Grape Expectations (12 page)

  Sean used the mechanical hoe successfully for another five hours then it stopped working. En route to do the weekly shop with Ellie, I dropped the relevant part into the supplier for repair. It was a minor fix.

  'To avoid the same thing happening again, your husband must make sure he tightens the bolt every hour or so,' said the mechanic. I dutifully passed on the message.

We were in the zone of extreme pressure in a winegrower's life when everything needs to be done at once. Late spring and early summer are non-stop. Anti-fungal treatments, ploughing the soil, mowing the grass, shoot removal, elevating the trellising to the next level of growth, trimming the vine canopy and keeping track of the development of the flowers and subsequent grapes. The vines can grow up to 10 centimetres a day. We had around 30,000 of them – you could almost hear the growth on a hot afternoon.

  As organic farmers, we needed to protect the vine before the risk rather than after, a preventative rather than curative ethos. This meant constant observation of the vineyard and the weather forecast. Regular low doses of copper and sulphur before rain protect the vines from fungal disease. Sean would start treatments at five in the morning to finish before the heat of the day to avoid leaf-burn.

  It wasn't only the leaves that got burned: even with sunscreen loaded on, the roasting sun was a daily challenge. Some days I felt I would explode from the heat. Since we had no pool I would lie in a cold bath to try to recover my sangfroid. A ten-minute soak was what it took to regain a cool, calm demeanour.

  Heat and a little humidity are perfect conditions for fungal disease. Trimming the vines can help reduce the development of fungus. The trimmer was a monstrosity, a large metal arch fitted with scores of sharp lawnmower-like blades that whirred around terrifyingly chopping vine tops and sides. Sean hitched it onto the tractor for the first time, attaching and adjusting it perfectly. He came in for lunch having successfully finished a hectare. For once, a tractor job was going smoothly. That afternoon he came back earlier than expected having nicked the trimmer on a trellising pole. It needed straightening before he could use it again.

  Sean dismantled the trimmer and I took the offending part to Monsieur Bonny. I had done so many trips I could drive the road to Coutures blindfolded. The part was fixed in an hour and Sean moved the trimmer into the courtyard to reassemble it. He was determined to get it back together and Garrigue vineyard trimmed before Cécile arrived for the group meeting that afternoon.

  The trimmer proved more difficult to put together than it had been to dismantle. Without sufficient tightening, the blades could fly off, wreaking destruction. Lunchtime came and went and Sean remained in the roasting courtyard battling with the trimmer. Exhausted, frustrated and soaked in sweat he kept at it. Cécile arrived for the meeting closely followed by twenty farmers. Halfway through the introductions Sean yelled for me and ran to the kitchen holding his arm awkwardly. I bolted after him, saw a trail of blood and shouted for Cécile.

  Sean was standing over the sink pouring blood and shouting for clean towels. Cécile, after seeing Sean's arm, yelled out the door for anyone that knew first aid. A young man appeared and quickly took charge.

  'No tourniquet, just pressure,' he said, holding a clean cloth tightly over the massive gash on the inside of Sean's arm. He encouraged Sean to lie down. In the meantime Cécile called the ambulance. Sean was shivering with shock and blood loss. I sat down on the step, my head between my legs to stop fainting. This was my husband's blood, and more than I had ever seen in one place. I heard Cécile describing the wound. My head swam again and I lodged it back between my legs. I vaguely heard Sean asking Cécile to check I was OK and tried to pull myself together, admonishing myself about who had been injured. Fifteen long minutes later the ambulance arrived.

  The paramedics checked Sean's vital statistics, asked me a few questions, then lifted him onto a stretcher and passed him through the kitchen window to the ambulance. Sean was begging for painkillers and shaking relentlessly. They explained they couldn't give him anything as he needed surgery. I kissed him and they whisked him away to Bergerac Hospital.

  'Remember to phone the school and ask Sonia to look after Ellie,' said Sean as the ambulance doors closed.

  Two farmers put the tractor and the trimmer away. Others cleared up Sean's tools. Cécile called our social services organisation to notify them that Sean had had an
'accident du travail'
and to find out what assistance we could get. She took the details and explained them carefully to me. I thanked Cécile from the bottom of my heart. She asked if I was sure I would be all right. I wasn't sure but I said I was.

  There was a rich trail of blood from where Sean had been working into the kitchen. The kitchen floor was a mass of red and the sink was full of gore. I had to clean it before Ellie woke up. I couldn't afford to pass out but I felt light-headed and outside my body. I stopped every few minutes to put my head between my legs. My mind kept darting ahead to the hospital and what was happening to Sean. I needed to get there fast. Once the sink was clean I mopped the floor. The bucket was red with blood. I felt desperate and anxious.

  I packed a few things then woke Ellie and took her to Sonia, who promised to look after Sophia after school as well. Minutes later I was speeding along the D14, the Route des Coteaux. With Sean's accident, nothing seemed urgent except his health. Our vineyard worries were nothing when compared to life and health.

  Sean was groggy from pre-surgery drugs and strapped to a gurney waiting to go into theatre. Despite his state he asked me how we would get the vineyard trimmed now that he was in hospital. I told him not to worry, we'd work it out, then an orderly wheeled him away.

  The nurse was unable to tell me how serious Sean's injury was but she assured me that he would have to stay overnight at a minimum. I drove home lonely and exhausted with a ball of dread in the pit of my stomach, worried about Sean's health but also about the vineyard. With Sean out of action we could lose our entire harvest. If we had a few downpours and couldn't treat for fungal disease, the grapes would be lost. Trimming the vines was critical to controlling the fungal disease and that was the most urgent vineyard job, regardless of rain.

  I collected the girls and explained as simply as possible why their dad was not at home. They were remarkably calm. Jamie arrived to find out how Sean was; he hadn't been at the meeting but had already heard the news.

  We walked across the terrace. Jamie pointed to the vineyard, golden under a glorious sunset: the entire expanse was trimmed. At the bottom of Lenvège I saw François trimming the last few rows, highlighted in the glow. I rubbed my eyes partly in disbelief and partly to rub away tears of gratitude and relief. That was the spirit of our new winegrower community. I felt thoroughly humbled.

  When I phoned the hospital a little later Sean was still asleep from the anaesthetic and no one was able to give me any information on how the surgery went. I ate several rows of cherry chocolate, took two sleeping tablets and went to bed.

  The next morning we heard that the surgery went well and we could fetch Sean. He couldn't remember how the accident had happened, although it was obviously a blade on the trimmer. Sean nicknamed it 'Shark' as the gash and subsequent scar looked exactly like a shark bite. He was lucky: the cut stopped a millimetre from the major tendon in his arm. He would be off for a few weeks but if it had got the tendon it would have been several months. News of his accident spread like wildfire.

  Sean had to take it easy and make regular visits to the hospital. I couldn't drive the tractor so we prayed for good weather and no fungal growth. By the next rain, Sean was well enough to get back onto the tractor.

  Monsieur Bonny's mechanic, Éric, came over to reconfigure the shark and to check the leak on the sprayer. After looking at them he took me aside.

  
'Votre mari est trop musclé.'
(Your husband is too muscly.)

  I laughed.

  'He is tightening the bolts too tight and that is what broke the casing on the sprayer.'

  Machinery was complicated; first the bolts were too loose, now they were too tight. No wonder Sean was getting a complex. He felt he couldn't touch a machine without doing it or himself some damage. Fortunately, Éric offered this news in such a diplomatic manner, Sean smiled when he joined us minutes later.

  After Éric's visit, Sean remembered how he had cut his arm. He was tightening the bolt on one of the shark's knives when the spanner slipped and the power he was applying drove his arm down onto the knife below. Éric was right, he was
trop
musclé
. The accident made me starkly aware of how dependent we were on Sean. There was no sick leave at Haut Garrigue and no safety net; if Sean was injured, we were in trouble.

  We had leapt into a business bristling with physical and financial risk.

We hadn't even made our own wine yet, but everyone kept reminding us that the problem wasn't making the wine, it was selling the wine.

  Selling the wine we had bought with the property would help to fill the hole created by the unexpected expenses. Despite the success of our Christmas campaign, Sean was pessimistic. 'The first campaign was supported by a lot of people buying the wine because it was our first offer. Most of them prefer beer.'

  Perhaps he was right but I forged ahead regardless.

  Barry O'Brien, Aideen's husband and one of our best friends back home, forwarded me a special offer for flights. An executive in a large tech multinational by day, he transformed into our unofficial strategy advisor and official representative on the ground by night. He had negotiated the go-ahead for another wine delivery with the customs officials, although we were still waiting for his official appointment as our tax representative. It was part of the long process for making our direct shipping business official and easy to do on a regular basis.

  Barry argued that I needed to be on the ground in Dublin to promote our wines if our second shipment was to be a success and wisely advised me to start promotion of our first vintage, which was still on the vines.

  I booked my flight and Sean launched our second direct sales campaign via email. Miraculously, a diary I had written about our move was published in a newspaper that Saturday with a full-page cover photo. The editor had been promising to print it for months and his timing could not have been better. In less than twenty-four hours we had thirty orders through the website.

  It felt strange going on a business trip after a year of DIY and babies. As I packed my case I felt disconnected and unsure of myself. In my previous life as a consultant I was sometimes on an aeroplane every week. Minutes before I left for the airport an old colleague called to say she had a radio interview for me. I was excited and delighted by the opportunity but also worried about how I would handle being back in a professional environment and being interviewed on national radio.

  Leaving Bordeaux airport, I felt like I was in no-man's-land: not yet a French winegrower but no longer a high-tech city girl. It seemed like a lifetime since we left the city.

  After landing I picked up my hire car. As I drove off, my hand kept reaching for the door instead of the gear shift. The oncoming car stopped dead in its tracks. The fellow inside waved me out, making sure I was well out of range before proceeding. I saw him mouth 'crazy fool' as I drove away and realised I was on the wrong side of the road.

  A few minutes later I felt confident enough to turn on the radio and was transported back into city life. The discussion hadn't changed a lot: traffic, property, football. The cityscape had been transformed. In nine months old familiar streets had morphed into Euro-chic. Down-at-heel chip shops and newsagents had been replaced by coffee shops and up-market grocers. The O'Briens' home, too, had been transformed: from dark and old-fashioned to an open-plan, natural-light haven. We swapped stories over dinner, trying to cram months into one night.