Come The Vintage

Abbé Maurice was approaching her now, shaking his grey head at the leaden skies. ‘The day is weeping, Ryan,’ he said in his own language. ‘Come – let us get back to the warmth of our firesides.’

Ryan forced a smile and allowed him to take her arm and lead her away from the graveside. She was conscious of Alain de Beaunes following them, and behind him the few villagers who had turned out to see her father laid to rest. A dusty black station wagon waited on the gravelled track which wound through the cemetery, and as they neared it Alain de Beaunes went ahead to open the doors. His shabby overcoat flapped in the wind and his dark suit had seen better days, and yet he had an arrogance which defied anyone to underestimate him.

Avoiding his eyes, Ryan climbed into the back of the station wagon. Abbé Maurice sat in the front and de Beaunes took his place behind the wheel. The black-clad villagers would make their own way to their homes and Ryan looked back only once as the vehicle bumped away down the track. Already the grave-digger was filling in the space above the coffin and she turned back quickly, her throat tightening in the way it had done so many times these last days.

The Abbé and de Beaunes were talking together and she tried to interpret what they were saying. But they spoke swiftly and in undertones and she gave up after a while and allowed her own thoughts to fill her head.

What was she going to do? Her whole being shrank away from the future her father had mapped out for her, and yet she was honest enough to know that it had to be considered in all its aspects. That was the French half of her, she supposed, the practical working of a French mind which far from being governed by emotion as was sometimes supposed could take a situation and analyse it objectively, realistically.

They were coming down the valley and she stared broodingly out of the windows. It looked a barren place, a remote area where the people depended so much upon one another for their livelihood. The broad flatness at the base of the terraces where the vines grew was threaded by the swift flowing waters of the Bajou, and tall poplars lined the river bank. The village with its grey-spired church and slate-grey roofs had only one narrow street, cobbled, and uninspiring in the rain. There were cottages lining the street, a stores, a garage, and the school, and beyond the village the road wound up again towards the weathered walls of her father’s house, a rambling old building whose stone-flagged floors struck chill against bare feet. And yet it was an attractive house, a house with character, and when her father was alive, filled with warmth, too. But to consider returning there alone with the thin-lipped stranger who occupied the seat beside the Abbé filled her with dismay.

Alain de Beaunes stopped the station wagon at the small gate to the priest’s house, and the Abbé turned to speak to her.

‘Do not look so alarmed, my child,’ he said gently. ‘God works in curious ways. I will come and see you tomorrow when you have had a little time to assuage your grief. Be thankful you had these days with your father. He might have died without ever knowing what a beautiful young woman you have grown into.’

‘Thank you.’ Ryan managed a lifting of the corners of her mouth, but it was difficult. Her face felt stiff, the muscles taut, unyielding.

‘God go with you, my child, and with you, Alain.’ The Abbé made the sign of the cross and climbed out of the vehicle. The station wagon was put into motion again and the priest soon became a shadowy figure disappearing into the gloom of the afternoon.

Ryan pressed her shoulders back against the leather of the seat. She was trying hard not to give in to the shivering which trickled up and down her spine. Somehow she had to gather her strength to face what was to come and remember that her destiny was in her own hands. But she felt more alone now than she had done at the time of her aunt’s death.

Dusk was gathering as the station wagon turned between the wooden gateposts which gave on to the cobbled yard at the back of the house. The hens which scratched a living amongst the grains of animal foodstuffs scattered near the barn had long since sought the warmth and dryness of their coops, and the sound of the rain dripping from overflowing pipes added to the melancholy air of the place. No lights gleamed from the windows of the house, there was no smell of cooking to tantalize the nostrils, it looked desolate; as desolate, Ryan thought, as she felt.

Alain de Beaunes parked the station wagon beneath the bare branches of an elm tree where in summer one could sit on the circular wooden bench which surrounded it. Ryan wondered how often her father had sat beneath this tree, smoking his pipe, and perhaps wondering about his estranged wife and daughter in England. No one would want to sit on the bench now. It was too wet, and cold, and the wind blowing down from the high mountains could pierce the most adequate clothing.

Alain de Beaunes thrust open his door and climbed out without a word, swinging open the rear door as he did so. Then he left her to walk towards the back of the house, pushing open the kitchen door and disappearing inside.

Ryan sat for a few more minutes, mutinously, delaying the moment when she must get out of the car and follow him. She saw a light appear in the kitchen window and by its harsh illumination she saw him filling a kettle with water, setting it on the stove. She took a deep breath and knew that at any moment he would appear at the door again and demand her presence. She pushed her legs over the valance and slid out, closing the door behind her.

The kitchen was large, the room where most of the eating, as well as the cooking, was done. Its ceiling was beamed and hanging from it were the inevitable strings of onions. The fireplace was wide and leaded, but its adjoining oven had been superseded by a comparatively modern gas cooker. At the moment the fire was smouldering sulkily, but Alain de Beaunes was adding fresh wood which, when it caught hold, would flare up encouragingly. A scrubbed wooden table was still set with the bread and ham which her unwilling host had supplied in lieu of lunch before leaving, but Ryan had been unable to eat a thing. The lighting in the building was electric, a modern innovation supplied by their own small generator.

Now Alain de Beaunes turned from the fire and saw her hovering in the doorway. His dark brows ascended interrogatively and then he said: ‘Don’t you think it’s time we started talking to one another?’

He spoke in French, but Ryan chose to reply in English. She knew his English was not good, and the chances were that he would not understand her. ‘After our confrontation this morning, I should have thought it was obvious that our differences outweigh all other considerations.’

His lips tightened at the deliberately chosen words, and for a moment she was afraid of what he might do. He came towards her, but when she backed away he ignored her and merely closed the kitchen door, sealing them in the gathering tension of the kitchen. Then he took off his overcoat and jacket and slung them carelessly over a chair before rolling up his sleeves. His arms were strong and muscular, darkened to a deep tan by the heat of the sun, his collar when he loosened it revealed a broad chest liberally covered with fine brown hair. This was how she had first seen him, coming in from the fields, apparently unaware of his latent sensuality. Perhaps it was this that had repelled her so, this knowledge of that earthy quality about him, the hair on his body, the thick straight hair of his head which brushed the collar of his shirt, his flesh which aroused a feeling almost of distaste within her. She was not used to men in such a raw state. She had been brought up in a house of women, and the young men she had encountered in the course of her work as a librarian had not prepared her for anyone like Alain de Beaunes.

She looked away from him and approached the fire, holding out her cold hands to the blaze. There were wooden settles beside the fire and she perched on one of these, holding herself closely. When she had first come here, a little over a week ago, she had experienced a sense almost of homecoming. The house, which had reminded her a lot of farmhouses in England, the open fires instead of central heating, the smell of home-baked bread which Berthe, her father’s housekeeper, had baked in the oven adjoining the fireplace; all these things had warmed and cheered her. But now her father was dead, and she had no idea whether Berthe would return. She had gone to her family two days ago, and Ryan had not liked to question her. Besides, it wouldn’t matter to her, she would soon be leaving herself …

The kettle began to sing and she heard Alain de Beaunes setting out cups and a jug of cream. He made tea, a habit her father had acquired during his years in England, and when it was ready he handed her a cup.

‘Thank you.’ She took the tea reluctantly, and he stood looking down at her with obvious impatience.

‘What are you going to do?’ he demanded at last.

Deciding there was no point in antagonizing him further, Ryan looked up and said, in his own language: ‘You know what I am going to do, monsieur.’

‘Do I?’ His curious tawny eyes were cold.

‘I explained this morning. I – I have no intention of staying here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Why not?’ She almost choked over the words. ‘Monsieur, my father may have been a Frenchman, and I must accept that things are done differently in his country, but I am English! I have no intention of – of satisfying some – some crazy notion my father dreamed up!’

‘Why is it crazy? I would suggest it is a most sensible solution to your problems.’

Ryan unfastened her coat. Suddenly she was hot. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I disagree.’

Alain de Beaunes seated himself on the settle opposite, legs apart, hands hanging loosely between. For such a big man he moved sinuously, and she tried to avoid the temptation to watch him.

‘Ryan,’ the way he said her name was curiously alien in intonation. ‘Ryan – what do you intend to do if you go back to England? You have no job, I know you have no money—’

‘Oh, yes, I know you know that!’

His eyes darkened with quickly suppressed anger. ‘I do not deny that I found your sudden dependence on a father you had not seen for more than ten years less than admirable, nevertheless, I am prepared to admit that your presence here brought him a certain amount of satisfaction in those last few days.’

‘Am I supposed to thank you for that?’ Ryan was insolent.

Ignoring her outburst, he said: ‘You are young, Ryan. Very young. But as you grow older you will learn that the world can be a very cold and unfriendly place to someone with neither home nor job nor money.’

Ryan forced herself to look into the fire. ‘I’ll manage.’

‘Will you?’ She was conscious of his eyes upon her. ‘Tell me, please, how do you intend getting back to England? As I understood the situation, your father told me you had used most of what you possessed to get here.’

Ryan’s head jerked round. ‘I—’ She broke off with a little gesture. ‘I’ll borrow the money.’

‘From whom?’

‘You’re not offering, I suppose?’

‘Oh, no.’ He shook his head.

Ryan pressed her lips together. ‘I – I’ll speak to Abbé Maurice—’

‘Abbé Maurice has barely enough to live on. Priests do not earn comfortable salaries here. They do not live in detached houses, and buy new cars every year.’

Ryan stared at him. ‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ she retorted sarcastically.

‘I have been in England. I have read books. I am not entirely the barbarian you would like to think I am.’

Ryan flushed then, but the heat of the fire could be held responsible for the darkening of colour in her cheeks. ‘I’ll manage somehow,’ she insisted.

Alain de Beaunes shrugged. He got up and went to a cupboard and took out a bottle of red wine. He uncorked the bottle, found a glass, and brought them both back to his seat near the fire. Pouring some of the ruby liquid into the glass, he held it up to the light for a moment, examining it intently, before nodding his satisfaction at its clarity. Then he raised the glass to his lips and drank some of the wine. Its bouquet drifted across to Ryan, rich and fruity, his lips reddened for a moment before he licked them clean.

When he lowered his glass, he looked again at Ryan. ‘This wine has matured with age, little one, as all things do. Once it was rough and bitter – as you are. Now it is rich and full-bodied.’

‘Spare me your similes, monsieur.’ Ryan shifted irritably. ‘I should have never have come here. I should never have written to my father.’