Spilt Wine

30. Catherine the Biker

I sat on the couch with Catherine lying against my chest, breathing in quiet, purring snores while my thoughts rambled. Two hours later, when she awoke, I said, "Your car is still by the old mill at Saint-Symphorien. I should go get it."

"We should go," Catherine corrected, "You're not going to leave me here alone."

"Let me rephrase. We should go get your car, and we can stop at Vrouwe Catharina on the way back. She's still sitting there on the bourne, moored by only her two springs, and we need to improve her moorings. I was too distracted to arrange something more secure before we left. How do we get there?"

"Louis has an old motorcycle in the shed. He uses it sometimes to go to the vines; it's easier and quicker than the tractor."

"I don't have a motorcycle licence."

"Why would you need one? You'll be sitting on the pillion. I'm driving."

A few minutes later in the shed, she took the canvas cover off the old Triumph and hung it on the hook. After checking the fuel tank, she shook the bike, pumped the kick-start a few times with her foot, turned the key and kicked the engine to life. With a few twists of the throttle, she coaxed the second cylinder to fire more regularly, and soon the machine was running smoothly.

I nodded and pursed my lips. "You've obviously done this before."

"Not for a while – a few years. This was my bike when I met Louis."

"But didn't you say this is Louis' bike?"

"It is. I gave it to him when he bought me the car after we married." She smiled. "I thought it was a good deal."

The roar of the engine was too much for easy conversation, so as we headed across the plain toward the Saône, I thought. She was now able to talk about Louis without much obvious emotion. I wonder, though, what was going on inside. Is she putting up a brave front to hide a crumbling interior? I don't think so, and I hope I'm right.

"I'm only the helmswoman here; you're the navigator. Which way do I go up ahead?" she shouted over the noise.

"Take a right." It was easier to talk now in the lessening noise as she slowed for the intersection. I guided her to the old mill, and she pulled in beside her Peugeot.

"This won't fit in the car," I said. "You'll have to follow me back. I'll go slowly; I don't want to lose you."

"Don't worry – the last thing I want is to lose you."

We arrived at the lock in Aiserey and parked on the towpath beside Vrouwe Catharina. While unlocking the wheelhouse door, I said, "My thought had been to move across to the quai, but that péniche is still there hogging the middle. Let's go see what mooring arrangements are like above the lock."

"We walked to the lock house and saw a line of old stone bollards on the right bank opposite it, and a little farther beyond. I told l'éclusier we wanted to move up through the lock to leave the barge in a safer place for a few days. After answering the lockkeeper's questions about the outcome of the investigation, I asked him to keep an eye on our barge.

Back aboard, while preparing to motor toward the now-opened lock gates, I said, "I can smell wine; there must be a broken bottle down below in one of the lockers. I smelt it yesterday when we were here talking with Grattien."

"Yes, I smelt it then as well. I thought a bottle must have fallen out of the wine rack and broken as we thumped along the bank, but I had more pressing things on my mind than looking for spilt wine."

"We'll look for it after we've moored up there, but at the moment, you need to head to the foredeck to handle the lines."

"Aye, aye, Captain Michaels." After a little fluttering salute, she turned, popped through the side door and headed forward while I admired her strength.

We passed up through the lock and moored to the bollards, setting bow and stern lines and doubling-up two long springs. Satisfied, I said, "There's very little disturbance here from the downbound traffic. They're going dead slow heading into the lock, so there's barely any effect from their passing."

"Upbound barges, though, will move us around a fair bit. We'll be dropped down and sucked away from the bank as their propeller draws water from ahead of them when they exit the lock. Then there'll be the churn and turbulence of their prop wash as their stern passes. Most commercial skippers move slowly past moored barges to lessen the effect. But even if they don't, we're secure."

I finished adjusting the lines. "Let's go sniff out that wine."

We searched and sniffed around without success for a few minutes, and then Catherine said, "The smell is gone now. The open wheelhouse doors must have aired out the boat."

"Probably right. Let's secure the barge and head home – head to your place, I mean."

"Home, David, it's home."

"There's a stiff breeze picking up from the north. We should get going quickly." I pointed up at the darkening clouds. "That thunderhead looks like it wants to dump on us quite soon."

I locked the barge, and after doing another fast look at the lines, we headed to the lock and crossed on its gate walkway. Then after bidding à bientôt to l'éclusier, we hurried back to the car and bike.

"You know the route from here – right at the stop above Aiserey, and after half a kilometre, left into D-116. Straight ahead, following signs to Cîteaux and Vougeot. Go as fast as you want; I'll keep up. Let's beat that thunderstorm home."

Catherine smiled at the challenge, looked up at the advancing dark mass, kicked the bike into action and roared off. I tried to keep up with her, then watched her recede into the distance, make the turns and speed west. I finally caught up as she waited for me at the stop sign for the D-996 at Cîteaux. She turned and smiled at me just before she shot through a small gap in the steady cross traffic, and she pulled away more quickly this time.

Several minutes later, she stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against its frame and looking at her watch as I dashed through the cloudburst on my way from the car. "What kept you?" she asked with an impudent grin. "You're sopping wet. You should have come before the rain like I did."