some of the sellers were panicking over the war news. Having paid for them and arranged for them to be delivered, they returned to the van to drive to Pierre’s vineyard just outside the town.
It was only a small independent vineyard but its grapes produced good wine and Pierre had done well for himself. Albert was justly proud of his son’s achievements, as he was of Annelise who, in spite of the disgrace of having a child out of wedlock, had managed to bag herself an English lord. And there was Justine, his youngest, teaching in a school in Paris and living in her own apartment on the rue de la Pompe. He fervently hoped and prayed this war would not upset their lives too much.
Pierre, at forty-eight, was a younger version of his father, not tall but immensely strong. His wife was blond and tiny, seemingly fragile, but she had borne two boys, Henri and Philippe, now in their twenties, who helped run the vineyard. They were all there when Albert and Elizabeth arrived, sitting round the table enjoying a late lunch of soup and crusty bread. Room was made for them at the table and more bowls fetched.
‘What do you think of the news, eh?’ Pierre asked his father, after Elizabeth had been hugged and kissed and Albert had explained what they had been doing in Annecy.
The old man shrugged. ‘What is there to think?’
‘It’ll be over by Christmas,’ Philippe said.
‘They said that last time and we had four years of it.’ Albert paused before continuing. ‘How’s the grape coming on?’
‘Not bad, not bad at all,’ Pierre told him. ‘We should begin harvesting next month.’
‘If Hitler lets you.’
‘I doubt he’ll stop us. There will always be a need for good wine.’
‘If the boys get called up, you’ll be short-handed.’
‘I could stay and help,’ Elizabeth said.
‘You, Lisabette, are going home at the end of the week,’ her grandfather said firmly.
‘Have you enjoyed your stay?’ Jeanne asked her.
‘Very much. I always do. Dransville is my second home. I wonder if I’ll be able to come next year?’
‘Let’s drink to that,’ Pierre said, raising his glass. ‘To next year and may there be peace again.’
‘To peace.’ Their voices rose together.
Elizabeth, loaded with a basket containing six bottles of the best wine for her parents, said goodbye to everyone and settled in the van beside her grandfather for the journey home. They were both thoughtful and didn’t talk much, and Elizabeth had no idea anything was wrong until Grandpère suddenly said he didn’t feel well. He had hardly uttered the words before he slumped across the steering wheel and the little van careered all over the road.
Elizabeth tried to grab the wheel but his whole weight was resting on it and she couldn’t steer. He still had his foot on the accelerator. She reached over and switched off the engine, but that made little difference on the steep downward slope. They tore down the hill while she wrestled with the steering wheel and tried to slow the van down with the handbrake. There was a bend in the road at the bottom of the hill and they failed to negotiate it. The van went over the side of the road, tumbled down the hillside and came to rest on its side against the stump of a tree.
Elizabeth, who had been knocked unconscious, cameto her senses while the wheels were still turning. The bottles had broken and the smell of wine filled the little vehicle. Trying not to panic, she attempted to move. A pain shot across her shoulder and made her pause. ‘Papie’ she said, feeling his throat for a pulse. Thank God, he wasn’t dead. ‘Papie, wake up. We’ve got to get out.’ He did not stir. She had to get help. Struggling with the pain in her shoulder and the strange upside-downness of everything, it seemed a lifetime before she could get the door open and then she saw several people scrambling down to reach them. ‘It’s all right, miss. We’ll get you out. Don’t try and move.’
‘I never
It was only a small independent vineyard but its grapes produced good wine and Pierre had done well for himself. Albert was justly proud of his son’s achievements, as he was of Annelise who, in spite of the disgrace of having a child out of wedlock, had managed to bag herself an English lord. And there was Justine, his youngest, teaching in a school in Paris and living in her own apartment on the rue de la Pompe. He fervently hoped and prayed this war would not upset their lives too much.
Pierre, at forty-eight, was a younger version of his father, not tall but immensely strong. His wife was blond and tiny, seemingly fragile, but she had borne two boys, Henri and Philippe, now in their twenties, who helped run the vineyard. They were all there when Albert and Elizabeth arrived, sitting round the table enjoying a late lunch of soup and crusty bread. Room was made for them at the table and more bowls fetched.
‘What do you think of the news, eh?’ Pierre asked his father, after Elizabeth had been hugged and kissed and Albert had explained what they had been doing in Annecy.
The old man shrugged. ‘What is there to think?’
‘It’ll be over by Christmas,’ Philippe said.
‘They said that last time and we had four years of it.’ Albert paused before continuing. ‘How’s the grape coming on?’
‘Not bad, not bad at all,’ Pierre told him. ‘We should begin harvesting next month.’
‘If Hitler lets you.’
‘I doubt he’ll stop us. There will always be a need for good wine.’
‘If the boys get called up, you’ll be short-handed.’
‘I could stay and help,’ Elizabeth said.
‘You, Lisabette, are going home at the end of the week,’ her grandfather said firmly.
‘Have you enjoyed your stay?’ Jeanne asked her.
‘Very much. I always do. Dransville is my second home. I wonder if I’ll be able to come next year?’
‘Let’s drink to that,’ Pierre said, raising his glass. ‘To next year and may there be peace again.’
‘To peace.’ Their voices rose together.
Elizabeth, loaded with a basket containing six bottles of the best wine for her parents, said goodbye to everyone and settled in the van beside her grandfather for the journey home. They were both thoughtful and didn’t talk much, and Elizabeth had no idea anything was wrong until Grandpère suddenly said he didn’t feel well. He had hardly uttered the words before he slumped across the steering wheel and the little van careered all over the road.
Elizabeth tried to grab the wheel but his whole weight was resting on it and she couldn’t steer. He still had his foot on the accelerator. She reached over and switched off the engine, but that made little difference on the steep downward slope. They tore down the hill while she wrestled with the steering wheel and tried to slow the van down with the handbrake. There was a bend in the road at the bottom of the hill and they failed to negotiate it. The van went over the side of the road, tumbled down the hillside and came to rest on its side against the stump of a tree.
Elizabeth, who had been knocked unconscious, cameto her senses while the wheels were still turning. The bottles had broken and the smell of wine filled the little vehicle. Trying not to panic, she attempted to move. A pain shot across her shoulder and made her pause. ‘Papie’ she said, feeling his throat for a pulse. Thank God, he wasn’t dead. ‘Papie, wake up. We’ve got to get out.’ He did not stir. She had to get help. Struggling with the pain in her shoulder and the strange upside-downness of everything, it seemed a lifetime before she could get the door open and then she saw several people scrambling down to reach them. ‘It’s all right, miss. We’ll get you out. Don’t try and move.’
‘I never
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