Chapter (3) HIGH HEELS AND SAND DON'T MIX.

I turned off the road and into the large parking area that was once used for the vegetable Lorries that used to load up there. I parked the old Citroen in the Dutch barn and noticed that the wine store was quiet. No one was working in there. I started to walk down the lane to the field.  I had been away for a bit over 2 hours. It was hot; the air was still, cicadas had started chirping in the trees.

Adjoining the Sabran property to the east was the largest farm in the region belonging to the local mayor, Monsieur Sabatier. A lifelong family friend of the Sabran's. He had around 350 hectares, (around 700 acres), of vineyards and vegetables, and along with his son, Pierre, he had six full time Moroccan employees and, when needed, 10 to 15 casual workers. During the grape harvesting seasons this would increase to perhaps 40 or more. The Sabatier farm was modern and efficient with many of the latest machines including a new powerful 4-wheel drive Renault tractor. This tractor would play a vital part in the day's forthcoming events.

  Henry Sabatier was a kindly man in his early 60's, who had helped me when I had first arrived in the area. He had given me a full time position throughout that first winter and we had become good friends. He had helped me to purchase a car, arrange all my professional and medical papers and was always there when I needed advice. Being a friend of the Mayor had its advantages.

 

           This was a busy time for all farmers and especially for the Sabatier family, with around 300 hectares of vines in fruit. The two months leading up to the vendange were labour intensive. The vines need constant tending. Removing new leaf growth, checking for mildews, disease and insect damage and spraying where necessary. In the 'cave' (this is a large room where the wine is made and stored.), the huge empty vats, now mainly made of concrete, had to be washed and the insides scraped by hand to remove all tartar. This is an important by product and is collected to be sold.  Sabatier still had three large oak barrels for storing the best of the wine. Each barrel holds 20,000 bottles.

          He was the biggest employer for the region during the 'vendange'.  Early each morning several dozen "vendangeurs" would arrive. These were made up of French, Polish, Arab, Portuguese, German, Spanish and a mish mash of other nationalities. Some had been coming here for many years and for others it was their first experience of a grape harvest.                        

  The romantic aspects of the Grape harvest or "Vendange" as described in many books had been changing over the years, mainly due to lower demand worldwide for French wines and increased taxation and economic pressures in France.

        It had been traditional, that at the end of the harvest, farmers would host a party to celebrate the end of another successful season. Everyone in the village would be invited. These celebrations were dying out throughout France but Sabatier was wealthy enough, and enthusiastic enough, to keep this tradition alive, for the moment anyway.

        His end of season parties were legendary. Succulent roast meats, fresh salads, mouth watering cakes, fresh French bread and gallons of wine. All enjoyed under the stars.  The local musicians played for hours fuelled by huge meat baguettes and a constant flow of free wine, children ran amok, people danced and laughed, they sang songs and shouted, and above all drank copious amounts of good local wines. The air would be thick with the smell of roast pig, sweat and Galloise cigarettes. These parties continued long into the night while children slept under makeshift tables.

        Amongst Sabatier's North African work force was a small, old, grey haired Moroccan. He had lived in France for more than 30 years and looked as though he were still wearing the very same clothes he'd been wearing the day he arrived. Deep black eyes, half covered by grey unkempt eyebrows,  peered out of his tight and crinkled face. He was wiry and strong and spoke in a low voice, He spoke his own form of the north African french language, which was difficult to comprehend some of the time. He had the habit of ending a sentence spoken in french with the Arabic "Allah wahkbaat" "Allah be praised". I'd worked with him on several occasions and for all of his age he could pick grapes and prune vines as fast anybody.

  It is customary and polite to address Arabs by their first names but prefixing it by "Ya say-ed" "Mr".

Like very many other Arab workers, his name was Muhammad, or one of the many derivations.  I never knew his family name.

          Once, when I had been employed to harvest peaches at a huge plantation, the owner had arrived early one morning and shouted "telephone for Mmwa-med" and 17 people descended from their ladders to answer it.

 

          During my absence things had advanced somewhat.

Madam Sabran was now dressed, breakfasted and ready to look at the situation for herself. This had taken almost 2 hours from the time Khanchouf had told her of the half-buried tractor. Nothing it seemed would distract her from her morning ritual and we had never seen her emerge from the Château dishevelled or less than well coiffured. Then sun was now blazing down and the small walled garden was a natural heat trap.  Despite this, Madam Sabran was dressed, as usual, in a heavy dark velvety dress with a black hat securely fastened to the top of her head.

           She stood, short and straight, alongside her much taller daughter, on the dry grassy headland track dividing the field from the back of her walled garden. They had arrived there via a large gap in the wall where it had long since fallen down from neglect. Khanchouf was standing to her right, his hands deep in his overall pockets with shoulders slightly hunched.  I made my way quickly towards them.

"Bonjour madam"  "Sylvianne" I nodded slightly as I spoke to each of them.

"Bonjour Clive" replying in unison.

Khanchouf turned his head slightly towards me. He said nothing.

"Que'est que vous pensez de ce situation Clive?" "What do you think of this situation?"

 I have to say that I had expected madam Sabran to be somewhat more agitated. Maybe she had seen a similar situation before after heavy storms.   

"C'est pas. J'ai était éstonné ce matin quand je l'a vu", "don't know. I was amazed when I saw it this morning."

Madam Sabran turned to Khanchouf. 

"Allons il" "let's go"

Khanchouf was already striding ahead when Madam Sabran lifted her left leg and stepped out onto the field. Quickly followed by her right leg. Then her left leg lifted and her foot came forward and landed on the sandy soil. She stopped dead and looked down. Her stockinged foot, minus a shoe, was firmly planted on the sandy soil. Madam Sabran looked at her right foot then quickly back to her left. Turning her head she looked back to see the fine black shoe, that was previously on her foot, buried in the sand. Wearing 3” stilettos for this situation was probably not the best idea she ever had.

In that moment the anxiety for her courgette plants was so distracting to madam Sabran that she forgot many of her long held rules about etiquette and decorum. Glancing quickly at her daughter she lifted the other foot out of its shoe and planted it firmly on the soil. Then bending, she picked them both up with her right hand. Carefully she removed some of the sand from the shoes with her left hand.

Holding them by placing a finger into the heel section of each shoe, she carefully placed them on the grassy edge of the field. Madam Sabran exchanged some words with her daughter and then carried on in her stocking feet towards the stricken tractor.

Sylvianne stayed on the edge of the field, of course, possibly sensing that this situation was going to take some time and that she could be doing other more interesting things such as watching television or sun bathing.

I took hold of Madams elbow and steadied her as she took tiny steps and constantly looked down so as not to step on any stones or twigs which might put a ladder in her stockings.

"Thank you Clive" came softly as we walked.      

Reviews

[Kathy Van Kurin]

MADENGLISHMAN,
Chptr. (3) HIGH HEELS was a joy to read. Being taken to a time of another generation and gracious place as well was so enjoyable! You share so realistically and honestly with eneough detail, emotion and imagary that I get to see as your reader your experiences through your own eyes.
It is interesting to note this; through your eyes. This very aspect makes this such a lot of fun to read!
Thank you so much for writing.
Blessings,
Kathy

[MAD ENGLISHMAN]

Thank you so much. I do enjoy reliving my time in France. I'm so happy it reads well. thank you.