Reflections of Sunflowers by Ruth Silvestre Read Free Book Online Page B

moves round, the shadows narrow and disappear, and by the evening, the tops of the rows are burnished. They are planted a metre apart to allow space for them to be harvested by machine. The few exceptions that we must still pick by hand are those vines nearest to the electricity pole, one of a line of poles, which march across the landscape, the cable providing perches for hunting kestrels and buzzards.
    The first time the tall, unwieldy machine bumped up the track to harvest the new vines Raymond was very nervous. A large empty trailer stood ready for the grapes. Raymond and the driver of the machine, a small, disgruntled gnome of a man, eyed each other warily. No, he did not want anyone to help. He wasn’t too happy to see me either, especially with a camera, and when he began to work we soon understood why. He was incredibly clumsy. At that time there were not many vines harvested by machine in this area. The driver was clearly inexperienced and consequently the last thing he needed was an audience. The mechanicalbattering and stripping of the grapes is a rough, cruel affair anyway; with this operator it was painful to watch.
    At the end of each row he turned the machine so inexpertly he almost ripped the last vine from the ground. The whole noisy apparatus swayed and tottered astride each row and every time he unloaded into the trailer, grapes and leaves spilt all over the place. Raymond threw his arms into the air and cursed. Of course it was all very quick. The vineyard is so wide and the rows so long, a score of pickers would have taken several days to complete the harvest. But they wouldn’t have made such a mess of it, or lost so many grapes. We were all relieved when the assault was finished. Thankfully we never saw this self-styled expert again and the following year the operator was much more sympathetic and skilful.
     
    As we continue our walk we reach the edge of the wood and turn back to look at Bel-Air. It nestles into the landscape, the long slope of the roof just visible through the branches of the great ash tree in front. The Mediterranean cyprus on the other side of the house barely reached my chin when we planted it. Now, for the first time, I realise I can clearly see it from this side too, grown so tall that it appears like an exclamation mark above the roof. The little pine that Grandma dug up in the wood so long ago andcarried down to plant for us is now a huge tree. She was always planting different things in our garden, sometimes in very inappropriate spots. Like many French gardeners she was a stickler for even spacing. Neat rows of zinnias or French marigolds would, with us away so much, soon be overwhelmed with weeds. Other offerings were inspired. I have two small rose bushes and the beautiful peony she planted for me in a perfect position, which seems to grow larger every year.
    Grandma died in ’97. Parkinson’s disease, which she endured so bravely, finally reduced her to a shadow. Each October when we said goodbye we wondered whether the old people, both well over eighty, would still be there the following spring. At the end, Claudette nursed each of her parents with a tenderness she rarely displays. Raymond’s feelings are immediate and uncomplicated, every emotion unashamedly expressed. Claudette is sharper, more protective of any inner vulnerability. She is like her father. Grandpa Jean would roar and rage, but he was the kindest, fairest man. He just didn’t want anyone to know it. I miss them both.
    So many times Grandma and I sat together, either up at Bel-Air or down on the farm, shelling white coco beans for bottling or cutting up greengages to make jam. Stick in hand, she would walk slowly up through the wood to Bel-Air in her flowered pinafore and widestraw hat. She would always carry a gift, a small bunch of parsley, a couple of sweet onions, or a bunch of sorrel to make soup. She was a very quiet person but sometimes she would talk about her childhood. Her parents died when