Chapter Eighteen

Joe fought down his instinctive Englishman’s outburst of incredulity. ‘I say, old chap, hold on . . . let’s not be fantastical now . . .’ would have been the wrong response. But what could possibly be the right one?

While he hesitated, Dorcas asked in an interested voice: ‘Can you show us where you think all this happened, Georges? You say it happened here. “Here” would seem to be about a hundred acres of house and grounds. If we could go with you to the scene, it might help.’

The practical suggestion seemed to stir him from his paralysis.

‘It’s not far,’ said Georges. ‘In fact, I’ve been detailed to take you there this morning. It’s on the tour we give every guest.’ His hands began to shake again and he bent to hide them, pushing them deep into Bruno’s fur. ‘Every day for nearly ten years I’ve passed within a foot or two of my father’s body and I’ve never been able to acknowledge him.’ His chin went up in defiance. ‘But today I will.’

They followed him from the house and across a cobbled courtyard. A single-storey wing in the same classical style to their left Joe guessed to be a run of stables ending in a charming dovecote and, on the right, balancing, but of a later age and of a more simple and workaday appearance, was the cellar. Georges, relieved to be active again, had fallen into his accustomed role of guide around the family winery. His talk rolled on smoothly: ‘Natural caves in the chalk dug out and enlarged, possibly by the Romans . . . storage for more than a million bottles . . . steady temperature . . . ten miles of corridor . . . if you get lost, just follow the arrows . . .’

They paused at the oak door at the entrance to the galleries and Georges took a sweater from around his neck and helped Dorcas to pull it on over her head. ‘It’s warm enough out here but down there don’t forget it’s at a constant 11 degrees Centigrade. The wine enjoys it – you won’t.’ He clicked on the electric lighting system, closed the door behind them and led the way down a twisting staircase.

They started on the tour, Georges full of information and well-rehearsed jokes, and Joe began to wonder if he’d imagined the scene in the kitchen. All was normal if not even slightly boring. The chalk walls hewn out over the centuries were whitewashed. The smell was pleasantly musty and made Joe think of mushrooms, forests and ferns. The storage corridors were lined with wooden triangular racks, double-sided, containing champagne bottles tilted at an angle, dimpled bases outwards. Georges set to, working along the rows, deftly demonstrating with flicks of the wrist the technique used to give the bottles a quarter of a turn each day, a movement which kept the deposit in the bottles on the move down towards the neck of the bottle.

‘But why do you want the filthy bit at the top?’ Dorcas asked. ‘In red wine the dregs are always at the bottom and you can easily decant the wine and leave the nasty bits behind.’

‘Ah – we do it this way to achieve absolute purity,’ said Georges. ‘At the very end of the maturing process we have skilled workers who release the temporary cork . . .’ He took a bottle from a rack and, holding it between his knees, carefully pointing it away from his guests, eased out the cork with two strong thumbs. Joe was prepared for the explosion but the effect was so shattering in that narrow space as to make him jump and thrust his hands into his pockets. Out shot a spray of gas, champagne and a smear of detritus. A split second later, Georges had clamped it shut again.

‘A la volée! With an explosion! That’s how they do it. And what you’ve just seen is called dégorgement. Clearing the neck. All the nastiness gone in a second and we’re left with the purest wine.’

‘But what is that black stuff?’ Dorcas wanted to know. ‘How did it get in there in the first place?’

‘It’s the remains of the dried yeast. Actually it’s been doing a valuable job in the bottle. It plays its part in developing the character of the finished wine. There’d be little aroma or flavour without it. Then after release, we recork, label and sell it!’

‘But there’s a space in the bottle now,’ Dorcas said. ‘Look, the bottle’s not full. I don’t know much about wine but I know Granny’s butler would never accept a bottle with a space between the wine and the cork.’

Georges was pleased with his pupil. ‘Well noticed, Dorcas. We top it up with liqueur de dosage – vintage champagne containing sugar – and this allows us to control the degree of sweetness. Uncle Charles has a good deal of fun with this – he’s discovered that some countries like it sweet, others, like England, prefer it very dry. He always gets it right. And he has sensitive antennae when it comes to tuning in to changing tastes and trends.’ Georges grinned. ‘Sometimes I think it’s Uncle Charles who sets the trends. A word in the right, influential ear, a well-placed advertisement . . .’

They strolled on, ready for the next sensation. With some excitement, Georges paused by a section of wall and held up a torch, directing the beam sideways to reveal a slight roughness in texture compared with the wall on either side. On it was tacked a blackboard with chalked words announcing that the bottles stored below were of the best vintage and not to be touched without the express authority of the cellar-master.

‘And are they?’ asked Joe, kneeling to examine the bottles more closely. ‘No labels yet, I see.’

‘As a matter of fact these bottles are!’ said Georges. ‘It was Maman’s idea. In the war she had these signs made and put them over our poorest vintages so when the Germans came they would make off with those bottles first. The best bottles were hidden behind the partitions. There – look – do you see where I’m pointing?’

‘Only because you show us with the torch beam,’ said Joe being a good audience. ‘I would have missed it. What’s behind there?’

‘Nothing now, an empty space, but before the war it was an open corridor. The best bottles were moved into it and Maman got the estate workers to build a partition and paint it over with several coats of whitewash until it looked just like the chalk wall. There were about six of those false walls blocking off corridors and alcoves and after the war we managed to remember which ones they were and tore them down to release the stock. Except for this one. Maman had it put back and preserved. I told you she was a great one for history. She keeps it there as a reminder. Did you notice the pictures of the Virgin Mary and one or two other saints as we came along? Those were the markers of the false walls. Maman thought they looked very natural – like shrines. Wine makers are thought to be rather superstitious in that way. Dependent on the weather and other quirks of fate, as we are, it makes sense. And the hidden wine, when the saints delivered it up to us again, at the end of the war, made quite a lot of money for us. Enough to keep afloat at any rate. Anyone who could afford it wanted to drink champagne to celebrate. We began to sell huge quantities to London.’

They walked on, mesmerized by the serried ranks of bottles, Dorcas asking the expected questions: ‘How many grapes does it take to make one bottle of champagne? . . . If you use red grapes why is the wine pale yellow? . . . How do the bubbles get into the wine?’ and Georges replying patiently and accurately.

‘And here we are at the Piccadilly Circus or the Place de la Concorde of the underworld,’ he announced as they entered an area where the gallery widened and other tunnels radiated from it.

‘Ah, there’s another saint, on another of those walls,’ said Dorcas. Darting ahead, she shot across for a closer look, drawn to the brightly painted image, glinting with gold in the beam of the torch. ‘I don’t recognize this man,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t look very saintly! You’re going to have to identify him.’