Chapter 2

Just before seven, Marie found me in the laundry with Laure. The house did not have a washing machine, so I was scrubbing my jeans on a washboard in a huge square double sink. It was a surprisingly enjoyable task and my increasing competence, along with my appearance in the boiler suit Marie had left out for me, was causing Laure, who was sitting on a worktop, critiquing my technique, great delight.

I didn't notice Marie come in, but looked up when Laure said,

"Peece is not used to domestic work, I think." Marie was standing beside Laure, backlit by the door, a glow around her, and I was worried that she might be annoyed by our laughter, but when she spoke, her voice had a smile in it; the first humour I had noticed her display

"Piers," she said, "Peeyers"

"Peeuuurce," Laure said, and they laughed together.

"I am looking forward to seeing him tackle the mangle."

Slightly stung, I said,

"I had to do my own washing at school, you know."

"Well, it will have to wait until tomorrow," said Marie, "It is time for dinner."

Laure leapt up with a gasp.

"I have abandoned Elodie!" and she dashed away.

Marie took Laure's place, watching me, but without the mockery. I put my jeans with my shirts on the dryer and hauled on the line to hoist it into the eves of the laundry

"You look very dignified in the overalls." I gave her a wry smile. "Honestly. Not many people could give this look such panache." I had found them, neatly folded, on a stool in the bathroom with the towels: a kind touch. I had washed my underwear and socks in the sink of my pension the night before, but the few other clothes I carried with me had been well beyond needing a hard scrub. Unfortunately, the boiler suit had belonged to a somewhat taller man than me, and I was lost in it.

"Thank you for thinking of it."

Softly, she said, almost in a whisper,

"You're welcome."

She guided me with a straight arm, turning on crossed feet, to leave the laundry, in an echo of the gesture she had used when showing me the window of my room. We crossed the courtyard without speaking, two shy people beginning to find the measure of one another, and, as we reached the kitchen door, a tall, leathery-skinned older man, dressed in a rough shirt, waistcoat and braces, and smoking a pipe, came around the side of the house.

"Good evening, Miss," he said, and Marie turned to him and kissed his cheek

"Jacques," she said, "I present your new assistant, Piers."

He took his pipe out of his mouth, extended a hand and said,

"Good evening, Monsieur."

He was, perhaps, sixty, and I was struck by his placid manner. I was expecting questions, even that he might resent me having been hired without his being consulted, but, instead, he said,

"We have been expecting you."

I didn't know what to make of this. I gave him a questioning frown, but Marie cut him off, as if he had said something unwelcome or gauche. She took his arm and led him into the kitchen, and I followed. The smell of jam was gone: instead, the room steamed with rich smells of cooked meat, garlic, herbs and wine. My body screamed with longing: I was extremely hungry; Elodie had given me a piece of bread and cheese when I'd come down to ask about doing my washing, but, other than that, I hadn't eaten since setting out from the outskirts of Tours that morning.

I asked whether I could do anything to help, but Elodie said, no; all was in hand. Just go through and no doubt Master would find me a drink. I thanked her, and she humphed, but with a smile. I followed Jacques and Marie through the wood panelled hall, where the coloured beams of light were now climbing the stairs towards the gallery as evening approached, and on, through an arched door into a corridor hung with small, dark oil paintings. The house breathed contentment, as if to say, another day completed, an evening's rest begins, and I shared its peace.

There were two doors in the corridor, one to the left, half way along it, and one at its end. We went through that one, and entered a dining room of dark, antiquated simplicity. It, too, was wood panelled, to head height, and there were half a dozen portraits, ranging from one that might have been early twentieth century, of a severe looking young woman in Edwardian style dress, to what looked like renaissance era: the person pictured was a fine looking gentleman, holding a short, carved stick, dressed in a dark red tunic, with a simple collar and a large, fur lined red beret. Three tall arched windows were open on the long wall, looking out across a flower garden to the roughly mown lawns beyond. Marc was at a cabinet, pouring a drink. Sylvie stood by a soft furnished chair in the corner, holding a glass of wine, and looking slightly less sulky than she had that afternoon. The great table, that took up most of the room, was set for six.

Marc turned and waved a bottle of red wine. Sylvie greeted us all, "Good evening, Marie, Good evening Jacques, Good evening, Peeurss." and Marie and Jacques went to her. Marie kissed her cheek, Jacques, her hand. I felt something was expected of me, but I wasn't sure what. I was afraid both of neglecting my duty as a guest and of overstepping boundaries. Some inspiration touched me, and I bowed, saying,

"Good evening, Madame," as formerly as I could. She laughed, gently, but was clearly pleased, and Marie looked down, burying a smile.

"Ah!" Marc said, "the English gallantry! Have a drink. Jacques, drink!"

We took our glasses, and Marc raised his, saying,

"A bientôt!."

I returned the toast and sipped, and, for a moment, time stopped.

It tasted as we might dream of wine tasting. My palate, my nose, and, yes, I'm not embarrassed to say, my soul lit up with a collision of subtlety and richness. It seemed impossible that a small sip of a drink could contain such simplicity beside so much depth. In the three and a half decades since that summer, I have sought wine in the same way as I have sought love; with the memory of what I experienced at Le Manoir des Bois always there, and though wine has become a passion of my life, the joy inspired by that simple vin de pays has remained always just beyond my reach.

I sipped again, more a swallow this time, and the sensation strengthened. I have heard that alcoholics suffer an immediate explosion of ecstasy if they succumb to the habit they have renounced, and I think I know how that must feel. As the first intensity of flavour faded from my palate, leaving a glow of contentment, I came back to myself, to find all my hosts watching me, each, in their own way, displaying expressions of knowing pleasure to my response. I blushed, as if I had been caught in some private moment, but, despite their various reserves, they all radiated goodwill, and pleasure in my surprise, and my joy.

There was a rattling outside the door, it opened, and Elodie and Laure entered, wheeling a trolley, loaded with covered dishes. Marc gave a glass to Elodie, who drank it in one, like an aperitif, and then said,

"Well, goodnight, then," and turned and left, the good-nights of the household following her. Laure put a tureen from the trolley onto the table and waved me to a chair, as everyone else sat down. I was seated nearest the door, with Jacques at the end of the table by me. Laure was opposite me, Sylvie beside her, and Marie to my left, with Marc taking the head of the table. I was woozy; not an alcoholic haze, but a sharpened awareness that made me feel as though the world had softened. The glow of light through the windows was golden, softening as evening deepened, but still hours from sunset. The music seemed to have assumed a new clarity, and every sound in the room, from the scrape of a chair on the floor, to the chime of the tureen lid as Laure lifted it, harmonised with the notes of the piano and the still, cool air of the room.

And the smell of the soup as Laure lifted the lid! She filled each bowl, and passed it around, and the scent of the rich broth tugged at my newly sharpened senses like a hook. I have never been so sweetly hungry; I have never, never felt such anticipation for a meal.

Jacques placed a bowl before me, and I was reaching for my spoon when Marie began to speak. For a moment, I thought it was just the befuddlement of my senses that prevented me understanding, but then I realised that what she was speaking was not French. It had the rhythms and timbre of French, but I did not know the words, and the depth of it was, like the taste of the wine and the smell of the soup, like an archetype: a perfection of the thing itself. She spoke three sentences, and my companions sat with their heads bowed, and I assumed that she was saying grace.

Then, she stopped, and, without another word, we began to eat. There was an animal quality to the eating: no elegant manners, but a diving in, like school children let loose upon a feast. I was entirely carried along and shovelled the richly herbed, silken liquid as fast as I could. I could not stop myself. Abashed, and, in some deep, still unseduced part of myself, worried that I was misbehaving, offending my hosts, I looked around the table, but Laure, Jacques, Marie and Marc, and even the aloof and poised Sylvie, were bent over their bowls as I was over mine, shovelling their food, dripping it from their spoons and over their chins, shutting their eyes to fully concentrate upon the pleasure of the sublime dish.

I surrendered to the ecstasy, but, as soon as I had, my bowl was empty. I swept a finger around it, and sucked the last, salty traces of the soup, as Jacques burped and Laure, opposite me, sat back and opened her eyes, her intent pleasure relaxing back into her customary smile. I caught her eye and smiled with her; a complicity of enchantment, and, as she got up and began to collect the bowls, I looked around at the Cannots. They were wiping their chins, breathing heavily, as we all were, their eyes shining. I wanted to think about what I was feeling; to investigate and question this passion, but the rich, soft-edged glow of a still summer evening was shining into the room, and my glass was still half full, and I was surrounded by a beauty which seemed to demand to be taken for granted; treated as if its extraordinariness was normal.

Laure placed a huge, covered serving plate in the centre of the table. She lifted the lid and new wonders assaulted me. A leg of lamb, pierced with garlic and rosemary and lying on golden slices of potato, surrounded by carrots and caramelised artichokes, all dressed with watercress that had wilted in the meat's steam, sat, like a mediaeval still life, on the dish. With casual charm, she began to carve the meat, and we were drawn into another reverie, watching her perform a sort of dance. Every movement of her knife, even the placing of her carving fork, was performed with grace. She was a curved, blonde, smiling goddess of service, content in her role; poised, proud, balletic. Under her cuts, the meat fell in delicate waves, the pink fibres of the inner part of the cut fading to caramel on their edges. I moaned, and Marie's hand found mine upon my knee, but, as much as I was enchanted by her, I was not distracted by her touch: it simply enriched the experience of watching Laure. With my first hunger sated by the soup, I no longer felt any impatience to eat. This ritual was a part of the feast; as sensual as the eating of it. The yellow glow of the glorious evening made a halo around Laure's figure and turned her blonde hair to a roseate cap; her blonde complexion to a buttery gold. I was presented with a tableau of fruitfulness, and her happiness leapt directly into my soul.

Marie was served first, and she leant over her plate, breathing deeply in the steam from it, then smiled at Laure. In good time, we all had a plate before us. This time, Marc spoke: the same language; the same three sentences, I thought, but could not be sure. And, this time, when we picked up our cutlery, we ate with a measured silence, appreciating each other's reactions as much as our own. At one point, I was chasing an errant slice of potato around my plate with my fork and Marie, noticing, speared it with hers, and placed it to my lips, with a restrained, suggestive smile that seemed entirely in keeping with the mood of the room. Laure laughed delightedly at this, and Jacques simply kept eating, his settled, contented expression unwavering.

At the other end of the table, Marc and Sylvie were sharing the meal in an intimate bubble, smiling at me when I looked at them, but wrapped up in their closeness, belying the impression I had formed of them that afternoon as an unhappy couple.

The intensity of the spell - for that, I had decided, was what this experience of fervent awareness had to be - had mellowed, and, as the room became dim and the sky outside took on pink highlights and our plates emptied, questions began to form in my mind. I had finished my wine, and Marie noticed this and said,

"Beau-pere! Le vin!" and Marc passed the bottle down the table. It had no label and the cork had been sealed with wax, rather than foil. As Marie poured, I saw the impress of some sort of symbols, perhaps runes, perhaps cuneiform, stamped in the remains of the seal, below where it had been cut to open the bottle. The liquid flowed slowly into my glass, glinting and rich. The scent reached me even before I lifted the glass, and, when I sipped, I felt again that wondrous slowing of time; the refreshing of not merely my palate, but my soul. This time, I had the taste of food still on my tongue and the roof of my mouth, and the wine seemed to adapt to the memory of the meat, the potatoes, the vegetables, the broth, cleansing them in a harmony that revealed an entirely new wave of sense and wonder.

Two hours had passed in what seemed like minutes. It was now truly dusk. Through the windows behind Laure and Sylvie, the descending sunlight hit the trees side on, yellow soft, and the treetops were fading into a shadow. The room still held a glow of yellow-pink evening light, but it was dimmed and softened, so that we were all shadows to one another. Marc rose and, without haste, lit the candles in two great candelabra on the cabinet behind his seat, then put them on the table. Laure passed round fruit and I took a pear, but Marc lit a cigarette and Jacques got out his pipe, and began to scrape its bowl with a small penknife.

"Monsieur C", Laure said to Marc, and she tapped the tabletop. He threw his cigarette packet along the table. She took one and stood up to light it from the candelabra. I have never liked smoking - my father smoked all the time - but, in her hands, the action was graceful, recalling a thirties film star, rather than the hacking addicts who polluted the streets and public places of England with their habit. The cloud she exhaled rose above her, as rounded and as artfully spontaneous in its movement as she was.

She, Marc and Jacques smoked, and Sylvie, Marie and I ate our fruit. I was surprised that it tasted like a normal pear: good, yes, but no better than a ripe, early season pear might taste in England. My senses were resting, it seemed; the ecstasy, whatever it had been, was sated, although I felt a longing for it to arise again. However, when I had done with the fruit, I drank the last of my wine, and it was still as wonderful, though my reaction was muted, as though my appetite had been surfeited.

Quietly, Marie asked,

"Would you like some more, Piers?" and I shook my head.

"I wouldn't want to spoil this," and I waved my hand around to take in the scene. She smiled, approvingly, it seemed.

"Men are not often so wise about their pleasures."

I was returning to mastery of my thoughts. I had questions, but I didn't want to ask anything as bald as, 'what just happened?', so I asked, instead,

"What is the wine? It's like nothing I've ever drunk.

"

"It is ours. We have several hectares of vines, beyond the woods, along with olives."

"It's extraordinary."

"Ah, you like wine?"

"I do now."

They all laughed. Marc said,

"It is not so common to drink wine in England, I believe."

I thought of my father, polishing off a bottle a night, thinking that pretending to appreciate the stuff made him less of an alcoholic, but I just said,

"Not as common as in France, no."

"But you have drunk it before?" Laure said.

"Occasionally. Communion wine, of course. I prefer cider, really, but I don't drink very much."

Jacques leaned forward, and pointed with his pipe out of the window, over the garden.

"Our vines are a thousand years old," he said, "untouched by the plague. No grafting or spraying has touched our fields."

I didn't know what he meant by the plague, but Marc broke in, eager to show off.

"There is a disease; an insect, brought from America, called Pyroxxia. It wiped out the native vines of Europe in the early part of the century. It was a great disaster."

"But we, who keep the old way, we were spared," Jacques said. "Nowhere in the world can you drink Pinot Noir that is not contaminated by the American hybrids, except here. Nowhere." he added.

I wasn't sure quite what this meant. I had only a vague idea, then, of what a hybrid was. I knew that wine came from grapes, and had an impression that the grapes were trodden by merry peasants with their trousers rolled up, but that was about the limit of my knowledge of viticulture.

"That is not entirely true, Jacques," Marc said. "In some areas..."

"Some areas, Boy?" he retorted, not unkindly, but with the certainty of authority. "Science and profit: that is all they know, up there in Champagne. The honest farmer is denied his income so that they can bribe a higher appellation from the authorities, and claim that their vinegar is the rarest; the best. When do normal people drink wine like we have just had, up there in Champagne, eh?"

Marc and Jacques began to argue on the topic, which was obviously a well worn one between them. I zoned out slightly, enjoying the flickering of the candles and the flights of the insects in the window, the scents of the garden drifting through on the cooling night air, the ridiculously fruitful and inviting vision of Laure, viewed over the fruit-bowl, and the nearness of Marie.

Instead of listening, I was reflecting on my feelings, trying to define what it was I felt, being here, in the Manoir. I played with the idea of transcendence, but that just seemed silly, considered erotic, and settled on pre-erotic; equally silly, but, then, I was just eighteen.

Marie leaned towards me.

"My step-father eyes our wine greedily. He would like to sell it on the open market, but that is not our way. He loves the benefits of this life, but he hungers for the very things that would kill it."

I did not know what to say, and this was slipping towards what I had feared I sensed at the café table, when I had felt that they were an unhappy family. Fortunately, I had other questions.

"The grace... what language was that?"

"That was not a grace, Piers. It was an invocation. You will not be forced to endure Christian rites in this house."

I had been obliged, if not forced, to practise Christian rites throughout my schooling and had developed a fondness for the quiet time with which I associated them. However, I waited for her to go on and, after a moment studying my reaction, she said,

"It was in Poitevin: the old tongue of this region, but the invocation is older even than that language: it was spoken over the food of the Celts, in their tongue, even before the Greeks and the Romans warred over this land, barking their rigid, mechanical speech."

I had begun to expect a level of affectation from Marie, but, oddly, this familiar relationship with the ancient world felt a natural mannerism, as if she really had experienced the invasions of the imperialists, two thousand years before. I had heard such engaged passion before, in my history teacher. He had been a young, ardent man, who had fallen under a cloud when his involvement in certain political movements had come to light.

"What is your subject at university, Marie?"

She flicked her hand, dismissively.

"History, of course."

"Ancient history?"

"Actually, no. I study the creation of the modern world; the history of ideas, but it is stupid. I do what I must, to gain my letters, you know? But, when I can start to do research, real study, then, yes, I will study the true history. Really, I am just there so that I can have access to a decent ordinary library."

"Ordinary?"

"A library that is not our library."

"What's wrong with your library?"

"Nothing. It is magnificent, but its content is... narrow."

I didn't understand, but I didn't care. The war between my scepticism about her and my absolute wonder for everything about this house and its inhabitants had seeped into me with the wine, with the food, with the evening. I was happy to listen and to be perplexed. Her mysterious manner, contrived or not, did not feel like a rebuff, but like the first, tentative tracings of a seduction.

My reveries were broken by Jacques.

"You will need boots," he said, out of nowhere.

I frowned an enquiry at him, trying to catch up.

"We do not work without decent boots. And some overalls that do not look like a costume for a child."

"Well, that is not a problem," Marc said, "you can drive me to the station tomorrow, and then take him to Saulet's for what he needs."

Jacques seemed satisfied.

"Niort in the morning, it is, then, my boy." Then, to Marie, he said, "I shall pay my respects to the Duchess while he is getting his equipage fitted."

Marie seemed to consider.

"You know that I would like to come with you, but I must make my presence felt in Paris, at least for a while. I will put a bouquet together, for you to take her."

"And a bottle of the old brandy?"

"And I will rise early and make her some croissante with the echiré." Laure added.

Marc was staring fixedly out of the window, his eyes narrow, and Sylvie's face was, if not rigid, slightly strained. Finally, Marc said,

"Please send her my respects," and Sylvie appeared to restrain a smile, and reached gently for his hand.

Laure had finished her cigarette and got up, and began clearing the dishes. I stood as well, and, to appreciative teasing from Marc, helped. We stacked everything on the trolley and wheeled it, clanking and wobbling, through the house to the kitchen. There were two oil lamps hanging from the ceiling: the manoir had electric outlets, but not, it seemed, electric light. The door was still open, and the smell of the late evening came in to the room, easing the heat from the damped stove. As Laure filled the sink from a rattling tap, I stepped to the door and looked out into the yard.

I have never really been at peace. I am the son of a disinterested father and a mother who found her place to call home away from me. I will, I am sure, carry the longing this has inspired in me to my grave, unfulfilled. However, that night, and for the following month, I came to know what it might be like to belong, and to possess a still soul. I think that is why I was able to take in my stride the transition I underwent that night, and in the days and nights that followed. Wonder seemed to me a part of the place, not of the people, and, though, in my depressed pessimism, I had not expected to discover a better world, I had set out on my wandering hoping for some sort of change, in my life, but also in myself. I was ready to surrender to this strange place, and to let it do with me as it would.

In this spirit of acceptance, I watched the starlit darkness, and took in my stride the pulse of it, as I realised that I could sense the life within it; the animals that prowled or crept or darted in the grass and woodland beyond the courtyard, where my eyes couldn't pierce. If that life included magic, or ghosts, or faeries, or some other layer of animation and vitality beyond my narrow understanding, I was prepared, at that moment, to accept that I was young, and had a lot to learn, and should not make judgements. Then I caught myself in that thought and laughed at my stupidity.

When I turned to help Laure wash up, though, I was slightly astonished to find that she had done it. The plates were in a rack above the stove, there was a tray loaded with coffee pot, cream jug and cups and saucers on the table, and she was drying her hands. I could not have had my back to her for more than a minute: less, I thought. I looked at her, and she turned her head quizzically, raising an eyebrow.

She picked up the tray and turned back to the corridor out of the kitchen, saying,

"They will be in the drawing room. Come."

I followed her back through the main hall and left, to the back of the house, and, despite my mood of calm reflection, kept my eyes upon her bottom all the way there, feeling very peaceful indeed.