Comme vous êtes bronzés!
Vivette is in her garden harvesting beans but she drops everything to greet us with a wide smile and effusive hugs. Jean-Pierre emerges beaming from the cellar. They’re both tanned, too, though their tans come from outdoor work rather than seaside holidays. France and Vincent rush to the big iron gate and embrace Dylan and Stephanie. They are all as pleased to see us as we are to see them.
It’s relief to be home, as it feels; to reconnect with friends and celebrate a homecoming. Vivette and I buy sausages and merguez from the butcher at Caux and pick tomatoes and lettuce from the garden. We set a table in the courtyard and Jean-Pierre puts a match to a huge pile of sarments, the dried vine prunings that burn so well and produce such good coals. It’s the simplest of meals, all the more satisfying because of its familiarity. Relaxing with another jug of Jean-Pierre’s wine we discuss the forthcoming vintage.
Mas Laval will provide about two weeks work, and Jean-Pierre and his team will then pick at other, larger vineyards in the region where vintage continues for three or four weeks longer. The wage is minimal but it should cover our rent, and even if we come out even we’ll be satisfied. Vintage will be another adventure, another new experience to add to the library of new adventures and experiences.
Our new gîte is on the northern side of the courtyard, between the rabbits and the turkeys. Kitchen, living area and bathroom are on the ground floor, with two bedrooms upstairs. No one can tell me what this part of the complex was originally used for, or who might have lived here, but the bread oven inside the enormous stone fireplace gives a clue. In her living room Vivette has shown me the old pétrin or dough trough, a low wooden tub with sloping sides whose size suggests an impressive baking. Its role today is to store tablecloths and serviettes.
The shoebox of letters that Vivette has kept for us contains news from family and friends and the long-awaited international driving permits. For John there’s a letter from the University of Minnesota. Can you get over here by 1 October? asks the American thesis examiner. He’s offering a research position in Minneapolis for a couple of years.
Minneapolis? It’s the last place I want to go to. Nor is John enthralled by the prospect. We ponder the practicalities of going to America for a year and then returning to France but, however possible it might be in theory, we know in our hearts that it’s unlikely to happen. On the other hand, it’s already September. Winter is looming, and we can’t afford to keep living off savings, however frugal our lifestyle. Nor can we remain drifters, flitting from place to place, each day waking up with the hope that a letter will arrive, that somewhere, someone else will make a decision that will determine our future, where we go next.
And yet … Minneapolis is so distant from the here and now that it could almost be on another planet. I have difficulty even imagining a life there. John agonises for a brief moment, but there can be only one response. Thank you for your offer, he writes, but I’d prefer not to interrupt my French studies, nor impede the children’s bilingual progress. Further, if you don’t mind, there are certain aspects of the proposed research I’d rather not be involved with (a small white lie). It might be lacking in diplomacy but there’s no ambiguity about his reply.
It is good to be back among old friends. In Nizas we call to see Madame Molla and catch up with Monsieur Molla, Poireau Sauvage and Joker. We drop in for an apéritif with Madame la Voisine who tells us she already knew we were back. News travels fast! The children are happy to be in familiar territory and they play with France and Vincent, either outside in the courtyard or in the main house. Stephanie shadows Vivette as she feeds the chickens, or picks vegetables in the garden, and we lose her for hours on end.
We’re among friends In Pézenas, too, recognised by the burly butcher and even the manager of the Washmatic. At the market the friendly cheesemonger and his wife remember us and give the children a big slice of emmenthal each. Apart from cheese, our market requirements are minimal. Vivette gives us vegetables—tomatoes, superb melons, leeks, celery, lettuce—and Jean-Pierre offers chickens and eggs. I realise now why all great chefs insist on fresh eggs for omelettes.
Before vintage proper it’s time to pick the table grapes, black oeillade and white chasselas, the latter traditionally eaten with fresh cantal cheese in the Languedoc. Jean-Pierre has only a few rows, and he picks in the morning so that the women can prepare the grapes for market in the afternoon. Armed with a pair of scissors I join Vivette, Mamie and Vivette’s mother in the filtered light near the entrance to the cave and trim the bunches, removing any hard, shrivelled and damaged grapes. It’s not difficult work, and it’s conducive to gossip. This is where I learn about the Nizas boulangère and the Fontès doctor, almost down to the how and the when and the where. It is like listening to Under Milk Wood in French. The women are unashamedly candid, their stories intruding into the most intimate details of people’s private lives. I almost blush to hear some of the tales, at the same time realising that here in the country your business is everyone else’s business.
Meanwhile, John is helping Jean-Pierre with the preparations for vintage, cleaning out the vats and sorting out all the equipment. Overjoyed to have male company in what is normally a female-dominated household, Jean-Pierre is in his element as he explains to John the role and purpose of every tool and implement, every step in the winemaking process.
And then an invitation arrives from the professor at Compiègne. My heart is still firmly fixed on Montpellier but Compiègne does at least have the benefit of being near Paris, and we cannot wait forever. John catches the overnight train from Montpellier to go to Compiègne and discuss the offer. It’s the first time he has been away from the children for more than an afternoon, and they are old enough now to recognise the absence. Stephanie sheds many tears, but seems to understand. John gone Paris, she says over dinner; and then, as if to reassure herself, John coming back.
It’s amazing how easily things fall into place. Professor Touzot’s job pays 6000 francs per month but without the treizième mois, the 13th month, which many employers offer as a kind of bonus. John is happy with the organisation at the university and the work he’ll be engaged in. From his preliminary enquiries it seems we’ll have no difficulty finding a house to rent. And we agree that to experience Paris—I conveniently overlook Compiègne—is far more important than experiencing Minnesota.
After the months of agonising over if-this, if-not-that, it’s almost an anti-climax, the decision made for us. There’s no sense of relief in accepting it, more a feeling of resignation, of coming to terms with the fact that although it’s not our first choice it’s our only one. Only gradually is this replaced by the excitement of anticipation.