and he found himself enjoying the simple, unfamiliar chores. His hands, now smelling of ancient pond life, were filthy from clearing the drain and beginning to blister from dragging fallen branches into the barn for firewood. He added a saw to his list.