A Grand Old Time Read online

  He shrugged. ‘We’re fine, Maura. Don’t think about all that. We’ll be just fine.’

  ‘I just thought—’

  ‘We’ll be all right.’

  She snuggled into the crook of his arm, and he leaned over and kissed the top of her head. Her curls tickled his face and he grinned, and kissed her forehead. She smiled. ‘Ah, but you’re right, Brendan. Everything’ll be just fine.’

  He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Come on, my love. Will we get back in the saddle?’

  She allowed him to pull her up and then she straddled the tandem, frowning at the discomfort. She smiled at Brendan. ‘I’m ready for round two.’

  Brendan started them off and the bike rode bumpily down the path. Maura giggled and, after a few minutes, he felt her rest her head against his back.

  They reached an open road. There was a sharp descent and Brendan saw the opportunity to pick up speed, to freewheel down the hill, the wind in his face, gravel crunching beneath the bike. Maura squealed behind him, a peal of delight and excitement caused by the thrill of their acceleration. He pressed harder on the pedals to gain as much velocity as he could and then he steered the tandem towards the steep incline. They picked up speed and plummeted down the hill, lurching forward, the wheels spinning and his legs whirling and his hair flattened by the breeze. Brendan lifted his head back and gulped in the passing air. The feeling of freedom filled his lungs as the bike hurtled down the slope and Brendan whooped out loud. Maura’s voice lifted on the air and they were both shrieking with joy.

  The tandem must have hit a pot hole. Something thudded against him, hitting him in the back, and he felt the bike slip from beneath him. The weight of Maura’s unbalanced body slammed against his and he heard her shrieks in his ears as he felt the bike snagging to the left and away from him, causing him to react instinctively. He braked, felt the bike lift behind him and he shot forwards, putting out his hands, crunching down on hard metal and gravel as Maura crashed on top of his shoulders with a howl. He felt the impact and heard a sickening snap and felt himself roll over on the ground, grit embedding in his face. He stayed where he was. Maura clambered to her feet. The groan was his own voice; he tried to sit up and saw Maura looking at her leg. Her jogging bottoms were torn open and blood was trickling from little cuts. Dizziness overtook him and he slumped backwards and heard her repeating his name.

  He opened his eyes and tried to sit again. His arm hurt and he couldn’t lift it. Maura had her phone out and was speaking into it. He tried to focus his vision. She was kneeling next to him.

  ‘Brendan, how are you feeling? I think you passed out. You’re a horrible colour.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We fell. We were going too fast. We hit something – a hole in the road. I’ve phoned for help. You have a lot of cuts on your legs and I am covered in grazes and – oh, what’s the matter with your wrist?’

  ‘Is the tandem all right?’

  ‘Sod the tandem.’ Her voice rose in consternation. ‘Brendan, your wrist is swelling up and it looks like it could be sprained or even broken.’

  He was going to be sick, sitting askew on the gravel with the metal of the bike beneath him. He struggled to his feet but the world around him would not stay steady and he sat down. Maura crouched next to him, her voice soothing as molasses.

  ‘You sit still now. Someone will be here in a minute. Try not to move anything.’

  The doctor insisted on speaking in English. Maura was all right except for some cuts and bruises. Brendan had abrasions to his elbow and his legs and he had definitely broken his wrist. The arrangements would be made with the holiday insurance company in Dublin and they would be driven to a hotel. The doctor would ring them in the morning, when Brendan was able to concentrate a little better.

  He slept fitfully on his back and couldn’t turn over. His wrist was strapped tightly and it throbbed, despite the painkillers. His flesh was scratched, taut and painful on his legs, and his elbow pulsated under the bandage where the skin had been dragged off. He was conscious of Maura in deep sleep next to him. He was worried about what would happen the next day, how they would make the journey to his mother.

  The next day, Maura was up early and wearing a flowing skirt which wrapped around her waist and exposed the length of her leg. Little plasters were stuck across her skin. She was wearing the silly sling-backs and a thin, pink T-shirt and complained that her skin would never be the same again on her legs with all the cuts and grazes.

  After breakfast, they returned to the hotel room and she phoned the doctor, listening carefully, interrupting only with the words, ‘Of course, Doctor, I understand.’

  She put the phone down and turned to Brendan. Her mouth was firm: she was back in the reception of the doctor’s surgery in Dublin, telling a patient what to do. She was in charge.

  ‘The doctor says you can’t drive for up to four weeks.’

  ‘That’s got to be wrong.’

  ‘No, Brendan, Dr Poussin was very clear about it. Four weeks is usual, he says.’

  He groaned. ‘I wish you’d have taken your test back in Dublin.’

  ‘It can’t be helped. I can’t drive and we’re stuck here.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to drive.’

  ‘You can’t, it’s dangerous. Besides, it may jeopardise your recovery. The doctor said so.’

  ‘What’ll we do?’ He reached for another painkiller. He balanced the sore wrist, in its plaster casing, carefully on his knee.

  ‘We’ll go to Saint-Jean-de-Luz and find a hotel. Someone from the centre at Soustons has offered to drive us there in our car, which is lovely of them. They were so nice about it all. Saint-Jean-de Luz looks a nice place, by the sea. We can stay there for a while, make it a proper holiday.’

  ‘But what about my plan to ring Mammy? To take her home?’

  ‘Your mother will have to wait, Brendan. She’s not expecting us. No. We’ll have four weeks or so there and then when, and only when, your wrist is better we’ll pop over and see her.’

  ‘Who knows where she’ll be by then, Maura?’

  ‘It’s decided, Brendan. The doctor agrees with me and the holiday insurance will help out while your wrist is broken. It’s a good job we have it: it means we can claim it all back once we’re back, doctor’s bills and extras. We just have to think of it as our own holiday. Time for us. It’s such a good thing the summer holiday is as long as it is in Ireland. We’ve been away for over three weeks and another four will still give us time to get back for the new term. Now you lie there. I’ll bring you some water and an aspirin and then I’ll do the packing. You just rest and leave it all to me.’

  He lay back on the bed. His head hurt and his wrist was painful. He closed his eyes, and behind aching lids he heard Maura singing a little tune as she busied herself happily with the packing. The image of the fall was still in his head, the crack of his wrist, and the thud of her body as she smashed against his back, the impact like a sledgehammer. He squeezed his eyelids together. She continued to hum the song as she bustled around the room and it wriggled itself around like a worm in his head as he fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The windscreen magnified the sunlight into pure heat and Evie pulled in to the side of the road to check her map. She was nearly there; she might even have passed it, she wasn’t sure. The business card said it was called ‘Cave Bonheur’ and it was definitely somewhere along this road. She took a swig of water from the bottle and started the engine again, pulling out after the last car and travelling slowly so that she could look for the place. Several cars overtook her, the roaring acceleration in her ears making her jump. Then she saw it. She almost went past it, but for the sign, an incongruous twenty-foot-tall bottle made of wood that signalled her destination.

  She parked next to the giant bottle so that she could get out and stare up at it. A two-dimensional bottle of red wine, with the label ‘Cave Bonheur’, it was made out of plywood. The colours had
faded in the sunlight and the grain of the wood was dry and split. Across the bottle label were the words ‘Dégustation gratuite: vente des vins en vrac’. She had no idea what it meant, but she burst out laughing. It was leaning at an angle, to one side, as if struggling to hold up its own weight, as if it could topple at any moment.

  ‘It must be good, this free wine-tasting. The bottle’s pissed already.’ She chuckled again.

  The building comprised a large house with walls that had once been white, overlooking a paved courtyard. There were shady trees to the side, and the sunlight made dappled patterns on the ground. In the distance she could see rows of vines, neatly ordered, rising like little trees towards the hills. On one side were two converted barns, the doors marked ‘Accueil’, ‘Dégustation et vente’ and the other ‘Privé’. She pushed open the first door and peered inside. There was a strong, sweet smell in her nose and she saw the glimmer of huge steel tanks.

  On the other side was an open barn containing a large tractor. There was a small office inside the barn with the sign ‘Accueil/Reception’. There was no-one there, although the door was open. She peered in, smelling musty dampness. Her eyes were not used to the dark, but she could see the outlines of tables and the shapes of bottles in racks. Something fluttered in the rafters: a bird, or a bat. She went out into the sunlight and strolled towards the main building, under an archway. The brickwork was crumbling; once painted white, a dull grey of bricks mingled with powdery concrete and sand. Cave Bonheur was deserted. A little wind blew dust from the cracks of the paving stones.

  Evie walked further towards the little vines, which spread out into the distance as far as she could see, and she noticed the heavy bunches of grapes and picked one to eat. It was sour and she spat it on the ground. The soil was dry, little grains of gritty brown around the green and purple of the vines, which stretched out row upon row in neat ridges.

  She walked further along a dusty path, was surprised that no-one was at work. The sun was high in the sky, so perhaps the workers were having lunch. A figure moved in between the vines. It was a boy, haloed in the sunlight, bending and standing again. He was a thin shadow, a moving ear of corn. Evie found sunglasses in her pocket and put them on. Benji waved and started to run towards her. Evie waved back.

  He grinned excitedly, rubbing his palm across his neck, delighted to see her. ‘I know you will come.’ He grasped her hand in both of his and shook it vigorously.

  ‘Hello, Benji. It’s nice to see you again.’

  Benji beamed. ‘Come with me please. I can show you our wine fields.’

  He had a natural open face, a good-natured expression, which quickly changed to one of anxiety, a crease between his eyebrows. ‘I forget to ask your name.’

  She grinned. ‘Evie.’

  ‘I take you on a tour of the grapes now.’ He took her hand and led her around the vines, talking in his steady English, telling her the names of different wines he made and urging her along, pointing at row upon row of thriving grapes. He was becoming excited and he insisted on telling her facts about each type of grape, the sort of wine it would make and how long it took to ferment. His language was encyclopaedic and studied, learned by rote, and Evie was becoming weary. Besides, she had other things on her mind.

  She stopped. ‘This is all very well, Benji, but do you think we might cut to the wine-tasting? It’s so hot and my legs are tired.’

  His face filled with apologies and his forehead creased. He turned back towards the old building. A question was buzzing in Evie’s head. ‘Could I try a nice glass of red, please? I mean, I’ve come for the wine-tasting. Only a small one. I have to drive back to Foix.’

  Benji was enthusiastic, linking his arm through hers. ‘We will start now. And if you like it, you buy the bottle.’

  Evie smiled. ‘That’s grand.’ They walked into the stone courtyard. ‘I’m quite thirsty after all that.’ She stopped for a moment and listened. She could hear music: a guitar and a plaintive voice singing. She listened again. ‘Is that a record playing? I recognise that song.’ She held her breath and listened. ‘It’s David Bowie – the song about Major Tom.’ She didn’t move, taking in the melancholy tones, the lilting voice, the hypnotic strumming guitar. ‘That’s not him, though, is it, the David Bowie one?’

  ‘That is the patron, Monsieur Bonheur. He plays well at guitar.’

  Evie agreed. ‘I thought this was your own place, Benji.’

  He grinned. ‘Oh no. I am just the assistant. Monsieur teaches me English and he is kind to give me a job. No-one else will give me such a good job. Here I make the wine and sell it.’

  ‘What does Monsieur do, then?’ asked Evie. ‘Sit on his lazy backside taking the money and playing on his guitar, I don’t doubt.’

  Benji looked sad for a moment. ‘We don’t take much money this year,’ he told her. ‘We have many people who come in to work and pick the grapes and after Monsieur pays them, there is nothing left.’ Suddenly, his face brightened and he ran his hands through the corn-silk hair, which was sticking to his head with the heat. ‘Come, Madame. I think, time to taste some good wine now.’

  The little office to one side was cluttered with paper and the windows were streaked with grime. In the barn the temperature was much cooler and Benji pressed a switch; fluorescent strips started to hum and flickered with sudden light. There were high rafters and stretching cobwebs and dark brick walls; three tables and benches occupied the space on a cold flagstone floor. The tables were wooden and smeared with filth, mainly soil, red veins of spilled wine and something white and greasy that looked like candle wax, although there was no sign of any candles. The transition from scorching sunlight to the cold barn in which they now sat was a shock. Evie’s skin prickled with goose bumps and she wished she had brought her green leather jacket. Benji was in a vest and shorts and she noted the flip-flops on his feet. He didn’t seem to care about the temperature. He had a bottle of red wine in his fist and was uncorking it. He had begun to talk like an encyclopaedia again, facts about wine temperature and fermentation, so Evie asked, ‘Is this a good wine, Benji?’

  ‘You like wine is strong, full-bodied?’ he asked.

  Evie replied, ‘Like my men,’ although straight away she thought that was a silly thing to have said. Benji wiped a glass clean with a cloth and poured wine halfway up the bowl. She sat down at one of the tables and held it up towards the lights and swished it around; it was a deep blood-red and had a thick syrupy swirl.

  ‘This is our Cabernet,’ he told her and his face was serious as he watched her sip. She wondered if she should say something about the bouquet of geraniums: she remembered Peggy and Geoff from Marmande and she almost spat her wine out in a sudden laugh.

  It tasted warm and tangy on her tongue. She finished it all in a mouthful. ‘Bloody grand stuff. I’ll have a bottle of this. What’s next?’

  Benji rubbed his face with his hand. ‘Perhaps you can try some of this red wine? It is our best wine, a type of Grenache.’

  Evie looked puzzled. ‘Is it sweet or one of those sharp tangy ones? I like the sweeter ones myself.’

  ‘Perhaps Madame would prefer to try some of our sparkling wines?’

  Evie turned, and saw the patron standing tall in his T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of the Rolling Stones, and torn jeans. He was about her age, his skin weathered and dark and his eyes darker, his hair pulled back in a little ponytail. She stared at him. She did not know what to say so she simply said, ‘Mr Grumpy!’

  He raised himself to his tallest and she could see the effort it took for him to smile at her. ‘You are a guest. You are welcome to Cave Bonheur. Can I recommend the pétillants? The sparkling wines? They are very refreshing. I have them chilled.’

  Evie felt a little irritated with herself for calling him a rude name. She flicked the fringe of blonde hair and considered becoming the pornography character again but, on reflection, Eartha Windass was probably not the best choice of role under the circumstances. However, she would
make the effort to be charming and engaging towards this strange man; she’d show her ability to forgive him his rudeness.

  She folded her hands together and fluttered her lashes. ‘Thank you so much – you are most kind,’ and she added, ‘Monsieur’, and gave him a half-smile by way of reward.

  He said nothing. She saw the broadness of his back as he turned towards a fridge, which may once have been white but was now grey with grease and thumb-prints. A cork popped and Benji was ready with a hastily wiped wine glass, which he gave to his boss, who took it without acknowledgement. Evie smiled at Benji and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’ The patron poured a little wine in a glass for her and Benji passed him another, which he half-filled for himself.

  ‘Will you be joining us, Benji?’ she asked, showing her best manners.

  Benji looked around at Monsieur Bonheur and at the barn. ‘No, I have work to do in the fields.’ The patron grunted assent, a long deep growl in his throat. Benji rubbed at his neck nervously and smiled. ‘Until next time, goodbye, Madame.’

  Evie waved and called goodbye and Monsieur Bonheur sat down heavily at the bench opposite her, a glass in each hand. ‘Will Benji not join us for a drink, Monsieur?’

  The tall man shook his head. ‘He has work to do. Plenty to keep him busy.’

  ‘He’s very good,’ Evie prompted. ‘He knows everything about the wine. All sorts of interesting facts.’

  Monsieur Bonheur nodded curtly. ‘Benji is autistic. He’s very intelligent.’

  ‘Oh. He’s a very nice young man. I met him at the market. Very charming.’

  ‘Excellent worker, reliable, methodical.’ Evie stared at him, waited for him to make the first move. He pushed her glass across the table and offered a toast. ‘To life.’

  She looked straight at him. ‘To good health and good times,’ she said, suddenly alarmed at being on her own with a changeable man whose eyes scowled at her.

  They took a sip and neither of them spoke. Evie contemplated saying, ‘Nice place you have here,’ but the barn was clearly in disrepair, almost falling down, so instead she said, ‘Does this place make you a good living, Monsieur?’