Blackberry Wine

better than Jackapple Joe.’

Jay nodded. She was right, of course. Pog Hill and Lansquenet; two sides of the same tarnished coin. Both sacrificed, each in its own way, to the writing career of Jay Mackintosh. After publication the place just wouldn’t be the same. Inevitably, he would move on. Narcisse, Josephine, Briancon, Guillaume, Arnauld, Roux, Poitou, Rosa – even Marise – all reduced to the status of words on a page, glib fictions to be passed over and forgotten, while in his absence, the developers moved in, planning and demolishing, rethinking and modernizing…

‘I don’t know why you’re looking like that,’ said Kerry. ‘After all, you’ve got the Worldwide contract. That’s a very generous sum you’re looking at. More than generous. Or am I being vulgar?’

‘Not at all.’ A most peculiar feeling of calm, almost of drunkenness, was beginning to steal over him. His head felt as if it were filled with bubbles. The yeasty air seethed and hissed.

‘They must want you very much,’ remarked Kerry.

‘Yes,’ said Jay slowly. ‘I think they do.’

Put your hand often enough in a wasps’ nest, Joe had said, and you’re going to get stung. Even magic won’t stop that. You’ve got to give magic a hand sometimes, lad. Give it summat to use… the right conditions.

That was it, he thought dazedly. So simple. So… simple.

Jay laughed. All at once his head was full of light. He could smell smoke and swampy water and the sweet heady scent of ripe blackberries. The air was elderflower champagne. He knew Joe was with him, that Joe had never left. Not even in ’77. Joe had never left. He could almost see him standing by the door in his old pit cap and boots, grinning in that way he had when he was especially pleased with something, and though Jay knew it was in his imagination, he knew it was real, too. Sometimes real and imaginary are the same thing after all.

Two paces took him to the bed where the manuscript and the Worldwide contracts were still lying in their box. He pulled it out. Kerry turned towards him curiously.

‘What are you doing?’

Jay picked up the manuscript in his arms and began to laugh.

‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked her. ‘It’s the only copy I have of the book. And this’ – holding out the signed contract for her to see – ‘is the paperwork. Look. It’s all completed. Ready to be sent off.’

‘Jay, what are you doing?’ Her voice was sharp.

Jay grinned and took a step towards the fireplace.

‘You can’t-’ began Kerry.

Jay looked at her.

‘No such bloody word,’ he said.

And behind Kerry’s sudden shriek he thought he could hear the sound of an old man’s chuckle.

She shrieked because she suddenly knew what he was going to do. It was crazy, ridiculous, the kind of impulse to which he had never been prone, and yet there was also a strange light in his eyes which had never been there before. As if someone had lit a fuse. His face was illuminated. He took the contracts in his hands, crumpled them and pushed them into the back of the grate. Then he began to do the same with the pages of the typescript. The paper began to catch, first crisping, then turning brown, then leaping into gleeful flame. The air was whirling with black butterflies.

‘What are you playing at?’ Kerry’s voice rose shrilly. ‘Jay, what the fuck are you doing now?’

He grinned at her, breathless with laughter.

‘What do you think? Wait a day or two, till you can get in touch with Nicky, and you’ll be sure.’

‘You’re crazy,’ said Kerry sharply. ‘You’re not going to make me believe you don’t have copies of that typescript. Plus the contracts can be replaced-’

‘Sure they can.’ He was relaxed, smiling. ‘But it isn’t going to be replaced. None of it is. And what use to anyone is a writer who never writes? How long can you sustain public interest in that? What’s it worth? What am I worth without it?’

Kerry looked at him. The man who left six months ago was unrecognizable. The old Jay was vague, sullen, directionless. This man was driven, illuminated. His eyes were shining. In spite of what he was throwing away – stupid, criminal, mad – he looked happy.

‘You really are crazy,’ she said in a strangled voice. ‘Throwing everything away – and for what? Some gesture? It isn’t you, Jay. I know you. You’ll regret it.’

Jay just looked at her, smiling a little. Patiently.

‘I don’t see you staying here beyond a year.’ Behind the scorn her voice was shaking. ‘What are you going to do? Run the farm? You’ve hardly any money. You’ve blown it all on this place. What will you do when the money runs out?’

‘I don’t know.’ His tone was cheery, indifferent. ‘Do you care?’

‘No!’

He shrugged. ‘You’d better page your film crew and tell them to meet you somewhere else,’ he told her quietly. ‘There’s no story for you here. Better try Le Pinot, just across the river. I’m sure you’ll get something suitably upbeat and entertaining there.’

She stared at him, amazed. Just for a moment she thought she smelt something, a strange, vivid scent of sugar and apples and blackberry jelly and smoke. It was a nostalgic scent, and for a second she could almost understand why Jay loved this place so much, with its little vineyards and its apple trees and its roaming goats on the marsh flats. For that instant she was a little girl again, with her grandmother in the kitchen making pies and the wind from the coast making the telephone wires sing. Somehow, she felt the scent was a part of him, something which clung to him like old smoke, and as she looked at him for a moment he looked gilded somehow, as if lit from behind, filaments of brightness shooting from his hair, his clothes. Then the scent was gone, the light was gone, and there was nothing but the staleness of the unaired room and the dregs of the wine on the table in front of them. Kerry shrugged.

‘It’s your loss,’ she said sullenly. ‘Do what you like.’

He nodded. ‘And the series?’

‘I might just drive out to Le Pinot,’ she said. ‘Georges Clairmont tells me there was a production of Clochemerle filmed there recently. It might make a decent feature.’

He smiled. ‘Good luck, Kerry.’

WHEN SHE HAD GONE HE WASHED AND PUT ON A CLEAN T-SHIRT and jeans. He considered for a moment what to do next. Even now there were no certainties. In life, the happy ending is never assured. Around us now the house was absolutely still. The buzz of energy which permeated the walls had vanished. No phantom scent of sugar and smoke remained. Even the cellar was quiet, the bottles of wine – new wine, Sauternes and Saint-Emilion and a dozen young Anjou – still and silent. Waiting.

64

AROUND NOON POPOTTE BROUGHT A PARCEL AND THE NEWS from the village. The film crew never arrived, she reported excitedly. The English lady interviewed no-one. Georges and Lucien were furious. En tout cas, she shrugged, it was probably for the best. Everyone knew that their plans never came to anything. Georges was already talking about a new venture, some kind of development plan in Montauban, which couldn’t possibly fail. Lansquenet had already moved on.

THE PARCEL WAS POSTMARKED KIRBY MONCKTON. JAY OPENED IT alone, with care, unwrapping the stiff sheets of brown paper, untying the string. It was large and heavy. As he removed the packaging an envelope fell out. He recognized Joe’s writing. There was a single sheet of faded letter paper inside.

Pog Hill Lane, 15th September.

Dear Jay,

Sorry about the rush. I never was any cop at goodbyes. I meant to stay on a bit longer, but you know what things are like. Bloody doctors won’t tell you anything till the last minute. They think that because you’re old you’ve got no idea. I’m sending you my collection – I reckon you’ll know what to do with it. You should have learned something by the time you get this. Make sure you get the soil right. Fondest regards, Joseph Cox.