All Change

22

All Change

August (ctd.) Le manteau BCBG de Grannie having arrived safely (via the French Embassy, oops!) I wore it. True, it was several years old but, funnily enough, scarcely worn. And having been a severely classic style in the first place, did not look dated, but merely severely classic. And dead black certainly suited the mood. However, by the end of the month the weather had, astonishingly, shown signs of improvement in Canberra.

    Meantime, the lads reported that everything was in bloom in the Barossa Valley, the vines were doing splendidly and old Robbo had his first lot of tomato plants in already and they were flourishing! Plus an encomium on a cake from Silvia. (Nobody’s birthday, just that she wanted to spoil the blighters.) Chocolate on the outside, plain sponge inside, but with a chocolate ganache filling! Nice for some. I responded with a bitter account of what the American ladies from the Embassy considered coffee and the appalling mess the New Zealand High Commish. had made of what should have been some nice trout fillets, possibly under the impresh. they were being cordon bleu, who knew? And hung up on the sniggers.

September. Less than a week later, Bean rang again.

   “Bean, I don’t want to hear about either the joys of spring in the Barossa or Silvia’s cooking!”

    “It’s nothing like that. Just shut up and listen!”

    Okay. I listened.

    Nothing.

    “Well, go on. –My God, has something happened to—”

    “No! We’re all perfectly okay!”

    I sagged. “Then for Heaven’s sake tell me what it is!”

    “Cousin Gérard’s dead. Drowned. Diving with friends somewhere in the Caribbean, evidently. Oncle Patrice rang: he said Oncle Fernand’s in a terrible state.”

    “Well Gérard was his only son, after all, Bean. Hopeless sponger tho he was. How did it happen, do you know?”

    “It wasn’t clear but it sounds as if he was drunk, dived off the boat and hit his head. Um, think everybody else on board was drunk, too.”

    “That sounds like his crowd. Well I can’t say he’ll be any loss, but poor Oncle Fernand!”

    “Yeah. Um, Oncle Patrice seemed to think it’s really knocked the old boy for six, Mel. Do you think I ought to go back?”

    What, and let Grannie get her claws into him? On the other hand, he had been strong-minded enough to decide on the Australian scheme and go through with it.

    “Well if it sounds like Oncle Fernand really needs your support, Bean...”

    “I think he does. I mean, Oncle Patrice wasn’t making much sense, but— Well you know he rang earlier in the year to say the old boy wasn’t too well?”

    Merde! So he had! “Um, would you like to talk to John about it?”

    “Yes,” he said in relief. “He won’t mind, will he?”

    “No, don’t be a chump! He’ll be home about six-thirty, our time.”

    “Right!” And he rang off.

    Crumbs. Poor Oncle Fernand! Help, and come to think of it, once he went, what’d happen to the château? Because it was supposed to come to putrid Gérard! Who’d be next in line? One of Oncle Albert’s lot? Wouldn’t that be perfect? Especially if it was Oncle Albert himself! –Or young Colas! He’d show Grannie a thing or two! She was so mean to him and Bean Minor when they were stuck down there during the pandemic: he hated the old witch! Gosh, he’d have the château turned into a boutique hotel for rich Americans before she could blink!

    John listened seriously that evening to Bean’s report. “I see, old man,” he said. “Tricky. Is there no-one else who could hold the old boy’s hand?”

    His mobile was on speaker-phone, so I got the reply. Which was: “Oncle Albert would do it like a shot, but Grannie’d probably explode. I mean, I know she offered to have them all down at the château during the pandemic, but that was a one-off. The feud’ll be back in full force, you see. And, um, Oncle Patrice wasn’t very clear, but it sounds as if she’s gone into a flat spin as it is.”

    “I see. If you don’t go, Michael, can they sort themselves out?”

    The phone was silent for a while. Then the Bean said: “Look, if I go I’ll have to make it clear that it’s just a visit. So on the psychological side, if I don’t go, they’re no worse off. But it’s the vendange, you see, John!”

    His voice had risen in considerable agitation. So John just said mildly: “Of course. When is it? Later this month?”

    “Octobre, d’habitude. Ça dépend de la véraison. Um, sorry, John. I mean, it’s usually in October for Château LeBec: it depends on the v—, um, the ripening of the grapes.”

    “Yes of course. So is it your Uncle Fernand’s decision when to harvest?”

    “Um, yes. Well actually he always consults the old boys who’ve been there forever, but um, it is his final say. And the thing is, John, you might say Duck could do it standing on his head and of course he could, and he’s been fearfully decent, he’s offered to come with me or go over there himself, but the old boys won’t co-operate, guaranteed!”

    “I see.”

    “Yes. And if the old chaps are digging their heels in, the whole village will follow their lead, and that’s the majority of the pickers out of it, you see.”

    “Right. It’s still very artisanal, then?”

    “Yes. Well these days there are a lot of outside pickers but it always turns out they’re somebody’s cousins or friends whose families have been coming for generations, or something.”

    “I understand, Michael. Listen, I’ll think it over and ring you back in a little while, okay?”

    This was okay and the Bean rang off gratefully.

    John raised his eyebrows at me. “Well?”

    “Well he’s spot-on about the old men from the village, John. They’ve only got to look dubious and growl: ‘Faut attendre un peu’ or ‘Pas mûrs’ and Oncle Fernand knows better than to touch a single grape.”

    “Mm… Presumably if Michael is seen to be supporting his uncle they’ll co-operate with him?”

    “I think so. They were terrifically pleased that he took an interest when he was at the château. Though, um, they may be annoyed that he left.”

    “Ye-es… How hidebound are they?”

    I stared at him. “How hidebound can you get? Unless I’ve got the word wrong.”

    “No, you haven’t, darling. But if they knew he took off to avoid his grandmother’s interference in his life, would they still bear him a grudge?”

    “Ooh, I never thought of that! Well nobody knew at the time… My bet is the whole village knows and they’re all totally on his side!”

    “Good. Er, I hardly know Duck, of course, but he struck me as a competent fellow who knew his stuff. How likely would he be to try to take over the whole thing?”

    “I honestly don’t know, John. I think he’d be totally horrified by the way it’s been allowed to deteriorate… I’m afraid I can just see him wanting to pitch in and improve things right away.”

    “Mm… On the other hand he’d be immune to your bloody grandmother, wouldn’t he?”

    “That’s true. Well um, could you speak to him, John? Make sure he just goes as support for Bean?”

    “I dare say I— No, how about this? As support, but with a watching brief to make a summary of what’ll need to be done once your grandmother goes?”

    “Ideal!” I beamed.

    “Er—I’d suggest you go too, darling, but I think that might put the old bitch’s back up even more.”

    I made a face. “Yes, it would.”

    He nodded, got up and poured himself a whisky and me, on request, a glass of nicely chilled bubbles. Shadow Road Vineyard Melisande 2022. Mmm!

    Then he rang Bean back, spoke to him, and to Duck—who was right there, presumably genuinely supporting Bean, but also, the thought did just flitter through the old brain-pan, helping them eat whatever nice dinner Janine had left for them that evening.

    After that he had to speak to Bean Minor and talk him out of going too. Pointing out that the end of year exams were in sight, it’d be silly to rush off at this point, and didn’t the university have a regulation that students had to attend a certain number of classes in order to pass?

    And after that he thought he’d better have a word with Greg. Not to ask him to hogtie the minor legume, no. To make quite sure that he was okay with his winemaker taking off for the other side of the world at this juncture. A terrific lot of viticultural detail followed so I went out quietly to the kitchen, refreshed my glass, and peered into the slow cooker…

    “Mm! Smells delish.!” he said with a laugh, coming up behind me and encircling me very tightly with those long arms. And pressing himself firmly against me, what time the hands did something rather interesting in the region of my blouse…

    “I thought you were hungry?” I said weakly.

    “Yes, but the beauty of a slow cooker is,” he replied, nibbling my ear, “that one can leave it for ages and it’ll just keep the stuff warm!”

    “Really? My goodness. Do you think it might be safe to try an experiment to see if that’s true?”

    “Shut up!” he choked, lifting me bodily off the floor.

    “Help! Put me down! I’m too heavy!”

    “Rats!” And he carted me into the bedroom…

    “That slow cooker had jolly well better have lived up to its reputation, John,” I warned quite some time later.

    “Mm? –Mm.”

    Okay, I got up and went to see. Phew! Aren’t the things marvellous!

    So we had very well cooked Irish stew, a recipe from Bettina’s sister in Indiana, USA. The secret being to add Guinness! I hadn’t thought that was an American thing but apparently one can buy anything there. Well one could certainly buy it in Canberra. It might have been a bit risky to eat a rather runny stew in bed so we got up for it—well, in our dressing-gowns.

    “Mmm! A triumph, darling!” he said with a laugh.

    Well that was a relief.

    As it was to know that it was all settled, that Bean would have Duck’s support in France, and that both Duck and Greg understood that Château LeBec (the wine, not that mouldering stone pile) would always remain in the hands of LeBec descendants, as per Oncle Fernand’s will, and that a half share in Silvercreek was a much better bet than merely helping out at the château, but it wouldn’t hurt to experience a traditional French vineyard.

    Not to say to know that Bean Minor would remain safely out of Grannie’s clutches.

    ... Gosh, wasn’t that just typical of dashed Gérard, tho! Selfishly takes off on a holiday in the Caribbean just when the vineyard that supports his lifestyle is gearing up for its crucial event of the year, and stupidly goes diving when drunk and drowns himself! Well—selfish to the end, yes.

    It was Oncle Albert who rang with the next lot of bad news. Not one of the Paris family, no, thank goodness.

    “Mel, mon chéri, your Oncle Fernand has had a bad stroke and isn’t expected to live.”

    What? No! The poor old thing! –Ooh, help! That’d leave Bean at Grannie’s mercy! Thank goodness he had Duck with him.

    “I’ve offered to go down there, but la vieille is in a furious temper as it is: it sounds as if she’s blaming Michael because he told Fernand he won’t be staying.”

    John was home, so he was listening too. “Did he say your grandmother’s furious?” he asked dazedly.

    We’d been speaking French, of course, and John’s French is correct rather than idiomatic.

    I nodded hard, hissed: “Yes, and blaming Bean!” and said to Oncle Albert: “Then it wouldn’t be a good idea to go, no. Hang on, I’ll just have a word with John. –Do you think I should go over, John?”

    He made a face. “If you want to see the old boy again, darling: yes.”

    So I reported back and Oncle Albert agreed. He would meet me at Charles de Gaulle—no arguments, mon chéri! Then he and Mireille would come down to the château with me. And I rang off dazedly.

    “It’s been less than a week since Bean went,” I said limply.

    “Yes. But we couldn’t have known, darling. Want me to come with you?”

    “Yes please, John! –But will they let you?”

    “Family crisis? Think so, mm.”

    “Um, but it’s not your family,” I pointed out uneasily.

    “Eh? Oh!” he said with a weak laugh. “Taking things for granted. Got my strategy all planned out in my head, y’see, darling. Too used to working alone. Ranjit would tear a strip off!”

    —Well yes, I dare say he would, he’s a very old friend, one of the few who are allowed to call him “Johnny”, and figures largely in John’s funny story about the idiot (him), the friend (Ranjit) and the bahloo (bear). But what had that to do with the present crisis, John?

    “Ranjit? What are you talking about?” I cried.

    He made a face. “Moving smoothly along on pre-planned path, sweetheart, forgetting that the master plan hadn’t yet been revealed. Er, well, few months here, you have the time to see if you can stand cohabitation, then I suggest, well, a ring, and, er, we end up in the cottage happy ever after, kind of thing.”

    I looked at him limply. “All this has been in your head? For how long, may I ask?”

    “Uh—well, not the Canberra bit, but in its broad outline—” He cleared his throat. “Since that trip to Rye, really.”

    Good grief! That was my last Easter break from School! In which, the weather being distinctly chilly, le manteau BCBG, then new, featured largely.

    “Sorry, Mel. Well, will you?” he said feebly.

    “Will I what, at this stage of this apparent Master Plan?”

    “Get engaged officially,” he replied on a glum note. “It’s got nothing to do with this bloody crisis, darling. Like I say, been in my head all along—”

    “I get it, you idiot, don’t go on about it,” l said limply. “Of course I will. Why do you think I spent all that time scouring Canberra for a slow cooker for you?”

    “Oh! Right!” he beamed, cheering up immediately. “Jolly good!”

    “Hang on. Doesn’t there have to be a ring? I mean, for the High Commish.’s stuffed shirts to believe you?”

    “Uh—yes. There is. I wasn’t being previous, exactly, sweetheart, and of course if you don’t like it—”

    “John Raice! Stop wittering! Where is it?”

    “In the chocolate box,” he admitted. “Hang on.” And he rushed into the bedroom.

    The chocolate box, a relatively new innovation (is that tautologous? Never mind) contains the medals that he retrieved from his safety deposit box in London when he got this daft posting, and the ridiculous cuff links that apparently were also in it and that he has to wear at the sort of posh do that doesn’t require medals to be worn but that does require gents to wear ludicrous garments which include white braces, and all too frequently a silly cummerbund! Hitherto I had thought they went out very shortly after Bertie Wooster’s day; but no, apparently. I did report this to the Junior Drones but Flossie drawled “So?” and Egg said: “Well yes, old thing,” and Crumpy said: “Um, one does, old chum.” So I gave them up as bad jobs, too.

    “Here it is. It was my grandmother’s,” he said, holding it out. “Very old-fashioned, actually I think it might have been her mother’s, but—”

    “It’s lovely, John!” I interrupted him with a laugh. It was, too: in the shape of a flower, a small diamond surrounded by five little purple petals—amethysts, I suppose. Very dainty.

    “It’s not your birthstone,” he said uneasily. “I looked it up. But, uh, one or two sources said that violets are the flower for March, and it could be a violet, couldn’t it?”

    “Of course! And I love violets! Do you want to put it on?”

    I held out my hand and he slid the ring on gingerly, saying: “If it doesn’t fit we’ll have it altered in Paris.”

    Yes well, Tante Thérèse would be only too happy to oblige, but I didn’t need to say so after all. “It fits!” I reported happily.

    He tried it. “Yes. Good.” And looked at me limply. “I suppose we’re engaged, then, Mel.”

    “Yes.”

    “Er—wasn’t very romantic, was it?” he said, making a face. “Might have known I’d eff it up. Sorry, sweetheart.”

    “Don’t be silly! It doesn’t have to be wildly romantic! It’s us!”

    “Yes,” he said enveloping me in a huge bear-hug at last. “So it is!” And he kissed me lingeringly... Oh, John!

    “I love you so much,” I said somewhat soggily into his chest.

    “Mm, me too. When I think of the time I’ve wasted— No, well, had to let you grow up: be sure about it. But looking back, should never have let them send me off on that damn’ stupid mission... Oh well. But listen,” he said in my ear: “let’s not waste any more time, eh? Fix the date pretty soon?"

    “Yes. Well I’d like the Junior Drones to be there if poss.’ But we don’t need to have a huge, elaborate thing, do we?”

    “Hell, no!”

    “No. Good,” I agreed.

    And that was that. Not too bally romantic, no. But who cared, it was John and me!

    And the very next day, even in the midst of doing our packing and letting the High Commish. know (including me showing the ring, boy did certain superior-nosed females look sick, hah hah!), and double-checking the tickets he’d booked straight away that evening, before we even sat down to our cassoulet (sort of, à la slow cooker, and given the Canberra supermarkets lacking the sort of thing that Marthe puts in hers at the château, but it tasted okay)—as I say, even in the midst of all this, he managed to dash out and buy me a darling bunch of violets! Which really, were almost as nice as the ring itself.

    Oh, dear. Poor Oncle Fernand hadn’t come round: he was in hospital looking very pale, even tho of course he was normally out in all weathers. Well sort of yellowish and sunken-faced, really, and very, very old. But he was only Mum’s cousin, for goodness’ sake! A lot older than her, true, the son of Grannie’s oldest brother, but he wasn’t yet seventy: that wasn’t old these days!

    I kissed his forehead even tho the kindly nurse informed us that he couldn’t recognise anybody. There was little point in staying, but he’d been very kind to me and Mireille when we were at the château during the pandemic, even if he wasn’t capable of standing up to Grannie. So Mireille and I sat down beside the bed for a little while, and after consulting John decided that we’d take it in turns with Bean and Oncle Patrice to sit with him, there was no way we were going to abandon him.

    He lingered on for the next two days, but then he was gone. The doctor said it was another stroke but he wouldn’t have known anything about it.

    “Who’s going to tell Mme LeBec?” quavered little old Oncle Patrice.

    Yes well, given that he was her brother-in-law one might have expected (a) that he’d tell her, and (b) that he’d use her first name, rather than referring to her as the entire village did. (Yes, she was technically Lady Hubbel, but of course she’d rejected Grandfather and all his works well over forty years ago.)

    Firmly Oncle Albert announced that he’d do it. Help.

    Okay: we—that was, John, Bean, Mireille and I—went with him, tho whether that inflamed her more, was hard to say. Her tall, scrawny figure looked alarmingly stuff, but then it always did.

    “What is this person doing in my house?” she enquired icily of the ambient air before Oncle Albert could speak.

    “My dear madame,” he said politely, “I’m here with some very sad news for you. M. Fernand has passed on, alas. Please accept my—”

    We never did know what she was supposed to accept, because she shouted: “Leave this house!”

    Oncle Albert achieved a bow, crumbs. “Naturally your wish is my command, madame.”

    “And take these creatures with you!” she hissed.

    “Come along, mes enfants!” he said on a cheery note. Well perhaps it would have been better if he’d sounded properly mournful, but one doubts that it would have made any difference, really.

    “Don’t imagine that any of you will ever own ni le Chateau LeBec, ni les vins Château LeBec!” she shouted. “The Paris LeBecs are a pack of scoundrels and my daughter’s a slut and her filthy progeny will never inherit my property! Get out!”

    We got.

    “See?” said the Bean heavily to John as we headed for the cars.

    He put a kind hand on his shoulder. “Yes, of course, old man, but it’s no more than we expected.”

    Oncle Albert made a face and said, considerately using his excellent English: “I think that she’s become mentally unhinged.”

    “She was always pretty bad, Oncle Albert,” I ventured.

    “Yes, but mon chéri, she must know that the property is not hers and never can be. Even if all the male LeBecs on our side were gone, it would have to be shared between her and her sisters.”

    “A couple of days back,” said the Bean glumly, “she said that dear old Tante Émilie was a slut.”

    “In that case she is mentally unhinged!” I cried crossly.

    John put his arm round me tightly. “Some of it’ll be shock, Mel. She’s rejecting unpleasant reality.”

    “Well that’s possible, mon cher Jean, but if she goes on rejecting it?” said Oncle Albert.

    “Er—mm. Do you think she’ll see her sister Élisabeth, at least?”

    The Bean shuddered. “No. She called her, um, you’d say a calculating hag or some such in English, I think.” He said it in French and Oncle Albert and Mireille both winced. “Yes; and that she’d never set foot in the château again, and her crook of a husband needn’t imagine he was ever going to get his hands on it.”

    “But Oncle Patrice would never!” cried Mireille in astonished protest.

    “No. Proves she’s pretty well out of it, doesn’t it?”

    “Mm, perhaps,” said John thoughtfully. “Let’s leave her to cool down, mm? And cool down ourselves, I think. Can one get a decent drink in the village, Michael?”

    “Um, we can,” the Bean admitted. “They’ll serve rubbish to foreigners, of course.”

    “That means anyone who does not live here,” Mireille explained with a little smile.

    John smiled back at her. “Of course! Typical village, eh? Come on: we’ll let Michael do the ordering.”

    Well possibly it was a mistake to adjourn to the local bar, Le Chat Gris, because half the village was there and had to have the latest report in full. After which the best Cognac was brought out and everyone drank to M. Fernand’s memory. Then the local marc began to circulate and the recrimination, speculation and reminiscence took over…

    We finally extricated ourselves from the press of bodies. And repaired to Tante Élisabeth’s and Oncle Patrice’s house, there to offer our apologies for the failure of the visit to the château.

    “There’s no need,” Tante Élisabeth said tightly. “Patrice and I were expecting as much. Go and get ready for dinner, we shan’t discuss it now.”

    Phew! What a reprieve. She might be grim, and she was certainly disapproving, but at least she had remained sane.

    Well I think the usually terrifically clear-headed Oncle Albert was too annoyed with Grannie to think straight. So, not unsurprisingly, it was John and Tante Élisabeth between them (not a phrase I’d ever have thought I’d use) who came up with the final diagnosis. It went something like this (omitting the two-way translations):

    John (after considerable bitter report from all parties): “Mm… Look, let’s examine ultimate goals, shall we? What’s Mme LeBec got out of all this, er, recalcitrance?”

    Bean (crossly): “Her own way, of course!”

    Tante É.: “I don’t think he means that, Michael.—Not that she wasn’t always like that.—She’s ended up with what she wanted, which is to queen it at the château and have the last say about the business.”

    John (approvingly): “Exactly, Mme de La Porte.”

    Tante É. (gracious but genuinely pleased): “Please, call me Élisabeth, mon cher Jean.”

    Bean, Mireille and me: (Gulp!)

    Oncle Patrice (happily): “And I’m Patrice, of course, Jean! Eugh, but do you mean she does it all on purpose? I mean, deliberately? Eugh, consciously, I suppose.”

    John: “Not exactly. I don’t think she’s thought out her strategy, Patrice. I think she’s found over the years that very bad behaviour, incorporating complete intransigeance, gets her her own way—whether or not she’s ever consciously phrased it to herself like that—and so she goes on using it.”

    Bean (bitterly): “I’ll say!”

    Oncle Albert: “But he’s right, mon cher enfant. It is a standard psychological ploy.”

    John: “Yes. And by now it’s ingrained behaviour, Michael.”

    Me: “You mean she can’t stop, even if she wanted to?”

    John (temperately): “Let’s say it’s her automatic response in any situation.”

    Bean: “Well she dashed well doesn’t want to stop! Um, sorry, John. I get it. But, um, I still think she is pretty well round the twist now.”

    This last necessitating a considerable pause for translation, Tante Élisabeth took the opportunity to fetch another tray of coffee and Oncle Patrice to get out the jolly old liqueurs, pretty secure in the knowledge that she wouldn’t reprove him in front of John.

    Oncle Albert (having assured himself that Mireille and I were happy with Cointreau, that girls always liked, according to old Patrice): “I’d say that your analysis of the old witch’s behaviour over the years is absolutely correct, mon cher Jean. But my feeling is that at the present moment she has, eugh, tipped over the edge.”

    Bean: “Yes! Definitely! What do you think, Mireille?”

    Mireille (blushing, very startled): “Qui, moi? Eugh… Hé bien, Mel and I saw more of her during the pandemic, Michael, because you were working with Oncle Fernand during the day. We have seen her just as angry and, eugh, even more illogical—n’est-ce pas, Mel? The incident of the cats. I mean, it was only one cat, poor old Minou.”

    Me: “Eugh… Oh yes! He got at the cream jug!”

    Mireille: “Yes, but that wasn’t the time I meant. The time she screamed that the kitchen was full of cats but of course it wasn’t, it was only Minou. Well we didn’t actually witness it, poor Marthe did, but one could hear her.”

    Me (wincing): “Yes, that was pretty much over the top, all right.”

    Tante É. (dubiously): “She’s never liked cats, tho.”

    Mireille (timidly): “I think you might have been walking the dogs at the time, Tante Élisabeth. It was an extreme overreaction.”

    Oncle Albert (thoughtfully): “I see what you mean, mon chéri. She’s got to the stage where she’s no longer in control of the strength of her reactions, hein?”

    Mireille (fearfully): “I’d say so, Oncle Albert.”

    Oncle Albert (grimly): “Yes, well, that is often the precursor to Alzheimer’s.”

    And there was a short silence. I rather think that that was the thought that had been hovering at the back of all our minds.

    Tante Élisabeth took a deep breath. “In that case we have two options. Stop her in her tracks right now before it gets worse, or wait until she’s completely unfit to manage her life, and have her committed. –Because it will take that,” she assured us grimly. “She’d never consent to go into care, in her right mind or not.”

    Oncle Albert nodded. “I agree. –Jean?”

    John replied slowly: “Yes, you’re right, Élisabeth. But there are two aspects to the matter. As soon as Fernand’s will is read, Michael will be able to take over the business, regardless of what his grandmother may say. –Don’t worry, old man, we’ll all back you up. And of course you’ll have Duck’s help for a while. What was he up to today, by the way?”

    Grinning, the Bean replied: “You’ll never guess! He was down at the winery letting old Eustache and Pierre-Louis show him the cellars and tell him the entire history of Château LeBec vintages from the Year Dot!”

    “What?” I cried. “I know Pierre-Louis is as soft as butter, but Eustache? How on earth did he get on his good side?”

    The Bean laughed. “Let Pierre-Louis ramble on about the 1986 vintage, and then asked Eustache respectfully if he was right!”

    “A triumph!” crowed Oncle Patrice delightedly. “Oh, dear,” he said, his face falling. “I suppose under the circumstances one shouldn’t laugh…”

    “Nonsense, my dear,” his spouse stated magisterially. “Life must go on. Well that’s excellent news, Michael: that should reduce the friction at the winery considerably. But I think there was a caveat to what you were saying, mon cher Jean?”

    Er—was there? We all looked at John in mixed expectation and blankness.

    “Mm,” he admitted, looking wry. “Legally there will be no impediment to Michael’s sorting out the winery. But until we know who’s the heir to the château itself, there’s not much that can be done there, I’m afraid.”

    “He means there’s nothing we can do,” I said with a sigh. “Typical English understatement.” –All the French persons present nodded understandingly, even dear Mireille!

    And Tante Élisabeth concluded with a shrug: “Very well, we’ll leave her to queen it over there. And you are all most welcome to stay with us, my dears.”

    Well I must say that heretofore I’d never have imagined that I’d be glad to hear those words from the magisterial Tante Élisabeth! And Mireille admitted that she felt the same. Also about having been allowed to drink that Cointreau without a murmur! But, we agreed, a death in the family does bring out the best in people. –And all too dashed clearly, in other cases, the worst, tho we refrained from saying that.

    Maître Barbier, the family lawyer, had politely volunteered to read the will at the château. And had apparently been very disconcerted when timid little old Jacques-Yves, the general factotum, who answered the phone, had informed him that Madame would not receive him. Of course she wasn’t currently receiving Oncle Patrice either, but as he was nominally in charge of managing the estate, he’d long since instituted a little office for himself in the old stable block, so the old manservant had shot out there and reported, adding tearfully that it was all dreadful and couldn’t something be done? Well we didn’t get to hear what Oncle Patrice had said to that, but it bally well wouldn't have been terrifically encouraging. It was eventually settled that the maître, who would of course attend the funeral, would stay with Tante Élisabeth and Oncle Patrice and read the will the following day.

    Tante Élisabeth rang Grannie in the hope that she’d calm down and agree to have it read at the château, as was only proper, given that it had been Oncle Fernand’s property. Their phone is in the front hall of their pleasant big old-fashioned house, and as John, Mireille and I were passing through at the time we couldn’t help but overhear. Poor Tante Élisabeth got as far as: “My dear Jeanne, be reasonable—” and then the screaming started up.

    “If this goes on,” she said grimly, hanging up, “it will be grounds for committal, and even that lily-livered local doctor will have to admit as much!”

    Well the funeral was duly held. The service itself was fairly low-key: in the little village church. Grannie absented herself! True, she’d always loathed the curé, but it created a terrific stir when it dawned on the attendees. She turned up at the graveside, however, in full panoply. Widow’s weeds and then some. Leaning in an enfeebled manner on an unneeded stick into the bargain. There was a considerable crowd there, come to pay their respects: Oncle Fernand had of course been well known in the wine business; but she refused to acknowledge a single one of them. So they fell back on fervently shaking the hands of Bean and Oncle Albert. Well—salt in the wound, yes! But serve her right.

    John, Mireille and I also came in for a fair amount of fervent hand shaking and/or cheek kissing, the more so as the word had got around that the tall Anglais was the fiancé of “la petite Mélisande”.

    At least fifty of them had greeted us, when oops! Oh, no! Tho one might have expected it: he was a wine shipper and had known Oncle Fernand well. Étienne de Beaupré: tall, elegant, silver-haired, très bon chic, bon genre in his black suit. He kissed me rather too keenly and in excellent English reminded John, with a twinkle in his eye, that they had met once, in London. Er—yes. Not my fault at all. I mean, John and I had long since agreed that bits on the side did not count in the scheme of things. But it had been rather awkward that on an evening which I might have mentioned before, when I was expecting one gent to turn up for our date, two others, Étienne being one, had unexpectedly dropped by with bunches of flowers for me, and then to cap it all, just as my date arrived, John had turned up out of the blue. Literally: just off the plane after all those months and months on his dashed spying mission somewhere East of Suez.

    John of course was unphased: as cool as the conventional green vegetable. And as Étienne had perfect manners it all passed off in the most civilised way imaginable.

    “Any more in the woodwork like that?” my fiancé then asked drily.

    Er…

    “I think I see le Commissaire Martineau!” gasped Mireille in agonised tones.

    Quite. Added to which I thought I’d caught sight of the genial middle-aged Pierre Durand. Oops—yes!

    “Bonjour, Pierre,” I said very, very feebly indeed after the fervent cheek kissing and painful wringing of the hand. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

    No, well, he’d seen the notice in the paper…

    “Um, I was his social secretary in Paris for a while,” I said lamely as the stout figure retreated.

    “I see,” John replied neutrally.

    “While you were off in parts unknown with evil messages on your phone and email!” I hissed.

    “Ah—don’t think they were evil, darling,” he said, somewhat taken aback.

    Timidly Mireille offered: “They were—eugh—vairy formal, I think, John.”

    “Got it,” he sighed. “This another one?”—as she was observed to shrink, what time a tall chap with coolly handsome features approached.

    Commissaire Martineau, quite. “How are you, Raimond?” I said feebly after the very formal hand shaking. “It was so thoughtful of you to come.”

    … “That went well,” John concluded.

    “He has excellent manners,” Mireille agreed limply.

    “Mm. I think we’d better put the engagement announcement in the Paris papers as well as the Lond— Not another one?” he sighed as something tall and fair was seen to wave at us from the direction of Bean’s elbow.

    “Mais non!” gulped Mireille, turning beetroot.

    “No, that’s Flossie, you idiot!” I said in huge relief as he fought his way towards us. “What ho, Flossie! Thanks awfully for coming!”

    “Does one say ‘My pleasure’ to that?” he replied in his usual dashed drawl. “Well, condolences, y’know, girls. Dashed sorry about it. –How are you, John? Good to see you. Gather congrats. are in order?”

    “Thanks, Flossie,” John replied on a dry note, shaking. “Yes: managed to get the ring on her finger. –Show him, darling.”

    I didn’t think he’d be interested but I held my hand out.

    “It’s charming!” he said with a surprised little laugh. “Very dainty! Edwardian, is it?”

    “Think so,” John agreed. “It was my grandmother’s and I think it must have been her mother’s.”

    “That fits,” he allowed. “Er—look, girls, I’m here on behalf of the Junior Drones, really. Well, you know Carrie-Ann and Alysse are both hors de combat? Broken ankle and a dashed wisdom tooth? –Mm. Egg and Crumpy send their abject apologies: the damned contractor who was supposed to install the panelling at Le Club pulled out yesterday as ever was, so they’re maniacally trying to find someone to replace him, what time they re-read the contract and threaten to sue the blighter. Uncle Flossie and Clive Lamont are here, tho. –Over there somewhere. ln the clutches of a large woman with a terrifying hat.”

    “Tante Élisabeth!” gulped Mireille.

    He grinned at her. “That the one with the dogs who forced the two of you to clip them during the pandemic?”

    “Yes!” she gasped. “So you remember that, Flossie? Yes, but I was too afraid that I would spoil them, so Mel did the clips!”

    “Yes; that was one of the most nerve-racking days of my life,” I admitted. “Shall we go and rescue the poor things?”

    “Right!” said Flossie immediately. “Take my arm, Mireille.”

    Very flushed, she took his arm and he led her off.

    “I see,” said John drily.

    “Yes, but what you don’t see is him offering her a lovely ring like a darling little violet!” I hissed.

    “Er—sweetheart, he’s barely started his job. I think he’d want to be a bit more solidly established before proposing. He hasn’t got much behind him, has he?”

    Well he had Uncle Flossie’s moolah, but… “Um, no, you’re right,” I admitted, biting my lip. “He is pretty keen on doing the right thing, under that manner of his.”

    “Of course. Well—into the fray?” he said with a smile.

    “Yes. We won’t be able to get a word in edgewise, but yes.”

    Well I was certainly right on that count. The more so at the wake, over which frankly I draw a veil. Tho at least it was only invited guests and friends of the family. Held at Tante Élisabeth’s house. Quite.

    The afternoon ended with Mr Lamont bundling them all into his hired limo. They couldn’t stay, he had an important business appointment in the City, and Flossie had to get back to Chambers. So that was that.

    And we had the reading of the will to look forward to on the morrow! Oh, good.

    We listened uncomprehendingly to a stream of legal jargon… Finally Oncle Albert asked Maître Barbier if he could perhaps summarize the main points? Certainly, Monsieur! Well we weren’t spared further legal stuff, of course, but at least the “small” personal bequests were clear. All of us younger ones who’d spent two years at the château during the pandemic—Mireille, Colas, Bean, Bean Minor and me—got five thousand euros each. Which certainly didn’t seem small to us! Mireille and I looked at the man in astonishment, but he nodded encouragingly at us and turned his attention to the matter of the personal jewellery that had belonged to M. Fernand’s late wife and mother. Nodding and positively beaming this time.

    To Mme Élisabeth de La Porte, née LeBec, the topaz necklace, brooch and earrings. Tante Élisabeth gasped, uttered shakily: “I never expected—” And had to blow her nose. To Mme Émilie Le Monnier, née LeBec, the set of cameo brooch and earrings set in gold. Little old Tante Émilie dropped her handkerchief, burst into tears and had to be comforted by Oncle Albert with a drop of Cognac. To Mlle Mireille LeBec, the sapphire set: necklace and earrings; and the Art Deco sapphire bar brooch. Mireille’s jaw dropped and she gaped at him. Nodding encouragingly, the lawyer went on. To Mlle Mélisande Fullarton-Browne, the pearl necklace and earrings, and the diamond and pearl flower spray brooch. I gulped. The pearls were real, I mean wild ones, not cultured. The collection of coral jewellery which had been his grandmother’s was to be divided between the two of us as we saw fit.—Charming, of course, the maître pointed out kindly, but only costume jewellery.—Likewise the various bangles, jade or other semi-precious stones, which had also been his grandmother’s.

    “They date from the 1920s and—and are collector’s pieces, these days,” I said shakily.

    Of course! Very nice! After that we just listened numbly as the gents’ jewellery was parcelled out amongst Oncle Patrice, who had to blow his nose on being awarded the gold pocket watch and its chain; Bean, who looked stunned, possibly never having seen himself as a potential user of cuff links in gold and/or tiger’s eye and a gold cigarette case; and Bean Minor, who was going to do what exactly with a collection of tiepins, Heaven only knew. Likewise Colas and the onyx cuff links. Tho doubtless the wristwatches (Patek Philippe: Bean, and Rolex: both Bean Minor and Colas) would come in useful if, given what they were worth, they ever plucked up the courage to wear them.

    Little Oncle Patrice blew his nose again. “Well that’s very nice—very nice indeed! Fernand did so enjoy having the boys here during the pandemic!”

    Well yes. Given that Grannie had kept the two younger ones’ noses to the grindstone doing their swot— But yes, the old boy had been very fond of them all.

    “I would have brought Colas with me as well as Mireille, but it’s the beginning of the new academic year,” said Oncle Albert on an apologetic note. “They’re rather strict about attendance if one does a technical course.”

    “Yes, John and I made Tommy stay behind for the same reason,” Bean agreed. “Except that in Australia it’s the end of year exams coming up.”

    “Mon Dieu,” said the sturdy uncle, looking quite taken aback. “Yes, I suppose so…”

    “It’s all upside-down, Oncle Albert,” said Mireille with a little smile. “Like the English story of Alice, you know? Where the people walk with their heads downwards.”

    “So little Tommy will be sitting his exams in the hot weather!” Oncle Patrice realised. “That’s not good!”

    “Everything’s air-conditioned in Australia,” said John quickly. “Shall we get on?”

    Gratefully the lawyer got on with it. As we’d known, Fernand’s major shareholding in the wine business (which now included Gérard’s handful of shares, as he’d died intestate and his father had been his next of kin) was left to Bean and Bean Minor. With the hope that they would take the name LeBec. Eugh—not a condition, M. Michael, but— Grimly the Bean replied that they’d be only too pleased to be LeBecs.

    “Yes, our father’s a dead loss,” I agreed. “He didn't even notice when Michael turned eighteen!”

    “No, whereas Oncle Fernand sent me a really decent watch—I was at School, of course,” said Bean. “Um, so I don’t really need the other one, Maître Barbier.”

    Quickly the lawyer replied that of course it might go to your eldest son, M. Michael! Which effectively silenced the poor Bean.

    We now came, apparently, to the question of the Château LeBec and its estate. As perhaps we knew, it had been intended that it would come to M. Gérard, with sufficient funds for its upkeep. Er, the funds to be held in trust.—Well yes! Otherwise putrid Gérard would have spent the lot! Mireille and I exchanged glances but said nothing.—However, with the untimely death of the heir, the situation had of course changed.

    At this point Oncle Albert put in: “Yes, we do understand that, Maître. Perhaps you could tell us which of the distant relations will inherit? I think one would have to go back something like four generations, and I confess I haven’t been able to work it out. That is, if M. Fernand did actually specify the eldest heir in the male line? Because otherwise the law of France—”

    “Of course, M. Albert! M. Fernand arranged things most properly! Four generations—yes, indeed. But at the time he didn’t really envisage— Well in the nature of things, you know.”

    “So who is it, Maître?” asked Oncle Patrice nervously. “I do hope it’s not a descendant of the man who went to Canada at the turn of the 19th century: I believe he was quite wild.”

    “Eugh—non, M. de La Porte. As I say, the situation has of course changed—eugh—considerably with the death of M. Gérard LeBec.”

    At this point John cleared his throat and said nicely: “I wonder, Élisabeth: might we have a tray of tea? Or coffee of course, if people would prefer it.” And gave her what I was jolly sure was a meaning glance! What on earth?

    Tante Élisabeth gave him a significant look back, and got up right away, saying: “Yes, certainly. We could all do with a little breather—such a trying time, isn’t it? What would everyone care for?”

    So after tea or coffee and little cakes and petits fours (left over from the wake), everyone felt much better. Tho nothing could have prepared us for what was coming.

    Maître Barbier set down his coffee cup, cleared his throat and said quite briskly: “Yes well. There is a codicil. M. Fernand called me in immediately on receiving the sad news and it was drawn up, signed and witnessed.”

    “Where?” asked Oncle Patrice blankly.

    “Eugh, in his office at the winery, M. de La Porte. The witnesses were two elderly men. The surname was Morand.”

    Uh—half the village was called Morand!

    “It’ll have been old Eustache and Pierre-Louis,” said the Bean confidently. “Sitting on that bench outside the office in the sun, were they, Maître? –Yes, that’s them. Thought they were looking oddly smug the other day; well, that’ll be why.”

    Well they usually looked smug, but doubtless he was right.

    The lawyer cleared his throat. “I think I should read the relevant clause.”

    Nobody objected but pretty obviously we were all just wishing he’d spit it out and get it over with. What horrid skeleton was about to crawl out of the LeBec closet?

    So he read the relevant clause.

    Dead silence.

    Then Oncle Patrice burst into what could only have been described as high-pitched giggles and crowed: “Hourra! That’s settled the old cow’s hash!”

    I looked at Tante Élisabeth in horror but she just said mildly: “Really, my dear.” And added: “Though I can’t say she doesn’t fully deserve it.”

    The Bean had gone very pale. “That can’t be right.”

    “Of course it is, mon cher M. Michael, and I congratulate you most sincerely!” beamed the lawyer.

    “But I mean— We’re not even LeBecs!” he gasped.

    “Mon cher, you and little Tommy are better LeBecs than the château has seen for many a long year!” Oncle Albert assured him heartily.

    “It’s wonderful, Michael!” gasped Mireille, very pink and excited. “Now you and Tommy can run the business and the estate together!”

    Well exactly. Oncle Fernand’s codicil had left the château with its estate, all the farms etcetera included, to the Bean. No strings. Well in the hope that it would go to his eldest son, but yes. The lot. Lock, stock and barrel.

Next chapter:

https://theeggandfriendsdownunder-anovel.blogspot.com/2026/05/not-nearly-end.html