‘I am sorry,’ Adèle says. ‘My father is old and grumpy, and he does not like the idea of people seeing our work. But I have told him, if he wants the farm to keep going, he has to have some customers.’ She notices my boot. ‘Oh,merde!’ she says. ‘Was that Princesse? That hound is driving me crazy. She is so vicious to visitors!’
‘Oh, this?’ I reply, hearing a simpering tone in my voice but unable to repress it somehow. ‘It was nothing.’
9
SARAH
After Hal helps me out of Betty and onto the dried mud of the makeshift car parking area, we follow Adèle – who exudes a kind of glamour that seems out of step with the dilapidated building – to the door of an enormous barn.
‘My grandfather started the cider business in 1935,’ she tells us. ‘Then when he died, my father took it over.’
‘And will you carry it on?’ I ask.
She glances at me. ‘I am not sure,’ she says. ‘Perhaps.’
‘It’s a beautiful building,’ Hal says and I look at him quizzically. Perhaps surviving almost being eaten by a dog has left him seeing the world in a more positive light. Which, as he’s already the most happy-go-lucky person I know, could end up being unbearable.
Adèle leads us into a room containing ten large barrels, stored on their sides. In the middle of the space there is a high, round table, its surface only a little bigger than a stool. There’s a cloth thrown over it and three glasses and a bowl in the centre.
‘We have seven different ciders here,’ she tells us. ‘Some of the original blends of my grandfather and some newer flavours, but all are family recipes.’
Hal seems fascinated, although it’s hard to tell whether he’s drooling over the idea of imminent cider consumption or over Adèle, who is, admittedly, stunning. Smiling, she walks to one of the barrels and turns on its tap, pouring cloudy brown liquid into two small glasses. She hands one to each of us.
I’ve seen wine tastings on TV, watched experts swill the wine around their pretentious mouths and claim to taste hints of blackberry or a woody flavour. But I’m not sure what we’re meant to do here. Do people really spit the cider out? Is that what the bowl is for? What if I spit it out and it turns out the bowl is actually there to hold bread or apples or something? Am I meant to remark on the flavour?I can detect a hint of apple…
I watch Hal out of the corner of my eye. He swills the tea-coloured liquid around the glass, then raises it to his nose, taking a long, suspiciously theatrical sniff. ‘Mmm,’ he says.
I sniff my own glass, and it smells exactly like… well, cider. I take a tentative sip. The liquid is sweet, with a slightly bitter but not unpleasant aftertaste. Hal, next to me, drains his glass appreciatively so I follow suit, thankful that I let him lead and didn’t make a fool of myself by gobbing it all into the fruit bowl.
The next cider is darker, more bitter, and I can barely force myself to drink it. But once again, Hal seems all appreciation. Adèle is watching him, head to one side, as if summing him up, and I think the attention has brought out his inner Neanderthal. He wants to impress her. Either that, or he really does love cider in all its forms. His glass is soon empty, but while Adèle turns to the next vat, I manage to pour a little of mine onto the straw-covered dirt floor. Hal looks at me quizzically, but I avoid his gaze. It’s either that or throw up all over the pair of them, and I’m pretty sure this is the least messy and embarrassing option.
The next cider is decidedly lighter and goes down decidedly more easily, so much so that I forget that I’m not meant to bedrinking too much on the painkillers and ask for a second glass. Adèle obliges, seemingly happy to have our approval.
It’s only an hour later, when Hal and I stumble out into the sunlit courtyard, that reality hits. Because Hal has probably had at least six glasses of strong cider, and I’m not far behind him. Betty sits across from the house accusingly and I realise for the first time exactly what we’ve done.
‘Hal?’ I say.
He turns towards me, a lazy, contented smile spread across his daft face. ‘Sarah?’ he says.
‘How are we going to get back to the campsite?’
He seems initially confused, and it’s almost as if I’m watching his gradual realisation spread across his face in individual freeze-frames: confusion, deep thought – a montage I’m going to callThe Truth Dawns– followed by horror, one painfully slow emotion at a time. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Shit.’
Adèle, exiting the barn behind us, hears him. ‘What is wrong?’ she asks.
‘I’ve been drinking,’ Hal explains as if she hadn’t been the one providing the alcohol at all. ‘And I can’t drive.’
‘Me too,’ I add, trying to be helpful. ‘And I’ve also got a broken leg.’
Hal looks down, as if he’d completely forgotten that. ‘She’s got a broken leg,’ he tells Adèle.
She’s regarding us both with a mixture of pity and annoyance. ‘Well, of course. I did wonder, but I presumed you had someone to drive you? Why did you drink so much?’
‘This,’ Hal says, slurring slightly, ‘is a cider tasting.’
‘Well, of course. I realise this!’ she snaps.
‘We drank cider.’ He adds, helpfully. ‘You must have known we were going to do that?’
