Blackberry Wine

Clairmont drained his glass and licked his lips with satisfaction.

‘Pierre-Emile Foudouin. The man who sold you your house. Mireille’s great-nephew.’

They went out onto the drive then, to inspect Clairmont’s offerings. They were as bad as he had feared. But Jay’s mind was on other things. He offered Clairmont 500 francs for the whole truckload: the builder’s eyes widened briefly, but he was quickly persuaded. Winking slyly: ‘An eye for a good bargain, heh?’

The note disappeared into his rusty palm like a card trick.

‘And don’t worry, heh. I can find you plenty more!’

He drove off, his exhaust blatting out pink dust from the drive. Jay was left to sort out the wreckage.

Even then Joe’s training held good: Jay still found it hard to throw away what might conceivably be useful. Even as he determined to use the entire truckload for firewood he found himself looking speculatively over this and that. A glass-panelled door, cracked down the middle, might make a reasonable cold frame. The jars, each turned upside down on a small seedling, would give good protection from late frost. Little by little the oddments Clairmont had brought began to spread themselves around the garden and the field. He even found a place for the carnival head. He carried it carefully to the boundary between his and Marise’s vineyard and set it on top of a fence post, facing towards her farm. Through the dragon’s open mouth a long crepe tongue lolled redly, and its yellow eyes gleamed. Sympathetic magic, Joe would have called it, like putting gargoyles onto a church roof. Jay wondered what La Paienne would make of it.

32

Pog Hill, Summer 1977

JAY’S MEMORIES OF THAT LATE SUMMER WERE BLURRY IN A WAY the previous ones were not. Several factors were to blame – the pale and troubling sky, for one thing, which made him squint and gave him headaches. Joe seemed a little distant, and Gilly’s presence meant they did not have the long discussions they’d had the year before. And Gilly herself… it seemed that as July turned into August Gilly was always at the back of his mind. Jay found himself dwelling upon her more and more. His pleasure at her company was coloured by insecurity, jealousy and other feelings he found it difficult to identify. He was in a state of perpetual confusion. He was often close to anger, without knowing why. He argued constantly with his mother, who seemed to get more deeply under his skin that summer than ever before – everything got under his skin that year – he felt raw, as if every nerve were constantly exposed. He bought the Sex Pistols’ ‘Pretty Vacant’ and played it in his room at full volume, to the horror of his grandparents. He dreamed of piercing his ears. Gilly and he went to the Edge and warred with Glenda’s gang and filled bags with useful rubbish and took them over to Joe’s. Sometimes they helped Joe in the allotment, and occasionally he would talk to them about his travels and his time in Africa with the Masai, or his journeys through the Andes. But to Jay it seemed perfunctory, an afterthought, as if Joe’s mind were already on something else. The perimeter ritual, too, seemed abbreviated, a minute or two at most, with a stick of incense and a sachet of sprinkler. It did not occur to him to question it then, but afterwards he realized. Joe knew. Even then he had already made the decision.

One day he took Jay into his back room and showed him the seed chest again. It had been over a year since he had last done so, pointing out the thousands of seeds packaged and wrapped and labelled for planting, and in the semi-darkness – the windows were still boarded up – the chest looked dusty, abandoned, the paper packages crisp with age, the labels faded.

‘It dun’t look like owt, does it?’ said Joe, drawing his finger through the dust on the top of the chest.

Jay shook his head. The room smelt airless and damp, like a place where tomatoes have been grown. Joe grinned a little sadly.

‘Never believe it, lad. Every one of them seeds is a goodun. You could plant em right now an they’d go up champion. Like rockets. Every one of em.’ He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Just you remember, it’s not what things look like that matters. It’s what’s inside. The art of it.’

But Jay wasn’t really listening. He never really listened that summer – too preoccupied by his own thoughts, too sure that what he had would be there for ever. He took this wistful little aside of Joe’s as just another adult homily; nodding vaguely, feeling hot and bored and choked in the airless dark, wanting to get away.

Later it occurred to him that perhaps Joe had been saying goodbye.

33

Lansquenet, March 1999

JOE WAS WAITING WHEN HE REACHED THE HOUSE, LOOKING critically out of the window at the abandoned vegetable plot.

‘You want to do something with that, lad,’ he told Jay as he opened the door. ‘Else it’ll be no good this summer. You want to get it dug over and weeded while you’ve still got time. And them apple trees, anall. You want to check em for mistletoe. Bloody kill em if you let it.’

During the past week Jay had almost become used to the old man’s sudden appearances. He had even begun, in a strange way, to look forward to them, telling himself they were harmless, finding ingenious post-Jungian reasons to explain their persistence. The old Jay – the Jay of ’75 – would have relished this. But that Jay believed in everything. He wanted to believe. Astral projection, space aliens, spells, rituals, magic. Strange phenomena were that Jay’s daily business. That Jay believed – trusted. This Jay knew better.

And still he continued to see the old man, regardless of belief. A part of it was loneliness, he told himself. Another was the book – that stranger growing from the manuscript of Stout Cortez. The process of writing is a little like madness, a kind of possession not altogether benign. Back in the days of Jackapple Joe he talked to himself all the time, striding back and forth in his little Soho bedsit, with a glass in one hand, talking, arguing fiercely with himself, with Joe, with Gilly, with Zeth and Glenda, almost expecting to see them there as he looked up from the typewriter, his eyes grainy with exhaustion, his head pounding, the radio playing full blast. For a whole summer he was a little insane. But this book would be different. Easier, in a way. The characters were all around him. They marched effortlessly across the pages: Clairmont the builder, Josephine the cafe owner, Michel from Marseilles, with the red hair and the easy smile. Caro in a Hermes headscarf. Marise. Joe. Marise. There was no real plot. Instead there were a multitude of anecdotes, loosely knitted together – some remembered from Joe and relocated to Lansquenet, some recalled by Josephine over the counter of the Cafe des Marauds, some put together from scraps. He liked to think he had caught something of the air, of the light of the place. Perhaps some of Josephine’s bright, untrained narrative style. Her gossip was never tainted by malice. Her anecdotes were always warm, often amusing. He began to look forward to his visits, enough to feel a dim sense of disappointment on the days Josephine was too busy to talk. He found himself going to the cafe every day, even when he had no other excuse to be in the village. He made mental notes.

When he had been in the village for a little under three weeks, he went into Agen and sent the first 150 pages of the untitled manuscript to Nick Horneli, his agent in London. Nick handled Jonathan Winesap, as well as the royalties for Jackapple Joe. Jay had always liked him, a wryly humorous man who was in the habit of sending little cuttings from newspapers and magazines in the hope of generating new inspiration. He sent no contact address, but a poste-restante address in Agen, and waited for a reply.

To his disappointment, he found that Josephine would not speak to him about Marise. In the same way, there were people she rarely mentioned: the Clairmonts, Mireille Faizande, the Merles. Herself. Whenever he tried to encourage her to talk about these people, she would find work to do in the kitchen. He felt more and more strongly that there were things – secret things – she was reluctant to discuss.

‘What about my neighbour? Does she ever come to the cafe?’

Josephine picked up a cloth and began to polish the gleaming surface of the bar.

‘I don’t see her. I don’t know her very well.’

‘I’ve heard she doesn’t get on with people from the village.’