Grape Expectations Read online

  Sean was standing over the sink holding a bloody tea towel over his hand. I had nasty déjà vu.

  'I've chopped my finger off,' he said.

  Chapter 10

  Of Fingers and Foresters

  I grabbed a bundle of clean tea towels and the car keys and helped him into the car. Then we were flying along the Route des Coteaux. In spite of the high speed it was the longest drive to Bergerac ever. Sean was remarkably calm but cursing his mistake prolifically; he had accidently stuck his finger into the exit pipe of the harvest trailer with the auger going. It was another strike due to fatigue.

  'Perhaps we shouldn't be doing this,' I said as we passed the Barses' turn-off. 'It's too dangerous. Your health is more important than making wine.'

  'But I love it,' said Sean through gritted teeth. 'Now is not the time to discuss this, Carolinus.'

  'But is it worth it?' I asked. Trips to Bergerac Hospital, the death of our neighbours and my nightmares about Ellie were taking their toll.

  We got to the now familiar urgences (A&E). It was a mere three months since we were last there. Sean was taken away. Fifteen minutes later I was told to go home as he would be in hospital for the day and perhaps longer, depending on the surgery.

  I felt desperate on the way home. Sean had been in charge. I didn't know how John and I would cope now Sean was off the team. The whites still needed to be cooled and the reds needed to be pumped over. I couldn't contemplate where to start. I didn't know which pump should be used for what or how the Kreyer refrigeration unit worked. I left a message for Lucille asking her to call me to prioritise the work, then I called Jamie and asked him to stop by. I walked into the pressoir and John said, 'So what now, chief?' which heightened my panic.

  We started with the pump-over of the Hillside juice. Pumping over is the method used to extract flavour and colour from the grapes when making red wine in Bordeaux and Bergerac. A proportion of the juice is pumped from the bottom of the tank and sprayed over the top of the tank. The juice extracts the colour and tannin from the grape skins as it trickles down into the main body of juice and it keeps the cap wet, thereby preventing it from turning bad.

  Hillside was in our semi-underground vat, the one I was having nightmares about. The vat lid was in the middle of the floor of our pressoir, presenting a hazard even when the vat was empty. Access to the underground portion, where the vat's main door and the pipe connection were, was via a wooden trapdoor located in the working zone of the pressoir. Rotten and dangerous, the trapdoor was earmarked as a primary target for renovation.

  I opened it and climbed down the ancient oak ladder into the gloom below. Once on solid ground I attached the pipe as fast as I could, then ascended, feeling sick at the 4-metre drop. Nearing the top, I looked up and saw several gigantic spiders clustered around my only escape. There was nothing for it; I gritted my teeth and sped up through the hole to safety.

  The awful truth was that this descent-ascent needed to be undertaken six times a day for an undefined period of time. We started the pump and realised there was a problem; the wine was not coming up from the tap below. Feeling sorely cheated at having to face the trip into the cavern again with nothing achieved, I descended and checked that the tap was open. John tried the pump again to no avail. We tried with the tap the other way, still no luck.

  It was not going well. Nothing was smooth in our eccentric winery. It was certainly a winery with character. I was swearing loudly at the pipe by the time John cleared the blockage by reversing the flow several times.

  We took turns to spray the chapeau. 'Spray' makes it sound like we were sprinkling liquid round with a nice light hose but this is far from the truth. The hose was industrial size, weighed a ton and needed to be carefully aimed and controlled so the jet of wine spread as evenly as possible. When we finished John valiantly offered to descend into the cavern to do the necessary and I agreed, somewhat too eagerly.

  The pump-over of Garrigue went more smoothly. I climbed up another old oak ladder onto Garrigue's 3-metre-tall fibre vat with a sloping top and no safety rails and grabbed onto the rim of the chimney with one hand and the pipe with the other. John started the pump and the industrial hose carrying the equivalent of 200 litres a minute leapt to life. I tried to control it, hold on and pray all at once.

  When that ordeal was over we pumped clean water through the pumps and the Kreyer before tackling the cooling of the sémillon that was now fermenting at a good pace. I hoped we would avoid this operation while Sean was in hospital but the wine was 20 degrees and needed to be between 15 and 18. We connected the Kreyer refrigeration unit to the necessary pipes and I turned the switch. The Kreyer refused to start. I imagined Sean's reaction if 6,000 litres of sémillon went wrong while I was in charge.

  I was about to go inside to phone Jamie when he arrived. He quickly set about diagnosing the problem and was close to admitting defeat when he discovered that the electricians had changed the polarity on the new board so the Kreyer's fan was turning in the wrong direction. Minutes later the sémillon was cooling happily and I was beyond grateful.

  It was past two o'clock when Lucille arrived as I was making my way across the courtyard to get some lunch.

  'Ça va?' asked Lucille. 'I came as soon as I could. Did the finger land in the wine?'

  An oenologist has to keep her priorities straight.

  'No, it's somewhere on Garrigue in the rinsing water,' I said. John had looked for the missing bit of finger once it was light enough but it was lost – washed down the road where we did a final rinse of the trailers, into Upper Garrigue. It brought a new dimension to how much of himself Sean put into his vineyard and his wines.

  'Is Sean all right?'

  'I haven't heard from the hospital yet. He was in a lot of pain.'

  We talked through what had to happen in the winery over the following few days. Lucille was losing her school teacher approach and becoming more of a collaborator.

  'Faites très attention à vous and best wishes to Sean,' she said as she left; better than a rap over the knuckles.

  It was mid afternoon and I hadn't eaten since four that morning. I bit into a baguette stuffed to bursting with fig jam, then into a large piece of cherry chocolate and called the hospital. Sean was out of theatre and could be collected. He had lost the top third of his middle finger on his left hand. To avoid future problems the surgeon had cut away a little more of the bone than the harvest trailer had done and removed the nail root.

  'Come now,' said Sean, 'please, Carolinus.' He sounded so vulnerable. I crammed another mouthful of fig baguette and a hunk of chocolate into my mouth and grabbed the car keys.

  Sean was in reasonable humour considering his amputation traumatique as described on his medical certificate. His hand was bandaged up to the elbow. By the time we reached Gardonne pharmacy the anaesthetic was wearing off. On the road from Gardonne to Garrigue Sean groaned in agony at each tiny bump. He took the maximum dose of morphine and went to bed. I had never seen him in such pain.

  The doctor decreed that Sean should be off for six weeks and it would take six months for the finger to heal completely. All I could think was – what the feck am I going to do? I felt bad that I was worrying about myself; at least I had all my fingers.

  The following day John and I tackled Hillside again. I descended into 'Halloween Horror' cavern, speeding past the spiders despite the drop of several metres and connected up the pipe. I had already returned to the joyful light before we realised that the pipe was blocked like the day before. We tried the trick of reversing the pump unsuccessfully. A minute later Sean ran into the winery, bandaged hand held high.

  'What's going on?' he demanded.

  I was dispatched down into the cavern. After trying almost everything Sean decided to go down himself to check the pipe. We undid the vat-to-pipe connection yet again and checked the pipe and the tap. Lodged deep inside the tap spout was a solid rubber washer that should have remained inside the tap cap when I took it off the previou
s day. I was the weakest link. Sean glowered at me and stomped back to bed. I felt angry and frustrated; I was out of my depth and his attitude wasn't helping. I reminded myself that he was running on morphine and recovering from a traumatic amputation.

  Over the next few days the pump-overs, which had been terrifying at first, became familiar, although we constantly reminded ourselves to take care. I now judiciously checked for washers when removing caps. Our white wines, meanwhile, motored towards the end of their alcoholic fermentation. Like a nurse, I started with a ward round each day, clipboard in hand, tasting and taking temperatures and densities of each of our 'babies' then using that information to decide what needed to be done. The only wine that wasn't behaving perfectly was the rosé, which was fermenting too slowly for Lucille's liking. It tasted delicious, though.

  The following day a tempest struck that brought down barns, trees and garden sheds all over south-west France. I came out of the winery dressed in wine-splattered dry-pants to take Sophia to school and could barely open the car doors in the ferocious wind. Debris flew around. It did not feel safe. When I got back I noticed a 3-metre tree in the garden had succumbed to the tornado. Our neighbour's shed had been demolished and their garden arch lifted up by the wind and smashed into their car.

  Sean came out of the house and pointed to the huge oak tree that grew outside the pressoir. It was not as straight as usual. We soon verified that the 200-year-old oak was now leaning ominously against the pressoir – the part of the winery where the grapes are pressed and fermented – which housed our precious harvest. With the aid of Sean's dad, John, a forester by trade, we considered our options. It was impossible for us to remove on our own. The precarious situation and what was inside the building meant we needed a serious professional to do it.

  I looked up the French word for tree surgeon then called every élagueuse in the Pages Jaunes. Not surprisingly, given the tempest, I found all who answered already engaged in emergencies. A few called back but when they heard the details of the tree and its situation they quickly discovered other priorities.

  Our entire year's work was at risk. The tree was over 20 metres high. If it smashed through the roof of the winery it could break the tanks and cause damage to equipment. Nor was it a safe place for us to work with a mighty oak balancing on it, but the winery work had to continue.

  That evening as I sat down to call through the list of élagueuses again, Olivier Delpeuch called back. His advertisement was promising; a drawing of him hanging off a tree in climbing gear, holding onto the trunk with one hand and cutting a massive branch with an enormous chainsaw with the other. He arrived the following day and I had to pinch myself. He was a French Rambo with striking features and rippling muscles, dressed in combats and dark glasses and drawing deeply on a rolled cigarette.

  He assessed the tree from all angles.

  'C'est le pire.'

  'It's the worst' was a comment I had heard from many artisans in the build-up to a devis but in this instance I trusted the man. This was not because of his exceptional physique, as Sean later insinuated somewhat jokingly.

  'You will have to hire a grosse grue,' he said.

  I didn't have a clue what a grosse grue was, but I was happy to hire whatever he liked. A grosse grue, the dictionary told me later, was a large crane. Olivier promised to organise it for the job, which he could do on Monday, which was in three days' time.

  'Make sure no one is in the winery if the wind blows. The tree is dangerous.'

  Just what I needed to hear facing into a full day's work in the winery.

  When Olivier called later to let me know the price I noticed he never referred to a tree as a tree. It was the chêne or the acacia or something more specific like le vieux chêne. I liked it: it implied respect and gave our wounded trees, the old oak and the acacia, an identity. Or was it just the way he said it? Fortunately, the cost of the removal of the oak and the repair to the small part of the roof that had been broken by it would be covered by our insurance. I had sent them photos of the tree and its situation and they had agreed that it should be removed as fast as possible to avoid further damage. The acacia was alongside the winery and it was hanging by a thread so it had to go too.

  A little later Olivier called back.

  'Make sure no one is in the winery on Monday afternoon,' he said.

  This was essential, not merely for safety, but more particularly, for viewing. At the designated time Peta-Lynne, Ellie and I installed ourselves comfortably in garden chairs a safe distance from our French Rambo live in action.

  Olivier arrived wearing his signature combats, leather boots and dark glasses, now complemented by his climbing harness and an attractive red headband. He was more good-looking than I remembered. Peta-Lynne and I exchanged a glance.

  John, experienced in all things 'tree', took one look at him and said dismissively, 'He looks a bit of a cowboy.' Luckily Sean was now able to drive the car and had taken himself to the hospital for his regular amputation check-up so we didn't have to listen to any other derogatory comments.

  The enormous crane arrived, bringing to mind city skylines. Olivier attached its chains to the base of the acacia. It would be the taster before the main feature. He quickly chainsawed the acacia at the base and leapt away as the crane lifted the 4-metre tree over our 6-metre-high barns and deposited it on the newly created tasting-room parking area. Sean's mum and I almost burst into applause while Ellie reposed regally in her all-terrain buggy.

  Olivier 'Rambo' then moved onto le vieux chêne. He climbed onto the roof of the winery and removed the smaller side branches, then attached himself to the crane, which lifted him into the sky and lowered him onto the tree. Positioned about halfway between the double-storey winery roof and the top of the tree he attached himself to the trunk, attached the chains of the crane above and sawed through the wood in the classic pose displayed in his advert. He had to manoeuvre like a rock climber holding a massive chainsaw that even in the most stable situation would have been difficult and dangerous to operate. The crane operator lifted the upper section free as Olivier finished the cut, missing him by inches. I could barely watch. He gradually moved down the tree, cutting off huge sections in similar fashion. There were gasps of awe from the three generations of Feely girls in the front-row seats. John left us in disgust under the auspices of taking photos from the other side of the winery.

  Oaks are notoriously difficult trees to judge because of the considerable size and weight of side branches that influence the way the tree falls or moves. Apart from his good looks Olivier was an exceptionally skilled tree surgeon, I thought. I was in awe.

  When he came back into the courtyard Olivier looked exhilarated and exhausted. I could see now that the red headband was not a fashion accessory but played the important role of keeping the sweat out of his eyes in such exacting circumstances. I brought him a glass of juice. The grosse grue had already left. John came up to join in.

  'C'était difficile,' said Olivier. 'Perhaps one of the most difficult I have done. At one point, on the second level of le vieux chêne I cut and the crane lifted but it swung because of the uneven weight and missed my foot by millimetres.'

  'I don't speak French,' said John, 'but I am a forester and I just want to tell you…' John paused for a long moment as he often did. I wondered what was coming next. Perhaps 'you're a bit of a cowboy'? '… the job you did out there today was exceptionally skilful.'

  Olivier was visibly moved. Despite a significant language barrier, the tree men had a long discussion about everything from the age of le vieux chêne to the trees John had worked with in South Africa.

  Olivier sawed the beautiful oak into 50-centimetre lengths. I thanked him profusely.

  Our harvest was safe and we could go back to work in the winery. But Sean's finger was still total agony if something touched the bandage. He was working again but being single-handed was slow. John and Peta-Lynne would soon be leaving us and I didn't have any idea how we would bring in our
Saussignac dessert wine, let alone do the work on the wines we already had in the winery.

  Sophia and Ellie were showing signs of vendanges stress. Sophia developed bed-wetting problems after months of being dry, Ellie was picky at mealtimes and wouldn't go to sleep at bedtime. We had not had a moment to spend with them in six weeks. Our evening meals were rushed and often in relays because of the hellish tempo dictated by the harvest. While on the face of it Sean and I were getting along OK there was a constant undercurrent of tension. We only talked to each other for business decisions and we were both stretched to our limit by the work needed to get to grips with our new business. I often worked late into the night responding to orders and sorting out direct deliveries for our fledgling online wine business while Sean did the same in the winery with John as his left hand. The finger amputation and harvest pressure didn't help. The tension was also partly due to not spending any time alone together but ironically I was not looking forward to being alone with him when the Feelys left the following week. I felt like Sean didn't have anything to say to me except 'Just get on with it'. When everyone else had gone to bed I munched my way through several rows of touche de sérénité chocolate, hoping it would ease my stress.