The Olive Harvest (The Olive Series Book 3) Read online

  ‘Terrific’ I show him the annonce and relate my brief phone conversation with Guillaume Laplaige. ‘What do you think?’

  Michel’s easy expression disappears in an instant. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘A few miles north of Arles. I know it’s a two-hour drive, but—’

  ‘You seem to have forgotten all the difficulties we had trying to find ourselves a beekeeper, and we still don’t have one! People are reluctant to travel such distances.’

  ‘Laplaige didn’t seem to object when I gave him our address, and it’s not as though he would be calling on a regular basis, unlike an apiarist. I suggested that in the first instance we see him. We could find a small hotel in Arles, stay overnight, or … I would love to discover the Camargue …’

  Arles is the capital city of the Camargue, the south-west region of Provence.

  ‘Think of it, Michel, those wide flat salty planes, white horses, cowboys, black bulls, pink flamingos … It must be France’s answer to the Wild West, as well as home to the authentic heart of Provençal poetry. It strikes me as a region of high romance. Do let’s go.’

  ‘No, Carol. We don’t have the resources to restore the vineyard, particularly since Quashia has embarked on that shed, and it will only put further pressure on our already overtaxed watering difficulties,’ is Michel’s answer and I cannot deny that I feel a pang of disappointment, but I say no more on the subject for the present. His exhaustion reveals itself in remoteness, and we spend much of the lovely evening preparing our supper as a team, sitting, eating, serving one another, always together, but in semi-silence. My envisaged jaunt has pushed him away again and I am puzzled as to why.

  Elbows on the long wooden table, I gaze heavenwards, count stars, lose track of the billions of bleached blots in an ink-navy sky, wishing that I could read from afar the map that is unfolding before me, divine its configurations, while wondering what, aside from work burn-out, could be disturbing the man at my side. Should I try to encroach on his silence, to worm my way into his veiled world? Tonight it seems as dark and impenetrable to me as the heavens above.

  Early the next morning we receive another call from Madame B. She is staying in Cannes and presses for a rendezvous. Michel invites her to lunch. She demurs, offering apologies; even a chauffeured journey inland is too taxing for her. If we would be so accommodating as to meet her at the coast she’ll book a table at the Carlton for the following midday.

  It sounds urgent. We ought to accept.

  ‘A bit of a nuisance because we were getting on so well. Never mind. If Quashia doesn’t mind working Saturday morning, we’ll still have the land stripped before the week’s out.’

  And so we drive to the beach, for our déjeuner with the ex-proprietress of our residence. There we find her awaiting us at a waterside table laid for four, protected by a rectangular linen-white parasol skirting the shimmering Mediterranean. A teak boardwalk leads us to her: unnecessary to soil one’s shoes in the sand. Around us, the clink of glasses, the distant shout of children at play, the wash of well-mannered waves, the heady scent of headily priced colognes, gold jewellery brushing against silver-plated cutlery. Motor yachts scud and dock; clouds of sleek-haired, leggy females in the company of world-weary men in white slacks and tasselled loafers disembark on to the scrubbed, bleached jetty dotted with sunbeds and sharply pressed waiters. Here, the privileged and their playmates are about to lunch.

  Our bulldog-spirited Madame B. is alone when we arrive, handsomely attired in a framboise-tinted, slub silk frock with matching three-quarter-length coat. We assume that Monsieur B., a frail man on the one occasion we met him, is on his way. She rises somewhat clumsily as we approach and I see from her fallen face how much she has aged. She holds out exquisitely manicured hands to Michel; chunky precious stones glint in the noon rays. He kisses her hand with the gallantry she claims and, although she barely acknowledges my presence, we politely exchange the two-cheeked bisous. A bottle of champagne arrives. It must have been pre-ordered; a vintage Dom Perignon. I pray to God she is not expecting us to pick up the bill. Menus are laid discreetly on the table but it is unlikely we will even glance their way. The lunch buffet on offer here is legendary and probably one of the most lavish I have ever eaten. The irony is that the majority around us will merely pick like birds at their plates; either their meal tickets depend on their desirable physiques or they are too decrepit to digest and so they shift food lackadaisically round their plates, hungering for better days when life offered more than expensively traded acts of sex and Havana cigars.

  While the waiter pours the wine, the fourth of our party arrives: Yvette Pastor, Madame B.’s personal secretary and perennial travelling companion. A nervous woman who nods and twitches and shuffles in the shadow of her generous but omnipotent employer.

  ‘Monsieur is not joining us?’ ventures Michel, raising his flute to offer a toast to our hostess.

  ‘Monsieur has passed away, monsieur.’

  ‘Ah,’ Michel replaces the glass.

  ‘I wanted to inform you personally and I want to thank you for your enormous kindnesses to Robert and myself.’

  We are both mystified by this statement. We bought a property from this woman, the smallest of several estates she and her deceased spouse owned on this Riviera coastline. Aside from a visit to their home in Brussels – the only occasion at which he was present – one other lunch with her in Paris at the George V Hotel, where she was residing, and two meetings at the notaire’s office to conclude the purchase of the farm and, later, the remainder of the land, we have had no intercourse with them.

  During the meal – Yvette delivers Madame B.’s plate to her: servings of fish and les crustacés chosen from the buffet table, but our hostess swallows scarcely a mouthful – we are given an account of the final years of Monsieur’s life; their last days together. Why she has chosen to unburden herself on us is really not clear. I fear that for all her fortunes she is a lonely creature, and her words begin to move me.

  ‘He didn’t care for money,’ she discloses. ‘He cared only for his plants and his gardens.’

  I am distracted by a memory of the landscaped parkland beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of their Brussels home, where a bevy of gardeners were at work on cedar topiary, herbaceous beds and perfectly velvet lawns, where water jetted from fountains of Italian stone and arranged in rows everywhere were marble statues of minor classical deities. I remember, too, how, at the time, she confided to us that she and he had been childhood sweethearts and that it was almost by accident, aside from her single-minded dedication, they had become so fabulously wealthy.

  ‘I grew angry with him.’ She is divulging now. ‘I was frustrated because he resented donating the time our financial assets demanded. I am ashamed to admit it but somewhere along the road, I realise today, I stopped seeing the gentility of the man at my side. I judged his gardening pursuits as time-wasting, a frivolous hobby. Yet I knew he was a cultured man. Self-made, of course, like me. We began with nothing, but he was – how should I put it? – well, innately cultured. I should have allowed him his horticulture. It was his mode of expression, and if that was what our fortunes could buy him, then who was I to begrudge him his path to creativity?’ She falls silent. Even the recreational noises encompassing us cannot intrude upon her loss. ‘I failed him, monsieur.’

  There is little we can say as comfort. I rattle off a platitude or two because I feel I must make a gesture, offer some token, and she accepts my efforts graciously and smiles. ‘Your French has improved greatly, madame.’

  And the lunch is terminated.

  Sincere apologies, but she must get back to work. She has an important deal going through. How irritating the banks are, with their delays and their excuses, holding on to one’s funds unnecessarily. Yvette skitters off to sign their account and we accompany Madame, mounting the steps from the beach to the esplanade. She and Michel stroll on ahead. I dawdle behind, appreciating the bay. She has purchased a duplex apartment here on th
e waterfront; the view is magnificent; she has works afoot, she is recounting. Michel suggests that she flies down for the film festival next year and he will escort her to a première. ‘Oh, what fun,’ she giggles. ‘I have always wanted to climb that red carpet. Merci beaucoup. It has been enchanting to see you again, and your wife. She is becoming quite French, don’t you think? Au revoir!’ And off she struts across the palm-lined street, cowing traffic, determined, mobilised and businesslike, armed once more to face the march of money merchants. Hot on her heels comes Yvette, darting in and out of the hooting cars, flapping to keep abreast. And one would never guess the quiet torment our hostess is carrying in her heart. We dally awhile on the Croisette looking after her and then out to sea. Michel takes my hand. ‘Un peu triste, eh?’

  ‘A little sad indeed.’

  That evening, replete after a great lamb dinner, Michel caresses my shoulder and tells me that if I still fancy an excursion, he has reconsidered and is not averse to the idea. ‘Only for two or three days, mind. There is too much to be attacking here. I have a business dinner on Saturday in Monte Carlo, but we could leave Sunday.’

  ‘A business dinner on Saturday?’

  ‘A producer is flying in from Australia with first-draft scripts of a series and we are meeting up with the Monaco-based financier. He and I are attempting to put the budget together.’

  ‘Can’t it wait till we return?’

  ‘No, it’s important. I have been working on this deal for a long time.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  He names two Australians, both of whom I have met on several occasions.

  ‘You haven’t mentioned this opportunity before.’

  ‘Too important, I guess.’

  ‘I see. Shall I confirm Tuesday’s appointment with the viticulturist?’

  ‘We can prepare the disused vineyard, by all means, but I don’t want us to engage in any further financial commitments for the present. Let’s see how my deal goes. If you are still keen to visit the Camargue, though, I would love to see it again. I haven’t set foot there since I took the girls camping when they were eight.’

  So the Camargue is our chosen destination, and it will involve no flying. We can travel by car, at our own pace, and immerse ourselves in our Provençal homeland, searching out its time-worn ways and culture.

  The following morning, back at the coast, I decide to pop along to a local librairie, a stationery store and vendor of tourist manuals. There are few outlets in Cannes for the purchase of literature so I am not optimistic that I will find what I am looking for. I am after a two-volume Provençal dictionary compiled by Frédéric Mistral with assistance from several of his poet colleagues. To my surprise, the store is carrying a sizeable collection of the late man’s works, each published bilingually. Mistral wrote in Provençal and then translated his work himself into French. Astoundingly, they also have the dictionaries in stock. I lift up one of the weighty tomes – this was a labour of twenty years – and open it. Alas for me, they translate only from his native tongue into French and not the other way around, and certainly not into English (no translation, as far as I am aware, has ever been made between the Provençal and English). Even so, I am delighted by the material on offer and decide to take the lot, though I seriously doubt I will ever master poetry-reading in Provençal. The two lady shopkeepers grow quite chirpy and throw in a pocket diary and several biros for good measure. I carry off my hoard triumphantly, determined to acquire a few rudimentary phrases from this region’s native tongue to try out during our excursion.

  In an upbeat frame of mind on this warm June morning, I make a circuitous detour to a favourite organic baker, which is situated off a busy transit street in the hills behind our farm. There, I choose an olive fougasse still warm from the oven for our lunch and a baguette à l’ancienne.

  Exiting the baker’s courtyard, I am obliged to wait in the lane for a break in the traffic. From the right, jay-walking, zigzag fashion, comes a lone bearded figure, thin and bent as a pipe-cleaner, with matted, shoulder-length hair, who halts directly in front of my car. I give him a minute but he shows no signs of budging so I lean my head out of the open window and cry, ‘S’il vous plaît,’ but he doesn’t register my plea. I lower the volume on the radio and call again. Still he remains by my bonnet, swaying perceptibly, clutching a plastic bag containing a bottle which he is swigging from. I notice his black, encrusted fingernails, his hands red with open sores and scabs. An awareness of a presence behind him dawns, and he turns slowly. His face is also grazed, mauved with bruising. For a brief second he squints at me, frowning, and then staggers off, muttering. Something about his dead-fish eyes puzzles me; they strike a note of familiarity. Manuel, the gardener! I employed him once, years back, for a few hours – until he passed out drunk in the garden. I have not seen him since that day when René and I were obliged to bundle him into the boot of René’s shooting brake and return him to the woodshed where he appeared to be living, an operation that was accomplished without him ever regaining consciousness. What a sorry figure he has become.

  This hinterland route home takes me through lovely open parkland with reed-screened ponds and an observation tower for birds. In the distance, the amphitheatre of Alps. When we first moved here, all this nature together with its stately manor house was family-owned but, due to a default in inheritance tax payments, the acres were seized by the state and, subsequently, given over to the community for leisure activities. Ever since, it has been humming with the light-hearted vibe of trippers picnicking on the grass, joggers pounding the track, kite-flyers plunging and lifting, their wide-open arms battling with wind, and strollers with bounding, roisterous dogs. Curiously, though, not today. Today, the green is deserted and I am rather taken aback to see that its border has been blocked by dozens of monolithic boulders while the adjoining parking is cordoned off with tape as though it were a crime scene. No sign has been posted to offer an explanation.

  I turn right from the park on to a crooked country lane that spirals south and eventually passes the only vineyard in the neighbourhood before circumnavigating the rear of our hill. I choose it because, in spite of how close we are to coastal urban living, these acres remain a green zone and a tapestry of nature’s mysteries. Here is where I first encountered René so many years back and where I found our lovely, long-lost, much-mourned Belgian Alsatian, No-Name. It is also wild boar habitat. Traversing these lanes late at night, we encounter families of the pests feeding at the roadside. From here they mount the hill, cross our boundaries and infiltrate our grounds, where they damage everything in sight. Quashia and Michel are at odds with me because I will not agree to the purchase of a rifle to shoot the scavengers. Yet, stubborn as I am, I realise that at some point I may be forced to concede if we cannot find a more humane method of putting a halt to their nocturnal romps and gourmandising on our land.

  Lost in wild boar deadlocks, I narrowly miss running over a bird I have mistaken for a curled leaf. I pull over to the lane’s edge and reverse. Crouching by the upturned creature, I am uncertain whether it is dead or alive. Close up it looks as though rigor mortis has already set in, but then it blinks. It is stunned, not dead. It must have been walloped by a vehicle’s headlight or mudguard and tossed in a whorl of speed out of the immediate passage of further traffic. One of its wings has been badly scuffed and hangs like frayed threads on the cuff of an old brown sleeve. Obviously, he is incapable of flight and, being grounded, is at the mercy of any number of predators. I cannot abandon him to such a fate and so I attempt to gather him up in the cup of my hands but the little fellow resists me with an unexpected flurry of frightened flappings. The touch or scent of me has alerted him to danger and, in spite of his wounds, he is determined not to be trapped and struggles with the force of a minuscule prize-fighter. Claws and beak scratch and peck me but there’s no real damage done and I eventually manage to calm him with gentle strokes to his soft-furred belly and pinkish breast. He may be quiet but he is still afraid.
I receive his fear through the pitter-patter of his tiny heart beating fast against the mound of my thumb. Shoving my bags of books and shopping to the floor, I settle him, fluttering and confused, on the passenger seat, to deliver him to a safe shelter.

  I turn into our lane at a snail’s pace, tracing the curvature of the bends, until I am halted by an approaching white van. Our chemin is not wide enough for two cars to pass. It sits high above a major road and, once upon a time, was probably a donkey track. One or other vehicle is forced to reverse, either back up to the lane’s inlet or further down to a bay in front of one of our two neighbours’ gates. The unspoken rule of thumb is whoever is closest to a clearing is the one who retreats. In this case, it is the van. I salute my thanks to the driver in anticipation and turn my attention to the bird who, out of terror, has excreted on the seat. I rummage for a rag; there is usually one on the passenger mat. When I look up the van has not budged. On the contrary, it has inched forward. I am worrying about the bird’s wellbeing and now gesticulate with both hands, signalling to the man to back up. Meanwhile, I turn to ascertain the distance involved if I give way. It would mean renegotiating the bend backwards and I fear overshooting the track. I look back helplessly to the opposing car. It is now approaching, metres at a time, towards my stationary Mercedes. I hoot – what the blazes is he up to? – and thrust my gearstick into reverse, but the fellow suddenly shoots forward and narrowly avoids shaving my bonnet, forcing me to swing my old convertible to the right, sheer up against our neighbour’s stone wall. Cedar branches hanging from on high snap and crack against my windscreen and plop on to the bonnet. Leaves and pine needles scratch and whisper on the surface of the soft top. The bird panics, flutters and attempts to fly. ‘Sssh,’ I coo, desperate to get past this rude imbecile who is drawing up alongside me and – now I see there are two men in the car – laughing heartily and malevolently. Teeth exposed like rabbits, hated heads thrown back, I recognise the driver instantly. I had not identified him because I have not seen him in this vehicle before. It is the Hunter on the Hill.