Nuits-Saint-Georges

The double doors between the dining room and the sitting room creaked gently and opened slowly, only about a couple of inches but that was enough. The surprising thing that happened is that even though all the guests around the table were being quite noisy and merry and the creaking was ever so discreet suddenly the whole room fell quiet and everyone turned towards the door.

'Did that door just open by itself? Like, of its own accord?' Asked the guest we will refer to as Mr Smart. His intention was no doubt to make everybody laugh. Yet no-one laughed. Instead they all glared at him. After all there were children in the room. Small children that got easily scared. Mr Smart's sister-in-law spoke in a cold voice.

'Can't you think a little? Draughts in an old house with poor insulation, would that maybe, just maybe, cause draughts on a stormy wintery night like this one?'

'Are ghosts for real?' Piped a tiny voice at the other end of the table which in turn caused another death stare, the one from the mother of the enquiring child.

Mr Smart, feeling cornered, said:

'Well, just wondering, just asking. I mean everyone saw this door open by itself. Like not banging because of a sudden movement of air coming from ...'

The hostess interrupted him, probably sensing that the warm, happy, cheerful family dinner party was about to turn sour and the main course - delicious bœuf Bourguignon - was still sitting on the table, its aroma still filling the room. Next door, in the sitting room the fire was crackling, showing no sign of disturbance.

'More wine, Tim?' Tim, or Mr Smart's to you and me, nodded, happy to deflect all these female glares away from him, lifted his glass up towards the bottle of Nuits-Saint-Georges 1er Cru (a crate had very generously been brought to dinner as a present for the hostess) and a few guests followed suit. No chill in the air, be it from the material world or be it from the spirit world, would resist an extra glass of Nuits-Saint-Georges 1er Cru.

'The door is closed now, anyway, so just chill everyone.' 

The slow bored tone of a pre-teen informed the gathering. Again they all turned towards the doors. Sure enough, there were back in their original positon. As closed as they could get. They never closed right. They were old and a little bent by time and wear, or something else.

The hostess, who was still standing behind Mr Smart started to make her way around the table to fill all the glasses. Her manner had changed, she moved not less elegantly but more determinedly, as a general into battle, her sole and unique weapon the Nuits-Saint-Georges 1er Cru. Her voice too had changed, she was not offering any longer but ordering people to have a refill of Nuits-Saint-Georges 1er Cru.

‘Have some more Bourguignon, please, everyone.’

To go with the extra wine, she thought.

The dish was delicious and the human stomach and palate were easily drawn back towards the basics in life and all was forgotten. Forks started clattering, voices chattering, glasses chinking and it was like nothing had ever happened. The ladies kept glaring towards Mr Smart just in case he wanted to open his mouth. They looked at each other, happy to see that he was now focusing entirely on his food and drink. You could read ‘what a shallow man’ in their looks as well as if it had been written on their foreheads. The hostess, pleased to see the end of the rift in her party, sat back down and placed more potatoes on her plate. She would not admit it outloud of course but she thought her Bourguignon was particularly delicious tonight. In her mind she went through the ingredients and the method (never the same) that she had used: started the day before for better release of the flavours, bay leaves and thyme from the garden, carrots and onions form the market (tiny square at the end of the cobbled passage) and the meat from Richard, the best butcher (still on market but on the main square, just between the Mairie and the Café de la Place. It was good to let the onions cook so slowly at first, this was one of her little secrets to get this succulent dish that everyone loved. And as she thought this thought she straightened her shoulders and unconsciously looked down her nose a little and fitted the role of the perfect stuck-up, full-of-herself hostess (which of course she was not), this badly brought-up, supposedly vegetarian pre-teen, sitting three seats down to her left (of course) and so poorly dressed in his black jeans and dark grey hooded sweat-shirt with some illegible inscription oddly placed (under the left sleeve, all the way down, imagine!)

‘Oh, please do. It’s so nice to have you round!’ 

This odd sentence, uttered by the boyfriend of her daughter (whom she disapproved of but he probably would not last, could not last) in a normal tone and at normal pitch and volume was noticed by no-one except her, her husband and of course her daughter. Her husband she knew had noticed because he glanced towards her. She could not read his expression at all. But she did not care, all that mattered was that he did not speak. And he would not, of that she had made certain. No, her problem was that she had underestimated this innocent and naive, gentle and meek boyfriend. She was just about to nip this in the bud when she heard that idiot Mr Smart say:

‘Yeah, right? That was a ghost! I knew it!’

One of the death stare ladies almost shouted:

‘I think someone has had too much Nuits-Saint-Georges!’

But Mr Smart still had his (few) wits about him and shouted from the other end of the table.

‘And you haven’t!’

It was when the hostess thought she was going to give up, that this family was demanding far too much energy from her and why did she care anyway? They were all beyond hope. Mr Smart was the proof of it, he was seriously getting on her nerves now. All this idea of a happy family around the perfect dinner? Well, she loved the idea of it - and the cooking and the preparing - but that was it. She never actually enjoyed the event much. 

And suddenly one of her beautiful wineglasses broke. They all heard the beautiful chink and they all saw the slow motion spread of the deep burgundy red liquid over the white tablecloth and the base of the glass lulling gently, settling itself into the red puddle, the candle light and the electric lights came in unison to add glitter and sparkle to the sorry scene. The atmosphere in the air was of expectation, for dessert perhaps or for the cheese platter or for some denouement … The twelve people around the table felt the energy in the room change, or did they? 

‘It is grandma, isn't it?’ It is! She’s still around. She said she would pop in and visit now and then!’ The sleepy kid at the end of the table said.

‘You didn’t have to make your presence known, did you now? Not with such a dramatic gesture anyway.’ The son shouted almost angry.

‘Would everyone stop with this ghost thing! Ghosts do not exist, ok? And ok maybe it is Hallowe’en but you could be a little more subtle!’ Someone else shouted.

‘I would say that was super subtle actually!’ That was from one of the fierce ladies.

Mr Smart looked paler and paler, his cocky attitude being replaced by a panicked look.

‘I’d like some cheese please, are we sticking with the Nuits-Saint-Georges or have we got some to go with the cheese? Did someone bring Sauternes?’ Uncle at the end of the table next to the sleepy kid clearly did not care. 

The hostess got up and announced she did have some Sauternes and it would be lovely with the Bleu d’Auvergne. No one noticed how she motioned to her son to follow her. Once in the kitchen she turned to him:

‘Are YOU a psychic? And if so, why did you not tell me?’