A Grand Old Time Read online

  She rocked back in her seat. ‘I’d like you alive to finish the job. That’s all.’ He chuckled and opened a bottle of red wine, suggesting that she should sit in the shade afterwards for a few hours and rest.

  By the second week, the walls had been coated with white paint twice and the barn was much brighter. Evie instructed Jean-Luc to clean the fridge, first taking out any bottles of wine and stacking them carefully. His eyes crinkled and he smiled. ‘You are my boss now, Evie? OK, so I have to do a good job.’

  He had hardly been grumpy at all.

  Several days later, she, Jean-Luc and Benji had worked all morning, stacking crates and checking stock. Evie smiled when she saw how fond Jean-Luc was of Benji; how he ruffled his corn hair and asked about his mother, how she was managing by herself since his father died and telling him he could take some chicken home from the fridge for her. Benji gravitated towards Evie, explaining about each grape and how every type of wine was different. His eyes were round with trust and he asked her about Dublin, about her homeland. He had never travelled further than Carcassonne. She asked him to tell her about himself and she found herself stopping work to listen to him talk, waving his hands and talking engagingly about how he’d hated school, how his father had died when he was ten years old and how he’d read the books his mother gave him to teach himself about mechanics, geography and science.

  Later in the afternoon, Jean-Luc sent Benji home early with a bottle of wine for his maman and some slices of cooked meat. Evie was scrubbing the tables and, when she looked up, Jean-Luc was towering above her. ‘Time for a rest, I think.’

  He led her into the garden at the back of his house, the neck of his guitar in one hand. There were flowers everywhere growing wild, bees buzzing on the air. They sat on the grass, Jean-Luc strumming quietly. Evie watched him, noticing how he held the guitar lightly, how his long fingers moved over the strings like crawling spiders. He sang a song in French, a plaintive tune, and, although she couldn’t understand the words, she knew it was about love. Afterwards she clapped softly. ‘That was very good, Jean-Luc. Have you played the guitar long?’

  He nodded. ‘Since I was six years old. I have taken a guitar with me wherever I have travelled.’

  She smiled. ‘And you’ve travelled a lot. I know how important that has been to you.’

  The dark eyes met hers. ‘And you, Evie. What is important to you now?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘A month or two ago, I would’ve said family, but I think that’s only because I’d nothing else to say. Family are fine. My son is a sports teacher; he’ll be enjoying his summer break in Dublin. He’s doing grand. No, now I’d say a good book, travel, independence, friends. To be able to live my life each day exactly how I want.’

  He leaned over and squeezed her hand. ‘I like what you say. I am very grateful you are helping me with Cave Bonheur.’

  By the end of the second week, she’d almost learned the chorus of the French song. It was called ‘Ne Me Quitte Pas’ and she had no idea what the words meant but she bumbled along with them and they sang it together as they swept the floor, scrubbed tables and benches and opened the large window. Evie remarked to herself that Jean-Luc had not been grumpy at all. In fact, he’d been very nice company.

  At the end of each day, he had offered her money, which she’d refused, as the job wasn’t finished. He’d press a bottle of red wine into her hands and then hug her, kiss both cheeks and murmur, ‘Merci, Evie.’ She’d take the warmth of his lips on her cheek back with her to O’Driscoll’s, meeting Ray’s quips about her absence with a grin and at night she’d sleep deeply, her bones aching and a smile on her face.

  She was really pleased. The trestle tables were covered with some of the plastic material she had found in rolls at the market. She had chosen a cheerful pattern of purple grapes and wine bottles, and she put little candles in jam jars. Paulette and Ray advised her about the food, a spread of breads and cheeses, salads, fruit and nuts. Benji grinned all day, arranging clean glasses and dust-free wine bottles in an impressive array. She prompted Jean-Luc to show more interest and take more responsibility, lifting the guitar from his hands in the middle of him playing ‘You’ve Got a Friend’ and asking him to brush the floor, get rid of all the cobwebs, scrub the fridge, chill the sparkling wine and sort out some music on CD.

  Evie had not quite managed to achieve her trump card. She had decided to replace the old sign outside that was leaning over and proclaiming the entrance to Cave Bonheur. With some help from a French phrase book Jean-Luc had given her and a photo she’d stolen from his bedroom, she had asked a woodturner in the market to make a replacement sign. She was disappointed when he’d said it would not be ready for several weeks, especially since it was such a high price, but the idea was alive in her mind and she had ordered it anyway. The woodturner had said something about it being a special job that would take time but she imagined Jean-Luc’s smile when the new sign went up, and she thought it would be worth every penny. The old sign would have to do for now.

  The guests came in large numbers: market traders, café owners, friends of Ray and Paulette and Caroline and Nige and others she’d persuaded to come along with the little leaflets and posters. There was an advert outside, by the road, and passing local people and tourists stopped in dozens, leaving their cars on the grass and peeping inquisitively into the barn. Men from the village, who worked in the vineyard from time to time, were on hand to help Benji bring in cases of wine. Over two hundred people attended the day of wine-tasting at the Cave Bonheur, and Evie was shaking hands and promising deliveries while Jean-Luc stood beside her, writing down numbers and orders and translating her words into French. When tourists arrived, Evie spoke to English and Dutch people and met a lovely German couple who bought twenty cases of sparkling wine on her recommendation, for their son’s wedding.

  Evie leaned on the table as the last people exchanged money for cases of wine. Benji and one of the locals, a man called Gaston, his cap pulled over his ears and his little moustache twitching as he spoke, were lifting boxes and taking them outside to pack in cars and vans. The tables were laden with empty wine glasses, red rim-marks against the plastic cloth. The clearing up would have to be done before she went back to Ray’s. She was in paid employment now, having reluctantly accepted a one-off fee for the job – he’d persisted, insisted – so she would take her work seriously and she would supervise the job to the end. She glanced over at Jean-Luc who was wearing his Beatles T-shirt and a clean pair of jeans, spreading cheese on a piece of baguette.

  Evie smiled. It hadn’t been like this in the shop where she’d sold bread and cakes as a young woman. Old Pat Dixon would never have given her any responsibility. To him she was there to smile at the customers while he rubbed past her too often to get to the doughnuts. She’d never told Jim about Old Pat’s suggestive remarks; she had kept a smile on her face and chatted to the customers. She was no youngster now – she would tell Old Dixon where to get off.

  She sighed. Given her time again, she could do so much more with her life. She could have been an events organiser, maybe for charity or even for a huge business. She might even have become a manager, got a degree, and owned her own shop. What if, at twenty-one, she could have been here at Cave Bonheur, organising a wine-tasting event and learning French, managing a business? She felt that her life as a young woman, a wife and a mother had passed so quickly and she’d missed out on so many opportunities. An ache settled in her head, between her eyes; she could have made so much more of her time than standing at a kitchen sink making floury potato cakes and ironing shirts. She looked at the dregs in the wine glasses and wondered what she could look forward to now in her life. She picked up an empty bottle, then another, and threw them in the bin for recycling.

  ‘What is on your mind, Evie?’ Jean-Luc stopped munching his bread and cheese. She shrugged and threw another bottle away. ‘Today you have done a wonderful job here. You have put Cave Bonheur back on the map. I have made more
euros today than in the rest of this year. I will pay you double.’

  ‘You’re very generous.’ She turned away from him.

  ‘What is it, Evie?’

  She wasn’t sure. A weighty melancholy was sitting on her shoulders and she shook her head. He looped a bear’s arm around her. ‘Come. Sit down. Let me pour you a drink. Eat something. You have not stopped all day.’

  She accepted the glass of wine he offered, then glanced at the plate he was pushing in front of her, piled up with food. She took a sip and put the glass down. ‘Jean-Luc, we must clear up before I go back to O’Driscoll’s. It’s past ten. Where is Benji?’

  ‘I sent him home. He was falling asleep and his mother is not well.’

  ‘But it’s late and there’s so much to do.’ She was up again, moving around the room, collecting bottles and gathering glasses.

  He came over to her. ‘Evie?’

  ‘The place is a mess. I’m not coming back tomorrow to sort it all out. There are bottles and glasses everywhere.’

  ‘You are tired.’

  ‘I want to get it all done, Jean-Luc.’

  ‘It is not important. Come and sit down again and rest.’

  Evie turned and crashed into him, a bottle in each hand. Her head thudded against his chest and she felt tears on her face. He took the bottles from her and put them back on the table. ‘You are exhausted.’ She nodded. ‘And you were thinking about something. I saw in your eyes.’

  Something held tight in her throat; weariness soaked into her bones and she wanted to sit down. Jean-Luc’s kindness made a knot in her chest. Suddenly, something inside her broke and her voice came in gulps between sobs. ‘I was thinking of – oh, I can’t say – just – what a waste it has all been – it has taken me this long – to find out – oh, I don’t know, Jean-Luc.’

  He put his arms around her and she laid her head against his chest, sniffing, her face wet against his T-shirt. She stayed there a while, listening to his breathing, and she felt his hand against the back of her head, stroking her hair.

  ‘You are a wonderful person, Evie.’ His voice rumbled against her cheek. ‘What you have done here today, it is a miracle. And what you say, it may be true, it may be not, but today I think to myself, Jean-Luc, this woman has come along to help your terrible life, like some kind of angel.’ He laughed. ‘All the way from Ireland in a little camping van.’

  Evie began to laugh too, her laughter mixed with sobs. ‘I’m an Irish angel in a campervan. That’s bloody grand. I’ve heard it all now.’

  His face was serious. ‘But what you say, it is true, Evie. We must do something with our lives, with all of it. You and I, we should do something with the time we have left. We should make each moment count for us, like each heartbeat.’

  Evie wiped her face with her fingers. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Jean-Luc?’

  ‘We should find love.’ His reply was simple, and he cupped his hands to her face and kissed her mouth. She blinked her eyes and looked at him again, to make sure she was not losing her senses. His eyes were intense. She considered her options, then pulled him against her and kissed him back.

  ‘Where the hell have you been, Evie? We thought you’d been abducted by aliens. Paulette was on at me to ring the gendarmes.’

  Evie put her handbag on the bar. ‘I have been busy,’ she said coyly. ‘I’ve only been away a few days. Can’t a girl spend a few days away enjoying herself? I’ve had a lovely time. And I’ve come to a decision. Time waits for no woman. So, anyway, I have come to pay up and get my stuff and go.’

  ‘You’re leaving us, Evie?’

  ‘You’re only young once,’ she told him. ‘Besides, I’ve a car waiting for me outside.’

  ‘You aren’t in the campervan?’

  ‘No.’ Evie tried to hide her smile. ‘The camper is parked up, back at my new home. I’m moving out of here.’

  Ray scratched his head. ‘New home?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Evie quipped. ‘But as I said, you’re only young once and I don’t want to keep my man waiting, so I better collect my things, pay you what I owe and get properly moved in.’

  ‘New man, is it?’

  Evie winked at him. ‘Oh yes. I mean, how long does it take to tell you’ve found Mr Right? In my case, a couple of weeks. Now I’ve no time to waste, so I’m moving in with him. We’re shacking up together. That’s it. So, will you sort out my bill, Ray, and I’ll pay up and be off. You can give me a hand with my bags. He’s in the car outside.’

  Ray was still staring as she made her way to the stairs. ‘It won’t take me a minute to pack. And when I’m all sorted out, you and Paulette must come round for dinner.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The bed had a new king-sized duvet and they were underneath a dazzling cover, a silky bright purple one Evie had bought in Foix. A tray was precariously balanced on her knee with little coffee cups half-filled and plates covered in crumbs and smears of butter and jam. There was a Sunday newspaper and books, the Zola he had given her in English and the Brontë she had bought for him in French. He was teaching her to speak French; she was copying his voice, imitating his expressions and the movements of his lips.

  ‘Try it again.’

  ‘Why are you laughing at me, Jean-Luc?’

  ‘Say it again. Maybe. Peut-être.’

  She made her mouth into a little tunnel as she had seen him do. ‘Pute être.’

  He laughed again; there were tears in his eyes.

  ‘What’ve I said?’

  He couldn’t speak. She sat up straight. ‘Pute être. Pute être. That is what you said.’

  He wrapped an arm around her. ‘Peut-être is maybe. You say pute. Pute is … it is …’

  ‘What is it I’ve said?’

  ‘Pute … It is a – a – a woman who – a woman of the night.’ He was still laughing and she grabbed his shoulder.

  ‘Oh hell, I wouldn’t want to get that one wrong when I was asked what I want for dinner.’ She refilled her coffee and offered to fill his cup. ‘Plus de café? Oui, pute être.’

  He was laughing again.

  ‘Jean-Luc, I have never seen you laugh so much.’

  He took his coffee. ‘It has been a great week together, Evie. I hope for many more. We made a good decision, not to wait, but to be together now. Do you think we are crazy?’

  She snuggled down into the crook of his arm. ‘Not at all. It’s been grand. What’s been the best bit of it, for you, this last week?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘My life has a meaning now.’

  ‘Shite!’ she retorted. ‘All life has meaning, whether you’re on your own or not.’

  ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘But every day this week, I don’t lie in bed or sit playing my guitar or wondering what I should do next; I get up and work on the tractor with the vines, and I know you have good food for dinner and you are here waiting for me …’

  ‘So I’m the cook and bottle washer who has got your arse out of the armchair and back to work, is that it?’

  He kissed the top of her head. ‘Evie, it is good to have you here. You have so much life. This is what you do – you breathe life into an old man in his seventy-seventh year, and his tired empty home.’

  ‘There’s been plenty of life in you this week, I’m sure.’

  He looked suddenly sad. She picked up a book from the covers. ‘So, tell me, what is so good about Germinal and this Émile Zola?’

  ‘It is about the working classes of France and how hard life was for them. It was the late 1800s and they were in the mines and conditions were bad, so they had to make a strike. André Gide said it was one of the best French novels written. I find it very sad.’

  The cover showed sepia people bent over, carrying burdens. ‘I will enjoy this. It’s interesting, how the lives of the poor people were then. It will give me something to think about. Have you started your book yet?’

  ‘I have read much of it already, your Emile Brontë.’ He rai
sed a mischievous eyebrow and she caught his expression and smiled at the joke. ‘It is good. But what does it mean, the wuthering?’

  ‘It’s the name of the house.’

  ‘But what does it mean, the English, wuthering?’

  Evie thought. ‘Well the house is up high, isn’t it, next to the moors, and so I expect wuthering is to do with the bad weather. Like weathering. You know, windy and all that. Like the characters, totally blown about by passion.’

  He smiled. ‘She is like you, this Cathy. She has desire and she is têtue …’ He thought for the word. ‘Headstrong – wilful, and full of passion.’

  She grinned. He was her Heathcliff, brooding, dark, a mysterious man of yearning and sorrow. She could sense it about him, and she wondered if all his past had been miserable.

  ‘You are thinking again, Evie.’ He pulled her close and her head rested on his chest. ‘Share with me your thoughts.’

  She wondered how to phrase it. ‘I was thinking about your photos, Jean-Luc. You have had a lot of women. And is that little girl your child? Where is she now?’

  He made the expansive shrug she was now used to seeing. It hid deeper feelings.

  ‘The child was born in California. She must be forty-eight years old now, maybe more. Her mother Cindy and I called her Soleil, after the sun. I was twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven, and Soleil was – how can I say – not planned. One day, when Soleil was five years old, I came home from work on construction and Cindy was there with another man. I packed my things and I left. That was it.’

  ‘You’ve had no contact with her since, your own child?’

  ‘No. I think of her often but – well, I never met my father and I think maybe she will not miss me.’

  ‘You have no other children?’

  The shrug again. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Who knows?’

  ‘So, what came next then? Who is the dark-haired woman?’

  ‘Sylvie. The Parisienne. She and I spent ten years together. She knew everything of my body but nothing of my mind. After a while there was little left between us and I moved away.’