Helen Ducal
ALL EXPENSES PAID
(Fact meets Fiction)
Helen Ducal
Copyright © 2011 Helen Ducal
Helen Ducal has asserted her right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction, except the parts based on facts.
Acknowledgements.
The town of Martigues
Adrian Paul aka Highlander
NRJ. Radio Station
Madonna
Versace
Lalique
Jean Alesi
Elton John
Priscilla. Queen of the Desert. Film
Grace Kelly
Yves Rocher for products and philosophy.
Janet Evanovich. One for the money.
Louise L Hay. You can heal your life.
Colette. Cheri and the last of Cheri.
Golden Girls.
Miami Vice.
The Nightcrawlers. Push the feeling on.
Alpha Romeo.
Renault
VW Golf... Black
Kawasaki
This was written by someone who loves life and knows how to live it. Unlike other British writers who've produced self-aware, often patronising books about life in France, Ducal knows what is meant by joie de vivre and contributes her own take on it. She and Betty delight in what the country has to offer and she uses her writer's gift of observation to identify and select the elements - large and small - that make up its attractive reality. Her voice is clear, direct, inviting as she celebrates her own and Betty's absorption into French ways. It's great fun to read and, at this price, a steal. W. J. S. Kirton The Sparrow Conundrum.
“Engaging,
fun, unpredictable, fresh, original, silly, and just plain old
enjoyable. Cracking idea and neatly executed. All I need is a deck
chair and some sun and I'm sorted!”
ANDREW
MORGAN
on authonomy.com
“Part of what makes this book such a tonic is its constant reminders that life isn't something reserved for the young. I really like the fact that you portray women of a certain age as anything but prim matrons who don't know how to let their hair down! Everything I've read here is suffused with that message.” S. A. STIRLING
“This is fun reading, absolutely hilarious! Who says the English have dry humor. This humor would appeal to anyone. Really lifted my day. The voice is so real and the comedy is side-slapping. My wife made me quit reading it to, come to supper." STEVE WARD
“And they say romance is dead! Why in the world has no man ever waved a condom at me? This is hysterical. I think I'm in love with Betty. I wish I could hang out with her. She is such a hoot.” MONIQUE O’CONNOR JAMES
“I'm never sure
how much I'll read when I get into a book - well, I figured this
would be fun for awhile, and before I realized it I'd read 8
chapters. FUN? OMG, this is a like a vacation. Your skills as a
writer are evident. This is chick lit plus...plus comedy, plus
insight, plus atmosphere.”
LIZZI
(Dionysus)
“I am already jealous of the freedom from the first few chapters. Thank you for making me smile and for plunging me so effectively into a different world for the period of time that I was reading, superb writing.” ANDREW WRIGHT on authonomy.com
“This funny and charming book should be required reading for all those who anticipate old age with trepidation. It is a delightful story told with exceptional flair. The characters are beautifully drawn and the dialogue alone should keep a smile on your readers' faces.” KIRKLING
“This is a great adventure, and great fun.... and what an alternative life-style! I think this will attract a huge readership from those wanting to escape the rat-race, and those trapped into it, but who love to read about others braver than them. Come and look after me!” TONY on authonomy.com
“This is so much fun! I love the style, am flying through chapter after chapter with such ease – can’t wipe the smile off my face! Some extremely funny moments, some beautiful descriptions and a unique premise & overall feel to the story. This would put anybody in a good mood! It feels like non-fiction...so authentic and had a quirky voice. Feels like watching an entertaining, surreal biopic! In your face, ageist buffoons! Love it love it love it.” MELANIE ( CELLARDOOR on authonomy.com)
For
IPOP
You know who you are.
March 1995
Prologue.
“So why don’t you give it a go Laura? It’s the best decision I’ve made in a long time.”
This was Grace, my neighbour, newly returned from the Middle East after twelve months as a mother’s help and an eighteen thousand pound cheque to show for it.
She had been working, happily enough as a medical secretary and then reading The Lady magazine one lunchtime, she saw an advert. No formal qualifications, just lots of experience, willing to take sole charge, six days per week.
“For goodness sake mother, do it. Think of it as the gap year you never had.”
This was Grace’s daughter’s advice.
“You spent years looking after us. It’s like riding a bike.”
So that is how it all started. I didn’t have any children but I had always worked with people and decided that the other end of the age spectrum would suit me.
“At least they won’t move so fast!” agreed Grace.
Tuesday 27th June 1995
Paradise Found.
Somebody pinch me. Here I am, happily out of bed and it is only seven forty a.m. But it is twenty six degrees in the shade already and I am sitting on the terrace, watching the rhythm of the bright blue water, as it laps against the curved end of the pool. I am sticking my tongue into the froth of my first cappuccino, listening to a lone cicada, stirring behind me.
No really, I am.
Deirdre and Gerard have just left for work and there is no sign of Betty yet, so I have this world to myself; and this is my job for the next six months.
Julia, I must phone Julia, also known as, the voice of reason. She’ll tell me if I’m dreaming.
Okay, it’s only six forty in England, better wait a while.
It is amazing that I didn’t give up after my first live-in care job with Miss Belcher, pronounced Bel-shah.
But no, I remembered my years of sales training. Never give up; the next call might be The One. Only trouble was, I soon found I was limited to what I could sell.
****
Three months earlier.
Julia had seen an advert. An up and coming Vacuum Cleaner company required freelance sales agents. Fabulous holidays to be won when you reach your monthly target. Worth a shot I thought.
I had called in to see Julia on my way home after the interview. Julia was receptionist at our local beauty salon. There were no clients needing attention so I sidled up to the desk.
“So how did it go?” Julia said keeping one eye on the staff room door.
“Well for a man who prided himself on his natural sounding sales scripts. I reckon he cocked up.”
“He did, and how did he do that exactly?”
“I couldn’t help it; they all looked so bloody serious...”
I continued. “Well we were all sat there, about twelve of us, all paying rapt attention, you unscrew this, attach that there, switch on...bla ...bla... and bingo.”
“Sitting, you were all sitting there...” Julia could not help herself.
I sighed. Julia went to a Grammar school. I did not. We locked eyes. Julia was still with me.
“Go on,” she said, “What did you do?”
“Moi?”
Julia gave me one her looks. The kind that only exasperated best friends can give.
“Well, you know how I’m not always very practical and he had only shown us once...”
Now she had her arms folded, bad sign; better hurry up.
“So you couldn’t put Humpty back together again, was that it?”
“Oh I did but apparently not the right way round, but it did seem to fit.”
“And you failed the interview over one attempt?”
“Erm, no, not exactly, you see I was about to switch on, thinking I’d got it right, when Mr-oh-so-smarmy- Area Manager says, “Stop. Think. Do you want to blow or suck?”
“Oh God.” Julia had her hands over her eyes. “And you said?”
“Shouldn’t you at least take me out to dinner first?”
Julia’s jaw line gave her away. She was laughing. “You’re hopeless.”
With that, the phone rang. I nodded my departure and Julia swallowed hard to regain her composure before answering the phone.
****
And then four days ago, Julia rang to ask if it would be okay to bring Doris to my leaving the country- do. Julia would drop her off before we went clubbing... if we had the energy. Doris is Julia’s mother in law. At seventy nine, I thought we were going to be seriously restricted in our conversation. Julia assured me I would be pleasantly surprised. We had decided to go for a drink at our unlikely favourite hideaway; the bar of a faceless hotel but conveniently placed a mile and a half from each of us. Fridays were always quiet, until we arrived. All the business clients had scarpered back to their weekend lives. We would have one drink each and then just keep topping up with tonic or dry ginger. We did not need alcohol to lift our spirits. I was having an in depth discussion with a couple of the female bar staff about whether size does matter, when Julia and Doris joined us.
“Men?” asked Julia looking at the three of us.
“No, last Saturday’s football results.” I suggested.
“Oh me god, I might as well go home then.” This was Doris, a mass of white hair, smelling of lily of the valley and a ring on every finger.
“Don’t worry Ma, they’re only kidding. So, what were you talking about?”
Drinks appeared as if by magic. Julia must have ordered them on her way in. The young barman, tall, blonde and clean cut, eyed us all with trepidation.
“Nuts?” enquired Julia. We all nodded. “Large mixed, salted. Thanks.”
“So, tonight’s topic of conversation...hmm?”
I had already checked and Julia said her mother in law was as broad minded as the rest of us.
“Size versus technique.” I offered.
We all blinked at Doris as she said “Well, you do want it to touch the sides.”
The ice was well and truly broken. The nuts arrived courtesy of one of the regular barmen.
“Thanks Ben.” we said in unison.
The new recruit was at the far end of the bar and had been polishing the same glass for the last ten minutes.
“He’s new, he’s young.” Ben nodded at the bar, “Be gentle with him ladies.”
****
But there was no ice here. It was the start of the fourth day since I had left the girls behind and so much had happened already. I checked my watch, shaking it lose to make sure the white line was still there. Six sessions on the sun bed had paid off.
Where had the last hour gone? Eight forty. I could not wait any longer.
“Julia, it’s me...I know I’m sorry it’s so early...what? No nothing’s wrong...Oh is that your pager...Okay speak to you tonight.”
I put the white, banana shaped, cordless phone down on the white painted wrought iron table. It rocked back and forth. I was in a trance. Could this be any different from my first live-in care job...?
Tuesday 11th April.
The advert and my escape to the sun.
I am one of life’s sprinters not a long distance runner. So here I am on my first assignment. Assignment. Thoughts of phone boxes... message will self destruct...should you decide to accept. Mission impossible? Surely not.
I pulled into the drive; I looked across at the passenger seat and the latest copy of The Lady magazine sticking out of my overstuffed, brown, pseudo-leather handbag. Oh well, if this was a nightmare at least I could start looking for the next job straightaway. I had agreed to look after this lady for three weeks. Jonathan, the nephew had been insistent that his aunt, albeit reluctant to have live in help was nonetheless, no bother. She was very independent and only needed someone there, just in case. Note to anyone considering a career in care work there is a deep dark chasm between need and want, as I was soon to find out.
The house was a thirties semi in rural Warwickshire. So far; so good. I looked down at my wrist and my new watch; a crazy acquisition, a moment of madness. A silver bracelet inlaid with marquisates, and a tiny silver dolphin either side of the face. It wasn't so much that I liked it, I was drawn to it. I had to have it. I didn’t need it but I wanted it. Unlike Aunt- no bother- Joan, who needed help but didn’t want it.
It was eleven thirty five a.m. time I went in and relieved the present carer, who had sounded very nice on the phone. The porch door was open. A regiment of potted geraniums lined the adjoining garage wall. Very neat and tidy. Just as well she could not see the inside of my car. I was not going to be too far from home, but not near enough to pop back, so I had brought, well, everything bar the kitchen sink. One bag held six books. I reckoned on reading two a week. I mean, she had a cleaner twice a week and a gardener, I only had to shop and cook. I had it all planned, even written out sample menus, to save time. Oh well, this is it.
****
Four hours later, on my two hour break, I am down the road in the phone box.
“Hi Julia, it's me. I've just seen a great ad for a job in the South of France!”
“Oh yes...”
“No really I have. It's in this week's Lady Magazine. Listen. 6 months in the South of France, granny sitting, while family travels. Separate en-suite accommodation, own TV and use of family car. Ideally 40+, male or female and non smoker. Interviews London in April. Start June. Please phone after 8pm. It's a French number.”
“Blimey. Just want one person do they?”
“Afraid so. What do you think?”
“What do you mean, what do I think? Phone them for God's sake.”
“Are you sure. I could be away six months and what about all my stuff that I am going to put in your spare room?”
Julia interrupted. “Well you can always pay rent if it will make you feel any happier.”
“Well, um, I could manage...”
“Only kidding, idiot. You'd do the same for me wouldn't you?”
It was more of a statement than a question. Julia and I went back a long way. We were more like sisters, sisters with different parents that is. Julia is tall, has long dark wavy hair and is big boned (her expression). I am short with a blonde bob and can wear children's jewellery. We'd met back in the dark ages at hairdressing College. I practised putting up her long hair, backcombed to infinity and with enough grips to set off the metal detectors at Heathrow. She put me through agony, pulling strands of hair through a rubber highlight cap with a number three crotchet hook. We shopped at Biba and thought Vidal Sassoon was God. She wanted to be small and slim. I desperately wanted her cleavage (well not hers but a similar one of my own). We decided at seventeen that if any man wanted the perfect woman she was right here, only he would have to have the two of us. We had both got married three years later, within two months of each other. Julia was my bridesmaid; I was her ‘old maid’ of honour. She still had her husband; mine had wandered off years ago. If she had not been my best friend I could have been quite envious. She seemed to have the best of worlds, a nice big house, a part-time job as a receptionist at the local salon and a husband who was away for weeks at a time. Perfect.
Julia brought me out of my reverie.
“How's it going there anyway?”
“Don't ask.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. She looks at me as though I have been cleaning drains for a living and have brought the smell with me. Think she'd charge me for the air I was breathing if she could find a way.”
“Better make sure it's not her twin sister in the South of France then.”
“God forbid!”
“Did the last carer give you any useful tips?”
“Ah...”
“Uh-oh. What ah?”
“Well, you know how I really, really try, never to assume?”
No comment from Julia, just a snigger. So I continued.
“ I arrived early, went round the back of the house and into the kitchen as instructed and explained to the small white haired lady sat at the kitchen table that I just had get some things from the car and I’d be right back to get lunch started.”
“And she turned out to be the next door neighbour? Or no, don’t tell me you were in the wrong house?”
“No Julia, I was not in the wrong house but honestly if you had seen her, you...”
“Oh no.”
“Yep, when I went back in, the aforementioned white haired lady was still sitting at the table, when the kitchen door opens and in walks Miss Belcher. The seated geriatric waves her hand towards the clearly even older white haired lady and says, with what can only be described as disdain. ‘And this is Miss Belcher. The lady you will be looking after.’ Only she pronounced it Belshah. Don’t you know.”
“Great start then.”
“Yeah well, she liked her lemon meringue pie. Anyway I'd better go; she'll be wanting her afternoon cup of tea. I'll phone you tomorrow after I've rung about the job okay?”
“Okay sweet pea.”
“Very funny dragonfly.”
We had not used our old nicknames for ages. They sounded even more absurd as we got older. Julia had called me sweet pea one day when she had given me a friendly shove and I had fallen over. Imagine sweet peas without the canes and string. Julia’s name evolved from her arms always flapping about when trying to explain something.
“By the way, Laura, why don’t you give me the number where you’re working and I’ll phone you, if she won’t let you call me?”
“Ha! Tried that. She said I couldn’t receive calls as it would tie up her line.”
“Oh boy. Good luck with the frog job.”
Julia always likes to wind me up about my passion for all things French but today I did not care. I just wanted to get through the next three weeks with my sanity and reputation as a kind and considerate carer intact. I phoned the number in France. There was an answering machine so I left a message, giving Aunt Sourpuss’ number, explaining that the call would have to be between four thirty and nine thirty pm and that it would have to be very brief.
I got back into the house at ten past four. No signs of movement in the living room. Good; time to put the kettle on. A gilt edged tray had been left on the table, set out precisely for afternoon tea. Different china, even a different teapot was used in the afternoons. A handwritten note was alongside the kettle. One spoonful of Darjeeling and a slice of lemon, on a saucer. Cube sugar in silver sugar bowl and silver tongs in the left hand cutlery drawer. At twenty past four I delivered the tray. Madam Belcher was watching the snooker. She patted the neatly tied bow of her cream silk M and S blouse, with her left hand. She pointed with her right hand to indicate the nest of tables at the side of her chair. Possibly a sign of irritation?
She glanced at the tray, her nostrils twitching. “Strainer,” she sighed.
Ah, yes, loose tea, strainer required. I charged back into the kitchen like a retriever intent on pleasing its master. After opening three cupboards and two drawers, voila, silver tea strainer complete with stand.
I produced it with a smile. I was rewarded with. “Supper at six thirty.”
Her pale grey eyes never left the screen. She replaced her hands on her lap, disturbing the lie of her navy box pleat skirt, which nudged her ankles. Her navy lace up shoes would be replaced by slippers in time for the six o clock news. I retreated to the kitchen. I know my place. I made myself a cup of tea. An Earl Grey tea bag, in a mug and sat down on a stool to read the notes left by the previous carer. When the phone rang twenty minutes later I knocked over my mug and the dregs of my tea. Thank goodness for Formica but I didn’t stop to mop up in case the call was my salvation. I need not have rushed. I just had my hand on the living room door, when I heard.
“No. No, I’m all alone. Jonathan is away on business but he is only my nephew. How is your son doing these days?”
I was so tempted to go in and say, loudly, ‘Oh sorry, just wanted to see if your tea was to your liking and if you’d like another slice of cake?’ or ‘My god, tell me, when did I become invisible?’
But, I refrained.
The next call came at six twenty. I was urging a shepherd’s pie to brown under the grill. It was already hot but looked so anaemic. I heard, “I’m sorry you must have the wrong number.”
Uh-oh. I quickly removed the grill pan from under the grill and put it on the draining board and shot into the living room. Too late, she had already replaced the receiver.
“Was it someone asking for Laura?” I tried to sound casual.
“Why, is that you?” She looked incredulous; perhaps I was not supposed to have a name.
“Yes. I’m sorry but it‘s about my next job, and I did phone them from the phone box this afternoon and I did explain that it would have to be a very quick call..”
“You gave someone, a stranger... my number?”
For some reason, ‘my number’ sounded like Lady Bracknell saying, my handbag. Now, I did not actually laugh but my face has a mind of its own, apparently, and Lady Belcher was not amused. The phone rang again. I smiled, weakly. “Please. It will only take a minute, then I will arrange a time for tomorrow, at the phone box.”
She nodded. If she pinched her mouth in any harder she was at serious risk of resembling the knot at the end of a balloon. I was handed the receiver as Madam Belcher glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, six twenty six p.m. I explained the situation to my potential employer, who sounded sympathetic. We agreed I would find a fax machine; the number was the same she assured me. I replaced the receiver. With a nod and a smile, which was now, getting no further than my mouth, I retreated to the kitchen as the grandfather clock chimed the half hour. The shepherd’s pie, pale as ever, would have to do. Carrots and peas at least gave some colour. I tried to dismiss any thoughts of moules et frites as I scooped out the traditional fare. Aunt Joan’s preferred mode of staying alive. At least I had remembered to warm the Pyrex, kitchen use only, plates.
The next twenty one days passed peacefully enough once I discovered that nothing I did was quite good enough. I made her bed. Hospital corners, no less. Aunt- quite –a-lot-of-bother-Joan felt the need to verify this by stripping the bed, just to check. I also learned that there are three tins with three kinds of biscuits. Large red round tin, best shortbread and ginger thins for hers and bridge players mouths only. Square blue tin, digestives and bourbons for family visitors. White Tupperware container with rich tea for the help (that will be me) and the gardener. The cleaner has coffee at the end of her shift but no biscuits. Presumably too much of a crumb hazard?
And when I felt the time dragging I envisaged my upcoming interview with a Frenchman in Brixton. I had faxed my CV and got a reply a week later. It was a start. Mental note to self. Make sure you have the right person before you start blathering in French, he may just be the plumber who happens to answer the door. But I needn’t have worried. I mean there is French and then there is...Bonjour!
Saturday 27th May.
The Interview. A Frenchman in Brixton.
Never been here before. Rows of terraced houses, three storey ones, mostly freshly painted in bright colours. Gardens replaced by something solid for the 2cv or Nova to stand on. Curtains; different at all the windows, bedsits maybe. English suburbia.
I smoothed down my cream linen trouser suit, to absolutely no effect. So comfortable, so crumpled. I made sure, however, that my favourite Azur blue silk scarf was perfectly knotted through a loop, French style. I checked my crazy new watch. Ten minutes late. Perfect. The French do not do timing to the minute, like the Brits. Fortunately, I must have French genes.
I pressed the bell and a muted buzz was immediately followed by the door opening. Mmm...dark, not too closely shaven, fine tortoiseshell rimmed glasses and an accent to die for. At last, my employer. Shame he was going to be away.
“A glass of wine?” he offered before we were barely inside.
Now I knew he was French.
“My wife is English of course and she speaks. ..er...very good French but my mother in law, she is not keen to learn the language, so we need someone to look after her while we are going away.”
I grabbed at the large glass of red wine that he had placed in front of me on the low coffee table, and took a large gulp. It was twelve midday and on an empty stomach I was hoping it would do the trick. Thank god I had come by train. The thing is my French improves greatly with the aid of red wine, well, any alcohol really; as to why? Je ne sais pas.
Gerard began to speak in French. He had warned me previously, on the phone, that he would.
'alf the interview will be en Francais, d'accord?
Oui, oui,’ I had enthused. Oh, there goes my doorbell, must dash, see you on Saturday, a bientot.
So there I was, bemused by his long slender fingers wrapped around that sheer bulbous glass of wine. His tan, I was sure, would be even. Just enough dark hair on his knuckles to show a good circulation of testosterone, without having a hairy back. The index finger of his right hand gently nudged his glasses back up his slender nose and into place as he stared at me with palest green eyes. His pale lemon cashmere (probably) jumper was casually draped around his shoulders and began to slide. A matching short sleeved tee shirt complete with collar was tucked into the waistband of his dark brown designer jeans. Could he be any more French? I smiled as he titled his head to one side.
He was waiting for an answer.
Question, question, what the hell had he asked me?
I was too busy playing 'me, English wife' to listen properly. Time for the charm offensive.
“Oh I'm sorry. Could you repeat the question. It's just, well, oh, how can I say it?”
“Oui?”
“Well, it's silly I know, but it's just your wonderful accent...I erm...lost concentration.”
The warmth from the red wine apparently found its way back up to his neck and then crept around his jaw line before he spoke again.
“Ah yes well. We will continue in English.” He cleared his throat.
A frog, I wondered? I later found out that the French equivalent is ‘le chat’ or a cat.
A fully ripened brie was oozing its way to the edge of the plate, along with pate and ever so crusty bread which Gerard brought to the coffee table at twelve thirty.
“But of course we normally have zee proper meal at midday, but I have two more peoples to interview, so time, you know?”
I wondered if they would all get the red wine treatment.
I was not worried; with a bit of luck he might not even be able to focus on the last one.
We shook hands on the doorstep.
There was a moment’s pause as we both considered the usual Gallic cheek to cheek...and decided against it.
“Deirdre, she will call you. Au revoir.”
****
Wednesday 7th June.
The phone rang and I picked it up on the second ring. I was just going up to the village shop. I had run out of masking tape. I glanced at the three piles of boxes. Keep, throw, don’t know. You can guess which pile was the highest.
“Sorry it's taken so long. Gerard says you're just perfect.”
Ah Deirdre’s dulcet tones. For what I wondered?
“We were wondering... if you wouldn't mind driving, only we’ve had problems with the car. We'd pay all your expenses, of course. Think of it as a little holiday. See some of France on the way. But don't fall in love with anywhere else, will you, or get another job? Can you start at the end of June, as we planned? It’s just twenty days away. Oh dear. Do hope you're going say yes.”
I could have gone off and made a cup of tea in the time it had taken her to ask one question, never mind just say yes.
So I began, “Well, there is one thing...”
“Oh dear, oh dear, I knew we should have phoned you sooner, what can I say?”
Lots, apparently.
“Madam Moulin, if I may just interrupt?”
“Oh, yes, yes, sorry. Do go on.”
“Yes I can come,” I paused.
I swear I heard her mouth open and then close.
I continued. “However...”
I love this word; it has a feeling of power about it...driving seat and all that. “I will need the money in advance.”
“Of course, of course, how much is it, have you worked it out?”
Her oxygen supply temporarily suspended I jumped in.
“Well no actually, you've only just offered me the job, so I...”
“Oh of course my dear, how silly of me. Now just you phone me back when you have it all worked out and don't forget to allow for meals on the way and petrol and then there's the peage; I'm sure you know that means tolls, don't you, if you've travelled in France before, and then there'll be your hotel overnight, not five star I'm afraid, it'll have to be a chambre d'hotel or something similar and have you checked your insurance; oh no silly me, you didn't know you'd get the job, silly me,” she stopped. “Are you still there?”
This time I had put her on speaker phone. I had made the tea, flicked through the local paper, waved to my neighbour who was out walking the dog and was just getting the milk out of the fridge so I replied.
“Yes, I'm here.”
“Oh good, thought we'd been cut off.” She laughs hysterically.
I wondered if she had shares in France Telecom, perhaps I should suggest it.
“Oh and do call me Charlene. Just between us...”
Why, I wondered would I want to do that. A nice English girl called Charlene, especially when the letter I had received had been headed, Gerard and Deirdre Moulin.
“I know, you're wondering about my name. I wanted to change it in the eighties. I just adored Dallas and Deirdre, well it's just too close to dreary, don't you think? Mother just calls me D. Gerry calls me all sorts of things. The French are soo romantic don't you think? He told me you liked his accent. Isn't it to die for?”
This woman is, well, unique, can't think of another word for her...I was intrigued, what did she look like, she sounded so much older than him. And how the hell did she manage a catch like Gerard. She was obviously waiting for a reply.
“Yes, I've always thought a French accent was charming.” I suggested carefully, although I am not sure even if I said, Yeah, he can give me one any time. She would have done anything but laugh. Best not to push my luck though. Julia had been priming me.
“Indeed.” Deirdre pauses. I’m sure there is more. “Oh and Laura.”
“Yes, erm, Charlene?”
“You know the advert said own TV?”
I nodded and then realised we were not using a video phone. “Yes.” I said cautiously.
“Well of course I should have checked it. The advert I mean. Gerard wrote it you see.”
I gently opened my front door and reached round to the door bell. I had to press it twice before it rang. I needn’t have bothered. Either Deirdre didn’t hear it or chose not to.
“Deir, I mean Charlene. I have to go; there is someone at my door.”
“Oh, yes, sorry. Off you go then...”
“Um, the television. You were saying something about..?”
“Oh gosh, yes. What Gerard really meant to say was. You will have to bring your own TV, we don’t have one, you see...at all.”
And then my doorbell really did ring. It was Grace my next door neighbour. All this was her fault. I nodded and smiled at Grace as I opened the door.
I told Deirdre not to worry and that I would call her back once I had worked out my route and expenses.
****
Thursday 22nd June.
I was sad to be leaving my draughty old cottage but the farmer wanted it back. He had given me three months notice, so I was prepared. He was going to convert it into three small flats. Ugh. I was glad I wasn’t going to be around to see it. The end of the twentieth century. Character replaced by commercialism. It took five trips in my car to take all my stuff to Julia’s. I felt our friendship stretched almost to the limit as we squeezed ourselves around piles of boxes and out the door of Julia’s ...box room.
I bit my lip and Julia rolled her eyes. We would survive.
Saturday 24th June.
Am I nearly there yet?
I arrived at my half way destination, Tournus, in time to find a room for the night and a meal.
Although it was a Saturday evening, it was June and I thought it would be easy but I was mindful of getting somewhere before seven pm and the serious business of the evening meal began. I needed a secure car park as there was no way I could empty my car. I had my overnight bag on the floor, of the passenger side. I headed for centre-ville and found a wonderful meandering small town with twin churches, cobbled streets and a gently flowing river. What had Deirdre said about not falling in love with anywhere en-route? As it turned out I was spoilt for choice. This town and nearby Cluny I would return to, in years to come.
I had already learned not to judge hotels or restaurants in France by their facades; a shabby chic exterior could contain a Michelin star chef. Once I had found my room I quickly splashed some water on my face and headed downstairs. I was aware that small hotels expect their clients to eat in their dining rooms. I really wanted to explore the town before dark but I also wanted to play by ‘the rules’.
By eight p.m. the oak panelled dining room was humming with the gentle chatter of contented customers. Not unusually, there was a set menu. No choice. I was not disappointed. A salad for starters. Think salad niçoise without the tuna. Then quail cooked with honey and mustard, endive and sauté potatoes. There was a choice of dessert. Crème brulée or tart aux pommes. I had the tart. I marvelled at the delicate slices of apple and how carefully they had been arranged to overlap with perfect symmetry. I opted for decaffeinated coffee. Shattered but equally excited, usually meant a sleepless night. However much I tried the ‘now go to sleep or Father Christmas won’t come’ routine that had been instilled in me, as a child... I do not know why I bothered. It did not work then, so why now?
I was surprised to see the other diners appeared to be local, greeting each other politely with the customary, bonsoir and a slight nod of the head. I was accorded polite glances but no bonsoirs. Draining the tiny coffee cup I decided to take a quick tour of the town. Le patron was back behind the reception desk when I left the dining room so I asked for a map of the town. He produced an A4 sheet of paper. A photocopy. With a red pen he silently circled a spot on the bottom right hand corner of the very hazy map. The photocopier needed an ink refill. My French didn’t run to this. So I just thanked him and asked if the red spot was...Vous êtes ici? He assured me with a wry smile that it was and then started to proclaim something of apparent great importance. I had no idea what he was saying. He sighed. He waved his arms at the door. He pointed to the ceiling. He did not actually say, les Anglais, but...
The moment was saved by a very smart elderly gentleman sporting a handlebar moustache that defied gravity and was pointing east-west, as if indicating where his ears where. Monsieur le patron sprang on him. “Ah Claude. Vous parlez anglais?”
Claude nodded the affirmative. As he listened to the hotelier, Claude smiled and nodded once more. The moustache never wavered. Claude turned to me and said. “Mademoiselle, the hotel is locked at ten p.m.” He glanced up at the grandfather clock by the fireplace. It was ten minutes past nine. Monsieur le patron had added something else. It was hard to believe that, that was all he had said. Maybe Claude was being, how shall I say, diplomatic?
“Ah, oui. There is no bell for the night.” Claude looked at me hoping to see recognition in my tired eyes.
I nodded feverently and promised to be back by nine forty five, after a quick walk, as I had been in the car since Calais, I was in need of some fresh air, help me sleep, you see? Claude did see. He nodded. Monsieur le patron raised eyebrows were placated by Claude, who spoke assuredly “Oui, elle comprend.”
I thanked Claude for his help and nodded to Monsieur le patron. He sighed.
Just as I had thought earlier, Tournus was a place to come back to but as soon as the fresh air hit me I felt all the tiredness that had been cowering under my enthusiasm, get the better of me. I walked quickly to the top of the hill in time to see the twin church towers disappear into a pink and grey sky. I was back in my room by nine thirty. I had a long day ahead tomorrow, I needed sleep and it came as soon as my head hit the pillow.
By eleven p.m. I was wide awake, again. I could hardly pop and make some cocoa so I had two other options that usually work when I cannot get back to sleep. Read or write. Or better still dictate my journey, so far. This small machine had become a good friend of late especially when I was driving so much. I found if I put the dictaphone on my lap (absolutely no need for comments here, thank you) and pressed record I could keep a diary of my journey.
It was so quiet in this hotel and I did not know if anyone was next door so I disappeared underneath the sheet and quilt to add my final thoughts of the day. I had promised Julia I would write regularly. I had a moment of déjà vu, as the gentle whirring of the tape machine and the tiny red glow took me back to school days (or nights) and my transistor tuned to radio Luxembourg. Ovaltine for the ears, Kenny Everet called it. Ah, bless him. I rewound the tape and started dictating my first letter to Julia.
Dear Julia,
I know I’ve only been gone twenty four hours but I just had to write and tell you what’s happened already. Okay, so I got down to Dover for the 6 a.m. ferry, no problem. And there it was, my first French lorry and I’m still at the dock, with its very own French lorry driver leaning up against his sixteen wheeler, reading the A-Z of Great Britain. Do they have the heat on full blast in those cabs or was the short sleeved white t-shirt stretched over Desperate Dan forearms just showing off?
Anyway, you know me, brilliant with a map and fluent in French, so over I went.
“Quelle est le problème monsieur?” I could tell he was impressed. However his answer was a little quicker than my tired brain could cope with, so I did what the French always do to me when they don’t know the answer. I simply nodded enthusiastically, said Oui, two or three times until he folded his map and climbed back into his cab.
I’m sure he’ll like Nottingham once he gets used to the accent.
It wasn’t until I got back into the car that I remembered I had been driving in ‘comfort mode’. I looked down. Sure enough my jeans zip was half way down and I was still wearing my ‘not even to be buried in’ trainers. So much for Le chic Anglaise.
I took your advice and stayed in the car until I was parked on the car deck. If I didn’t see the sea I wouldn’t know it was there. It’s all in my imagination. The sign for Dover on the M2 does not have an uneasy swell about it. Must be a trick of the light. I mean what’s there to be nervous about? You can’t exactly get off at the wrong stop. It’s Calais and then point due south.
I’m not on a huge boat about to sail across the busiest shipping lane in the world. I’m just going into this restaurant to have breakfast. The plate is not going to start sliding towards the raised lip around the edge of the table. I will sit in the middle. I will not look out of the windows, I mean portholes. I’ll be fine. Your words kept coming back to me.
Okay, anything else you told me to do? Oh yes stop thinking about it. Buy a paper, read everyone’s stars. Concentrate. I drove onto the car deck and locked the car. Then I remembered I have to leave it in first gear, which was fine because it gave me time to find a piece of paper and write down my location.
Car Deck P, near the wide flat end, orange stairs. So that’s P for puke, orange as in juice, wide and flat. The shape of my mouth as I throw up!
My mind has a mind of its own and a bizarre sense of humour. Distractions, that’s what I need.
I followed the clattering human hoards up the steep metal steps to the main passenger decks. Just enough time for breakfast and I’ll be there. No problem. And there wasn’t. I don’t know what you were worrying about?
It was about 8.30 when I arrived in Calais. I know you like planning where you’re going to stop but I prefer to go with the flow. I don’t know how you know when you’re going to feel tired, hungry, need a pee, or all three. So I set off with a tank full of English petrol, stomach full of bacon, eggs, sausage, tomato, toast and coffee.
I didn’t stop until about 10.30, but it was worth it.
****
At this point I hit the pause button. I heard the muffled boing of the grandfather clock downstairs. Midnight. Time to sleep. No more musings. The rest could wait. I was hardly going to forget.
I clicked the stop button and it seemed to resound around the room. Sorry, I whispered from under my bedclothes. Happily no-one replied. I checked, again, that my alarm was still set for seven thirty am. I needn’t have worried. Have you ever tried to sleep through the sound of coffee being freshly ground? Not to mention the aroma wafting up the stairs at seven a.m.
Sunday 25th June.
I set off at eight a.m. It was a beautiful bright morning. It seemed a pity to take the auto route but I still had a long way to go and I wanted to get to my destination and new home as soon as possible. I clicked the milometer to 0. I found a suitable radio station, playing Madonna’s Holiday. I waited until I was out of the town before turning it up, full blast. I was having a grown up Famous Five adventure. At least I reckoned that was the reason for my silly grin reflected in the rear view mirror as I glanced up, ready to put Beryl (my long suffering, yellow and black, roll top, Renault 5) through her paces.
I had been reading about these new fangled motorway hotels. The automated kind. Apparently there were staff during the day but at night, after nine p.m. you ‘let yourself in’ with a credit card. Hmm. I was sure the system worked but, credit cards, instructions in French, machines...Not wanting to test my French too much, I arrived at the F1 hotel in time to be welcomed by a human, with half an hour to spare. I pulled into the car park at the Valence junction. This would leave me just 220 kms for tomorrow morning.
This F1 was brand new and therefore clean but not the place for anything other than, getting your head down. Think; over large porta-cabin. I just hoped the Mistral never reached this far, as it felt as though the whole place might blow over. I asked for a room by the car park. There was no way I could empty the car. Did I mention it was full to the roof, with my portable television /video on the passenger seat?
If anyone tried to take my car, at least I would hear them and I could wave. Of course having a room adjacent to the car park meant that late night arrivals would shine their lights into my room. Genius. Ah well. The double bed with a bunk bed above it was firm, probably too firm for a decent night’s sleep. The room was painted cream with a bright red, built-in chrome dressing table. For the most part I am very French in my habits, bar one. Must have a cup of tea, available, somehow. So, there I was with my mini kettle and adaptor plug, mug, tea bags and sugar. I would have to forgo the milk.
The only socket was jammed up against the bedpost and designed naturally to take a French plug. Sadly, by the time I had plugged the kettle into the adaptor it wouldn’t fit in the socket. Funny how desperately you need a cuppa, when you can’t have one. So, I went into the corridor in search of a vending machine that I had spotted on my way in. Now, I had read enough about these F1 hotels and knew that they operated on pin-code system for all the doors. No keys required but you do need to remember your number. I was not going to get caught out, so I wrote the number down and put it in my pocket. The toilets and showers were also along the corridor but I couldn’t be bothered with a proper wash tonight, so I just had a pee, careful to make sure the bit of paper with my number on it, did not fall down the loo. I found the vending machine and opted for decaffeinated coffee.
Back safely in my room, I noted that Beryl was outside my window, just as I had left her. Her contents covered with various rugs. Nothing to see...move along please! Don’t leave valuables on show in your car. Sensible police advice but when you are basically moving house...well, what can you do?
There were no curtains just a roller blind, so I pulled it down and hooked the loop securely at the bottom. I was soon aware of my dubious choice of room as car after car arrived and lit up my room, casting comical shadows on the walls. There was a small halogen light over the bed for reading (see, civilised) so I put that on as I wasn’t too sure how thick the blind was. It was a very mild night, so I pulled out a thin cotton night shirt, from my overnight bag and laid it on the bed. I ran some warm water in the basin, not too much or the sound would make me want to pee again and I didn’t want to venture into the corridor until breakfast time when the humans returned. I threw my jeans, tee shirt, bra and pants across the other side of the bed. Because I could. No one saying...don’t put it down, put it away. Great advice, which I follow, occasionally.
So, naked as a jaybird I went over to the basin. The blind was a fairly good fit to the window, quite snug in fact. There had been no lights or sounds for a few moments so I peeked outside. I only nudged the side of the blind but it shot upwards free from its hook at the bottom. As I reached up to grab the hook on the bottom of the blind...naturally at that moment a 4x4 drives into the car-park, filling my room with more light than a west end stage.
I dropped down onto the floor like something out of a bad cop show. My night shirt was not within reach and the only towel provided would cover one nipple, at a push. I waited for the 4x4 occupants to disembark before moving. I crawled round to the bottom of the bed and grabbed my night shirt. The one with Elmo’s head on it. I switched off the light over the bed and tried to stretch up to retrieve the blind. It had shot up with such force; it was higher up than when I arrived.
There was a three legged metal, bright red stool. If I stood on this...Oh, crikey, another car. Headlights did a tour of my room. I was staying in Colditz! This car seemed to have endless occupants. I could hear raised voices coming from the entrance. Tired travellers, credit cards, French instructions, machines...
Finally I got the blind back in situ, i.e. covering the window but now I saw my real problem. The loop that held it in place was broken and so would not stay down. Now to try and find something to fix it I would have to let it go. I tried to grab some coat-hangers but they were out of reach. They would at least slow down the ascent but then might tear the material. Hey ho. I let it go. I might have been chucked out of the brownies but I still lived by the ‘be prepared’ motto. Or was that the scouts?
What seemed like forever but was probably fifteen minutes later and I had managed to anchor the blind with two intertwined elastic bands. I just hoped they would hold until morning. I clambered into bed and set the alarm on my travel clock. The last car arrived at three fifteen. I slept until six thirty when the staff began arriving. They were not noisy but the smell of freshly baked croissants and chug of the coffee machine announced the start of another day.
In a few hours I would meet Betty. I just hoped that I wouldn’t be too much for her. Miss Belcher of course had insisted that I was not suited to this line of work. Far too bubbly. Old people want a quiet life and I would do well to remember that.
But how exciting, six months in the South of France and all expenses paid. I couldn’t wait to get started.
Monday 26th June .
Arrival. Betty and her stroke of genius.
“We think Mother may have had another slight stroke since we last spoke; so we'll need you to keep an extra eye on her.” Deirdre pronounced as she flung open my driver’s door. So English. Not even a Bonjour or Hello. I had just pulled up by the terrace of my new home. The house is a 60’s detached villa. Not quite the Provencal mas I had envisaged, but it was huge and placed squarely in a dry and dusty, neglected garden. Four giant pines provided welcome shade but I already had my eye on the two apricot trees nestling against a west wall. How lovely. The possibility to pluck your pudding straight from the tree. I winced at my alliteration.
We had only spoken yesterday afternoon, so I wondered if the stress of her family leaving and having some strange woman move in; could be the cause of this latest problem? I know I was nervous, so I was sure Betty must be.
I turned the key in the ignition and patted Beryl on the dashboard, muttering a silent thank you. My car’s engine shuddered to a halt, as if it was hard to believe it was allowed to stop.
“Deirdre,” I stated, momentarily closing my eyes, recognising the voice.
Did the body fit the voice? No, it did not. I thought Deirdre would be glamorous, in an upper class English kind of way. Expensively tailored trousers, leather loafers, hundred percent cotton tee shirts and pearl earrings. I glanced behind Deirdre as Gerard’s voice announced. “Ah Laura. She is ‘ere.”
Gerard appeared and I realised that he was wearing what I thought Deirdre would look like, minus the pearl earrings. Next came Mother a diminutive five foot nothing, ablaze with that colourful, good fake jewellery that you can get these days. She walked slowly, with a very slight stoop and a crooked smile. She took Gerard’s arm as he helped her down the three stone steps from the terrace, across the parched and brittle grass, to stand beside Deirdre. I peered out at them all. I smiled.
“Bonjour Laura et Bienvenu.”
“Merci Gerard. Hello Betty.”
Betty was positioned just behind and between her daughter and son-in-law.
“So, as I say...do you think you will be able to cope? It was only a mini stroke, a TAI, I think they call it?”
At the mention of a stroke, Betty obligingly lolloped slightly to the right, whilst managing to wink at me at the same time.
How I did not laugh, I will never know.
Deirdre was continuing her list of updated instructions, and I had not even got out of the car; not offered any refreshment; I was getting annoyed.
“Our doctor does speak English, so if you have any problems, any problems at all...”
Gerard gave a slight cough into the back of his hand. I raised my eyes to his. He shrugged.
My attention span was darting from Betty's, otherwise known as Mother, perfectly puce lips, imitating her daughter’s speech, to the swimming pool cover, as it ebbed and flowed, caught up with the light breeze.
Deirdre followed my gaze. “Ah yes.”
Her voice rose, two very unnecessary octaves.
“We've decided to cover the pool whilst we're away; mother, her condition and all that, sure you understand.”
Oh yes, sure. I have just driven eight hundred miles to a job in the south of France. It is June, it is twenty eight degrees and you declare the pool out of bounds, what could be more understandable? At which point Betty surpassed herself by sticking her middle, precisely manicured, finger in the air, behind her daughter’s back.
“Deirdre darling, do let the poor girl at least come and sit down and recover from her journey. How about some tea?”
Betty had resumed the sprightly but frail mother-in-law as described by Gerard at the interview. She obviously had them all fooled.
“Of course. What was I thinking? Come in, sit down. Or shall we help you unpack the car; get that out of the way?”
At last. Deirdre stepped back and allowed me to get out of the car.
This was not really a question more like the next directive. So far Gerard had only uttered greetings of welcome. He glanced occasionally at his wife as she spoke but seemed more interested in his highly polished brown shoes.
“Dahling, do give Laura a hand would you. Come along Mother we’ll make tea.”
The shoes stirred. The ground was dusty and I was afraid that the sight of the polish diminishing was going to be too much for him.
He coughed nervously into the back of his hand, again. “You would like some ‘elp?”
Now considering this immaculately dressed Frenchman looked like he might put his back out lifting a cup and saucer.
I said “Noo, really, I would rather do it myself. Thank you.”
I refrained from adding... for offering.
Had a twin interviewed me in Brixton?
I had just unloaded the television with its built in video player and placed them at the bottom of the stairs when Deirdre walked past with a tea tray laden with Lapsang Souchong, you can’t mistake that odour, multi coloured cubed sugar and of course no milk. Betty followed dutifully with an ornate gold rimmed plate (I am guessing one of Betty’s) piled high with shortbread.
“I have friend in England who keeps me supplied.” Betty explains as if she makes a hobby out of drug trafficking.
Unpacking the car suddenly seemed like a crazy idea. I needed a break.