by Tony Hawks
I returned to my seat for the big fifth game. The twenty baby chickens were finally on offer and I felt good about my prospects. Christine kicked things off.
“Seize.”
Sixteen. Good, yes. I’ve got that on two cards. Excellent news. What a very good start. Stay calm.
“Neuf.”
Nine. Great, I’ve got that too. On the bottom left of my third card. This is going well—and I’m keeping up. The lay-off has served me well. It’s important to pace yourself, Tony.
“Quatre-vingt-huit”
Quatre-vingt-huit? What’s that? Come on…what number is quatre-vingt-huit? Ah yes—88. Quick! Look for 88. Quick before she calls the next—
“Trente-trois.”
I was in trouble again. And so soon. I battled on, but I realised that a combination of incompetence and ill luck was going to mean that the baby chickens would remain beyond me. My growing frustration was compounded when a large woman near the front screamed with delight and claimed the treasured prize. My prize. Like she needed chickens.
I returned to the back of the hall and began chatting with Irish Mary who had returned from playing an early evening gig at her hotel in Lourdes. It had been a quiet night and Mary didn’t have much to tell me that she hadn’t told me before, but I hung on her every word. Anything was better than this bingo. This godforsaken bingo. As I listened attentively I vowed never to play it again in my life.
“Will you play the last game, Tony?” asked Mary as Christine announced the biggest prize of the night—a holiday for two in Spain.
“Er…I’d rather not. I was thinking that—”
“Ah come on, Tony! You have your cards there. You may be a winner, you never know.”
“It’s just that—”
“Don’t be so silly, Tony. There, get your cards out in front of you. I’ll help you, if you like.”
“Right,” I said, wondering if I’d just set a new record for breaking a vow.
Christine began calling out the numbers.
“Seize”
“Sixteen. You have that. Twice,” said an enthused Mary.
“Soixante-quinze.”
“Oh God, what’s that?” said Mary. “That’s a hard one.”
“Seventy-five,” I said.
“Oh yes, seventy-five. Good. You’ve got that one. This bottom card is filling up nicely.”
Another good start. This time, however, the run of luck continued and soon Mary and I were beginning to get rather excited by the prospect of actually winning: 66, 35, 14, 4, and 97 were all filled. All we needed were 54 and 90. We were on the verge of an extraordinary victory.
“Cinquante-quatre ,” called Christine.
“Fifty-four!” I said, just at the last minute managing to mute an exalted cry. “This is unbelievable. All we need now is number ninety. That’s quatre-vingt-dix. Listen out for quatre-vingt-dix, Mary, and bellow if you hear it.”
“Soixante-deux ,” announced Christine.
“Damn,” I said. “Maybe the next one.”
“Trente-trois”
“No! Come on, Christine.”
“Quatre-vingt-dix —”
“OUI! OUI! OUI!” I bellowed.
I couldn’t believe it, I’d actually won. Well, a couple of us had anyway—because someone else had screamed with delight at the same time as me. Did that mean we’d have to share the prize? Would I have to go on holiday with the other winner? I hadn’t seen who the other victory claimant had been, but an earlier glance around the room hadn’t revealed many suitable-looking holiday partners amongst the other players.
The lady opposite me looked sick. She’d played her ten cards with exquisite skill all night but she hadn’t won any of the electric drills, clocks, DVD players or fondue sets that had been on offer. And now I had a holiday. In disgust she tipped her counters from the cards and onto the table before her. Other disgruntled players did the same.
Serves her right for bringing her own counters, I thought to myself as I waited for Roger to arrive and verify my card.
When he reached me, Christine repeated the numbers and Roger enunciated a crisp, clear ‘oui’ as each number matched up on my card.
Soon there was just the last number to check—quatre-vingt-dix.
“Quatre-vingt-dix-huit” said Christine, much to my astonishment.
“Non” said a deadpan Roger.
Oh no. I immediately realised what had happened. It was the bloody silly way the French say their numbers that had caused the problem. I mean—what a stupid way of saying ninety-eight. Quatre-vingt-dix-huit translates as ‘four-twenty-ten-eight’. Absurd.
And very embarrassing.
But it could have been a lot worse. Had it not been for the other victory claimant (and they did have ‘quatre-vingt-dix-huit’ on their card), then there could have been a major international incident. All the disappointed players who had thrown their counters or pieces of corn from their cards and onto the table would have been enraged. They would have rightly complained that victory could have been theirs with the calling of the next number had it not been for the idiotic Englishman shouting out when he did. The lady opposite would have almost certainly given me a good old-fashioned punch on the nose.
“I think it’s time for bed,” I said to Mary.
“I agree, Tony,” she replied. “I’ll give you a lift home.”
And with those words Mary and I tiptoed off into the night, my first and last night of bingo behind me.
§
The following few days provided me with a comprehensive lesson in French music. At dinner with Michel and his wife, the other Christine, I had mentioned that I would be interested in learning more about French songwriters. Michel’s eyes lit up immediately. Our relationship was about to change. We were no longer to be neighbours, but instead we would become tutor and student. For the following three evenings I was invited round to listen to CDs and watch videos and I did my best to assimilate all the information that was thrown at me. Much of it, however, went sailing over my head. At times I couldn’t help but glaze over as Michel explained the finer points of a French lyric. One thing was abundantly clear, however, and that was that Michel had two favourite artistes: Georges Brassens and Jacques Brel. Although neither would have been my choice for the CD in the car, I could appreciate that both were exceptional artists and that they’d been a huge influence on the next generation of songwriters. Brel, in particular, had been responsible for songs that had become big worldwide hits when translated into English.↓
≡ ‘If You Go Away’, ‘Seasons In The Sun’, ‘Jackie’.
On the sleeve notes of Scott Walker Sings Jacques Brel, I learnt that the chansonnier was the Belgian-born son of a cardboard-carton manufacturer. After many years of working in his father’s factory, for some inexplicable reason Jacques upped and left for the bright lights of Paris. Mysteriously, he chose to exchange the daily joy of the cardboard carton for the drudgery of singing in Left Bank cafes and writing passionate songs about death, timid suitors, Dutch fishermen, and even one about a bull dying under the hot Spanish sun. (There were none about cardboard cartons, but this is understandable enough since, even in French, the words ‘cardboard’ and ‘carton’ are buggers to find rhymes for.) He was a dynamic performer, too, and the video that Michel showed me of his performance in a Parisian club singing ‘Amsterdam’ suggested that Brel’s doctor would have been concerned for him at the time, such was the vigour and extraordinary passion of his rendition. I’m no medic, but I’m of the opinion that it can’t be good for you if your veins stick out that far on your neck.
The good thing about these music sessions with Michel was that they put me back in touch with the reason why I’d bought my house here in the first place. The piano. Admittedly, the next time I sat down to play, it wasn’t to practise. I wanted to write a song that could match the raw force and meaningful lyrics of the restless, creative spirit that was Jacques Brel.
The attempt wasn’t a huge success. Initially
I sat there uninspired, gazing out of the window. Nothing. No creative spark whatsoever. I tried to force it, but I should have known better. After close to an hour I had a half-decent tune, but the lyrics just didn’t hit the mark. I guess Brel didn’t have to look out over an unfinished swimming pool in his garden whilst he waited for the muse to come.
I doubted that I’d be playing this new song to anyone in the near future. ‘Oh Unsightly Hole’ would have to be one of those songs that remained in the drawer forever. Unless, of course, I needed to get rid of someone in a hurry.
§
The problem of the unfinished pool was solved when I had Fabrice and Marie-Laure over for dinner. I treated them to an exotic spaghetti bolognaise for which they arrived a cool two hours late. They were quite the opposite of a couple who were beside themselves with regret for their tardiness. There was no ‘God, we’re so sorry, you’ll never believe the journey we’ve just had!’ In fact, there was no comment at all until I looked rather wistfully at my watch, and this prompted Marie-Laure to apologise and Fabrice to make a facetious comment about them being on ‘Bigourdian time’. I wondered how these Bigourdians ever made it on time to catch flights.↓
≡ The answer was revealed later in the evening when Fabrice explained that he’d never been overseas or flown anywhere in his life.
I noted, too, that Fabrice, like Marie-Laure, had kissed me on both cheeks upon arrival. Quite what this meant I wasn’t sure. Did he do this when he felt guilty about being late? Was it because he liked me so much now that a handshake wasn’t a sufficient salutation any more? Whatever it was, I rather liked it. It made me feel like I’d come a long way in the short time I’d been here.
During dinner we covered many subjects and I was pleased to find that my French was coping well with most of them. Living alone and without fellow English folk, I’d now begun to think in French rather than forming the sentence in English and then translating it. Ironically, it was a sentence in English from Fabrice that was the most memorable of the evening.
“I can finish your pool!” he suddenly claimed, after he’d spent a few moments studying the hole in the ground at the back of my house.
“Really?”
“Oui. Avec mon ami Philippe”
Fabrice explained that he was now doing more and more freelance work and that he and his chum Philippe could cope perfectly well with the remaining tasks required to complete my pool. I was rather excited by the prospect. Fabrice was younger, slimmer and more enthusiastic than Ron. He also spoke better French. The only downside would be if he operated on Bigourdian time on working days.
“OK, let’s do it!” I said. “You’re hired.”
§
The following Monday Fabrice arrived with Philippe, a good-looking chap of about my age, who certainly seemed to know his stuff when it came to swimming pools. Around him, Fabrice became a subordinate figure, but he took to this role with relish and if anything it helped to accentuate his playful side. He danced to the music that he pumped out at volume from the cab of his van, and he played air guitar when Santana got into full flow. Virtually every time I saw him he made me laugh with either a comment or a piece of slapstick mime. Fabrice was a natural comic, but the kind who’d had the good sense not to ruin his life by trying to become a comedian.
On the second morning, two other mates turned up to help them out—Laurent and Stephane. These two reminded me of a kind of French Laurel and Hardy. Stephane was wide and serious to Laurent’s slight and cheeky. Laurent spoke excellent English, having lived in London for several years. Stephane had a go at English but I noted that he had an unusual approach, beginning each sentence with a few English words and then reverting to French for the rest of it. His English was inconsistent, but consistently so.
Soon the four men were demonstrating a refreshing approach to the jobs in hand with dynamism and a real sense of purpose. Philippe orchestrated things with an occasionally quick-tempered authority, and the others responded vocally. For several days the garden was filled with Bigourdian banter. The work, however, was getting done, and at a fair lick. Most mornings all four of them turned down the offer of a coffee, and even when they accepted, they’d take sips in between tasks rather than stop and make a break of it. All in all, Ron would have found their approach rather distasteful.
Laurent took on the role of translator whenever the group discussion became technical. He and I also began to share nice little snatches of conversation throughout the day and I found him to be smart and witty. And restless too.
“Don’t you find it boring around here?” he asked one day, during a rare coffee break.
“Not at all. I find it peaceful and relaxing.”
“Yes,” he replied. “But that is only because you are not here all the time. If you were here all the time, you would find it boring—believe me.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. I am going to Paris at the weekend. I need some life. Stephane, Fabrice, Philippe—they like it here. But I cannot stand how quiet it is.”
“But it’s precisely the peace and quiet that I love.”
“Yes, and when you are bored of it—you can fly back to London. It is perfect for you.”
Laurent probably had it right. Knowing that the energy and excitement of London was within easy reach for me had made this oasis of calm all the more attractive. I didn’t feel trapped. I felt liberated. Laurent’s restless search for a balance was some way from being realised.
§
One evening, after the comedy quartet had put in an exceptionally long day and when progress with the pool was at its most visible to the naked eye, I asked an optimistic question.
“When will I be able to swim in it?”
“Soon, bientot, soon,” said Philippe.
“It needs water first,” said Fabrice.
“Yes, thank you, Fabrice, I was aware of that.”
I licked my lips in anticipation at the promise of a pool that would be ready ‘soon’, choosing to ignore the fact that there was probably such a thing as a ‘Bigourdian promise’ as well as ‘Bigourdian time’.
Later that night, after my diligent workers had made their way home, I made myself a herbal tea and sat down on the balcony and looked across the valley. It was dark, but I knew it all so well. Each contour of the land, every large tree, the bend in the road as it snaked its way up the hill, the outlines of the distant peaks against the skyline—it was all vividly there for me, even though I wasn’t actually seeing it. Below me, the once unsightly ‘Serges’s hole’ was finally beginning to resemble something that visitors might perceive to be the shell of a swimming pool. Slowly the dream of the perfect peaceful home where I could work and practise piano was becoming a reality.
I was still positively glowing with a feeling of well-being as I climbed the stairs on my way to bed. Then the phone rang. Funny, I thought. It’s late. Who could be calling at this time?
“Allô ,” I said.
It had been one of the first things I’d truly mastered in French—answering the phone with an ‘allo’ rather than a ‘hello’.
“Hello, is that Tony?” came the voice at the end of the line.
It sounded familiar. It was female, English, but I couldn’t quite identify it.
“Yes, it’s Tony,” I replied. “Who’s that?”
“Well—it’s been a while…Don’t you recognise my voice?”
“I do, yes.”
“Well—who am I then?”
“You need to say some more—I’m nearly there.”
“I’ll give you a clue—I’m not Cherie Blair or Gwyneth Paltrow.”
“Shit! Wait, it can’t be…is that you—Fi? Fiona?”
“Well done. How are you?”
My mind was racing. This was Fiona. Fiona for whom I’d written a song thirteen years previously. Fi, who I’d told Tim and Matt about in the long drive down through France in a white van. Fiona, who’d nearly gone out with me but who had chosen a life in Ibiza with someon
e else instead. Fi, who I’d fallen in love with.
“I’m…I’m fine, I think. I’m just a bit thrown by hearing from you out of the blue. How did you get this number?”
“From your answerphone in London.”
“Oh yes, I forgot that.”
“Are you in France?”
“Yes. I’ve got a house here.”
“Do you live there?”
“Some of the time. I’m coming here to write. And play the piano. And to finish building a swimming pool.”
“Cool. Where abouts?”
“In the French Pyrenees. Lovely views of the mountains.”
“Fab.”
“Where are you calling from—Ibiza?”
“No, London. Things didn’t work out with Steve. What about you? Last time we spoke you were seeing an Irish girl…”
“That didn’t work out either.”
It had never really been anything much in the first place. I remembered now that all those years ago I’d tried to give Fiona the impression that this fling with the Irish girl had been more than it actually was, in a pathetic attempt to show her that I was over her.
“Oh, that’s a shame,” she said. “That sounded like it was going well.”
“It was…for a while. Anyway, it all finished a long time ago.”
“So. Are you seeing anyone now?”
“No, I’m not. How about you?”
“No.”
There was a slight pause, and finally the conversation began to move on to what we had both been up to in the thirteen years since our lives had drifted apart. Before that could happen we’d been like teenagers, establishing, not altogether subtly, whether each other was single or not. Only now could we chat like adults.
And how we talked. We had always made each other laugh and we certainly hadn’t lost the knack. The conversation flowed so easily. It seemed like thirteen years had just evaporated. I felt exactly as I’d done all those years ago whenever I spoke to Fi. Energised, animated, excited. The only difference was that I had a few grey hairs that she didn’t know about.
“I’m so glad you called, Fi,” I said as the conversation finally drew to a close. “I’ll call you in a few days.”
