remembered being on her own, the frightening sounds that came from her father’s bedroom at night, the cold, the darkness, the loneliness.
But when she was seven, Olivier, much to her surprise and no doubt everyone else’s, had married again, this time a young American college graduate who had come to Champagne to work the vendange. Clementine remembered Ann MacIntyre as a pretty, gangly, vivacious blonde. She had been in awe of her, this sudden intruder into her sheltered life, but had welcomed her. For a while it seemed some light had filtered back into the House of Peine and what a pretty place it was when that happened. Drapes were hung, quilts were patched, floral posies appeared on clean dusted surfaces. It was a sweet relief for such a serious, silent little girl but still Clementine worried what Ann — sweet, foreign, happy Ann — could possibly see in the dry, moody, dark Olivier. And she was right to worry because whatever it was, it didn’t take long for Ann to stop seeing it. Over two wet, misty Saint-Vincent-sur-Marne winters, Ann’s vivaciousness leached into the chalky soil where depression readily took hold and blossomed in the ideal conditions of bone-chilling damp and seemingly eternal darkness.
For Clementine there was an unexpected upside, for in her wretchedness Ann sought the warmth she was no doubt being denied by Olivier. She would spend hours holding Clementine, hugging her close, rocking and weeping into that head of bright-red untamed curls. Clementine, such a stranger to affection , misguided or not, soaked it up silently. Such was her own happiness that never in those last few months did she notice the bump that grew under Ann’s sweater in direct proportion to the flow of her tears. Then one day, a grey-haired American couple turned up at the house and took their miserablypregnant daughter back to New York. That was the last they ever saw of Ann MacIntyre-Peine.
Clementine had been inconsolable, but Olivier merely shrugged and disappeared into the vineyard. Ann became just another name never to be mentioned again.
Not six months after she disappeared off the scene, though, a photo came, a photo of a fat, smiling, red-headed baby girl. Mathilde. Clementine found the picture under a bottle lying next to the garbage can outside the kitchen and squirrelled it away in her underwear drawer. For a long time afterwards, during her bleaker moments she would take that picture out and stare at it, imagining how much happier her life would be if only her little sister was there to share it.
As it was, happiness eluded her through her school years and past her teens. A trifle plump but pretty, with eyes the colour of chardonnay grapes, she was hindered by a shy disposition that disguised itself in the gruff family armour. Friends were a luxury she could not seem to afford. The closest she ever came to anything remotely resembling joy was on her own out among the vines: feeling the heat of a ray of spring sunshine, smelling the balmy summer fragrance of flowers turning into fruit, shading her chardonnay eyes from the glare of the naked plants covered in a twinkling blanket of January snow.
Then one summer morning, not long after her 26th birthday, Olivier, more foul-tempered than usual, announced that the little sister he had never mentioned was coming to stay with them. Clementine, although taken aback, allowed herself a tingle of excitement. Could it be that at last the little Mathilde she had spent 17 years dreaming of, that chubby smiling baby, was about to come to life, to her life?
The creature that subsequently stepped out of Olivier’s rust and apricot-coloured
Deux Chevaux
was far from chubby and certainly not smiling. She was thin and exceptionallysulky. In fact, she took one look at the House of Peine, said, “What a fucking shit hole,” in loud American, then flounced inside, leaving Clementine to lug her bags upstairs to her room while Olivier melted into the winery. It became
But when she was seven, Olivier, much to her surprise and no doubt everyone else’s, had married again, this time a young American college graduate who had come to Champagne to work the vendange. Clementine remembered Ann MacIntyre as a pretty, gangly, vivacious blonde. She had been in awe of her, this sudden intruder into her sheltered life, but had welcomed her. For a while it seemed some light had filtered back into the House of Peine and what a pretty place it was when that happened. Drapes were hung, quilts were patched, floral posies appeared on clean dusted surfaces. It was a sweet relief for such a serious, silent little girl but still Clementine worried what Ann — sweet, foreign, happy Ann — could possibly see in the dry, moody, dark Olivier. And she was right to worry because whatever it was, it didn’t take long for Ann to stop seeing it. Over two wet, misty Saint-Vincent-sur-Marne winters, Ann’s vivaciousness leached into the chalky soil where depression readily took hold and blossomed in the ideal conditions of bone-chilling damp and seemingly eternal darkness.
For Clementine there was an unexpected upside, for in her wretchedness Ann sought the warmth she was no doubt being denied by Olivier. She would spend hours holding Clementine, hugging her close, rocking and weeping into that head of bright-red untamed curls. Clementine, such a stranger to affection , misguided or not, soaked it up silently. Such was her own happiness that never in those last few months did she notice the bump that grew under Ann’s sweater in direct proportion to the flow of her tears. Then one day, a grey-haired American couple turned up at the house and took their miserablypregnant daughter back to New York. That was the last they ever saw of Ann MacIntyre-Peine.
Clementine had been inconsolable, but Olivier merely shrugged and disappeared into the vineyard. Ann became just another name never to be mentioned again.
Not six months after she disappeared off the scene, though, a photo came, a photo of a fat, smiling, red-headed baby girl. Mathilde. Clementine found the picture under a bottle lying next to the garbage can outside the kitchen and squirrelled it away in her underwear drawer. For a long time afterwards, during her bleaker moments she would take that picture out and stare at it, imagining how much happier her life would be if only her little sister was there to share it.
As it was, happiness eluded her through her school years and past her teens. A trifle plump but pretty, with eyes the colour of chardonnay grapes, she was hindered by a shy disposition that disguised itself in the gruff family armour. Friends were a luxury she could not seem to afford. The closest she ever came to anything remotely resembling joy was on her own out among the vines: feeling the heat of a ray of spring sunshine, smelling the balmy summer fragrance of flowers turning into fruit, shading her chardonnay eyes from the glare of the naked plants covered in a twinkling blanket of January snow.
Then one summer morning, not long after her 26th birthday, Olivier, more foul-tempered than usual, announced that the little sister he had never mentioned was coming to stay with them. Clementine, although taken aback, allowed herself a tingle of excitement. Could it be that at last the little Mathilde she had spent 17 years dreaming of, that chubby smiling baby, was about to come to life, to her life?
The creature that subsequently stepped out of Olivier’s rust and apricot-coloured
Deux Chevaux
was far from chubby and certainly not smiling. She was thin and exceptionallysulky. In fact, she took one look at the House of Peine, said, “What a fucking shit hole,” in loud American, then flounced inside, leaving Clementine to lug her bags upstairs to her room while Olivier melted into the winery. It became
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