Blackberry Wine

38

LATER, OVER HIS FAVOURITE GRAND CRÈME IN THE CAFÉ DES Marauds, he was listening with half an ear to Joséphine as she told him the story of the village’s first chocolate festival and the resistance with which it had been met by the church. The coffee was good, sprinkled with shavings of dark chocolate and with a cinnamon biscuit by the side of the cup. Narcisse was sitting opposite with his usual seed catalogue and a café-cassis. In the afternoons the place was busier, but Jay noticed that the clientele still consisted mainly of old men, playing chess or cards and talking in their low rapid patois. In the evening it would be full of workers back from the fields and the farms. He wondered where the young people went at night.

‘Not many young people stay here,’ Joséphine explained. ‘There isn’t the work, unless you want to go into farming. And most of the farms have been divided so often between all the family’s sons that there isn’t much of a livelihood left for anyone.’

‘Always the sons,’ said Jay. ‘Never the daughters.’

‘There aren’t many women who’d want to run a farm in Lansquenet,’ said Joséphine, shrugging. ‘And some of the growers and distributors don’t like the idea of working for a woman.’

Jay gave a short laugh.

Joséphine looked at him. ‘You don’t believe that?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s hard for me to understand,’ he explained. ‘In London-’

‘This isn’t London.’ Joséphine seemed amused. ‘People hold close to their traditions here. The church. The family. The land. That’s why so many of the young people leave. They want what they read about in their magazines. They want the cities, cars, clubs, shops. But there are always some who stay. And some who come back.’

She poured another café-crème and smiled. ‘There was a time when I would have given anything to get out of Lansquenet,’ she said. ‘Once I even set off. Packed my bags and left home.’

‘What happened?’

‘I stopped on the way for a cup of hot chocolate.’ She laughed. ‘And then I realized I couldn’t leave. I’d never really wanted to in the first place.’ She paused to pick up some empty glasses from a nearby table. ‘When you’ve lived here long enough you’ll understand. After a time, people find it hard to leave a place like Lansquenet. It isn’t just a village. The houses aren’t just places to live. Everything belongs to everybody. Everyone belongs to everyone else. Even a single person can make a difference.’

He nodded. It was what had first attracted him to Pog Hill Lane. The comings and goings. The conversations over the wall. The exchange of recipes, of baskets of fruit and bottles of wine. The constant presence of other people. While Joe was still there Pog Hill Lane stayed alive. Everything died with his departure. Suddenly he envied Josephine her life, her friends, her view over Les Marauds. Her memories.

‘What about me?’ he wondered. ‘Will I make a difference?’

‘Of course.’

He hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud.

‘Everyone knows about you, Jay. Everyone asks me about you. It takes a little time for someone to be accepted here. People need to know if you’re going to stay. They don’t want to give themselves to someone who won’t stay. And some of them are afraid.’

‘Of what?’

‘Change. It may seem ridiculous to you, but most of us like the village the way it is. We don’t want to be like Montauban or Le Pinot. We don’t want tourists passing through, buying up the houses at high prices and leaving the place dead in the winter. Tourists are like a plague of wasps. They get everywhere. They eat everything. They’d clean us out in a year. There’d be nothing of us left but guest houses and games arcades. Lansquenet – the real Lansquenet – would disappear.’

She shook her head. ‘People are watching you, Jay. They see you so friendly with Caro and Georges Clairmont, and they think perhaps you and they…’ She hesitated. ‘Then they see Mireille Faizande going to visit you, and they think how perhaps you might be planning to buy the other farm, next year, when the lease expires.’

‘Marise’s farm? Why should I want to do that?’ he asked, curious.

‘Whoever owns it controls all the land down to the river. The fast road to Toulouse is only a few kilometres away. Easy enough to develop. To build. It’s happened before, in other places.’

‘Not here. Not me.’ Jay looked at her evenly. ‘I’m here to write, that’s all. To finish my book. That’s all I’m interested in.’

Joséphine nodded, satisfied. ‘I know. But you were asking so many questions about her. I thought perhaps-’

‘No!’

Narcisse shot him a curious glance from behind his seed catalogue.

Lowering his voice quickly: ‘Look. I’m a writer. I’m interested in what goes on. I like stories. That’s all.’

Joséphine poured another coffee and sprinkled hazelnut sugar on the froth.

‘It’s the truth,’ insisted Jay. ‘I’m not here to make any changes. I like the place the way it is.’

Joséphine looked at him for a moment, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. ‘All right, Monsieur Jay,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll tell them you’re OK.’

They toasted her decision in hazelnut coffee.