by Chris Dolley
And if anything the man was worse. He was a lisping version of his mother, adding a liberal sprinkling of Spanish ’th’ sounds.
But this was the campagne. What did we expect? If we’d been a French couple knocking on a Devon farmhouse we’d have probably been as lost, meeting a stream of broad Devonian.
I began to suspect that we might not be listening to French or Spanish at all, but one of those ancient Pyrenean languages I’d read about – Occitan, Catalan or some such mixture of old French and Spanish.
But then I started to grasp the odd word – as the woman slowed her speech down and unrolled the occasional ’r’.
Her name was Claudine and Roger was her son. Not the most earth-shattering of revelations, but after ten minutes of total confusion, it was as precious to us as the Rosetta stone. We were beginning to understand.
We then embarked on an attempt to ask them if they could tell us where the nearest telephone was. An ambitious enterprise but we were desperate.
After a considerable effort and many blank looks we succeeded.
“Là,” said Claudine, pointing over our shoulders.
We turned as one and looked at the very distinctive glass booth with the word téléphone prominently displayed. It was ten feet away. Ah, that telephone kiosk. I declined to ask if there was one closer. Nous sommes Anglais, after all.
oOo
But we had found a telephone, and from that moment, time shifted into overdrive. I rang up Jan, arranged to borrow her car, fixed a time for the kitten to be picked up, the horse transported, everything. I declined to give too many details about our journey down, as no one could possibly carry enough change in their pocket to do the story justice over a pay phone.
“I will tell you later,” I concluded.
The day continued at the same pace. We stocked up with plugs and fresh food, a couple of 13kg bottles of Butagaz. We priced cookers and telephones and collected free papers for their car adverts.
Which was our next priority – we had to have a car of our own.
Cars, Cartes and Campagne
I thought buying a car would be easy, so I drove off to buy a car while Shelagh carried on with the unpacking and plug changing.
I found three local car dealers all relatively close to each other and toured the rows of second-hand cars. Most were outside of our budget. But that was what I’d expected. We’d set our sights on something cheap and basic – we didn’t expect to do much driving and just wanted something that transported us from A to B and didn’t cost too much to run.
By the third garage, I was wondering if I was going to have to increase our 20,000 Fr budget. Then I saw the old Citroen DS. I’d had one as a child – as a toy, that is – and had always been fascinated by its strange aerodynamic shape. It had been so unlike all the other cars of its time.
I walked over and had a closer look at it. It still exuded a plush elegance, but this model must have been well over twenty-five years old. I thought about it, weighing up all the pros and cons. The 4,000 Franc price tag was the biggest pro. Explaining to Shelagh why I’d bought a vintage saloon, was the lead-weighted con.
She had said, “I don’t mind what it’s like, as long as it’s not red.” But had she really meant it? If I returned home with a silver antique, would its colour be enough?
“You bought what?” was the reply my mind encountered the most as I played through the various scenarios. After the eight bedrooms and the five toilets, I didn’t think I could quite carry off the vintage Citroen as well. No matter how cheap.
So I reluctantly said goodbye to a childhood memory and strolled on to the next row of cars. More Citroens. But still within budget and far more modern. This was more hopeful. Except for the one very noticeable drawback – they were all red.
I replayed another set of scenarios. “You bought what?” was still very much in evidence, but less so if I played the ‘it was either this or the vintage saloon’ card.
And we had to have a car. Even a red one.
But there was another problem – the one which looked the best deal did not have local number plates. Which meant I’d have to change them. In France, number plates were issued by département. This one had a sixty-five number – Haute Pyrenees. I’d need a thirty-one – Haute Garonne. According to my Living in France bible, that would mean an extra trip to the Préfecture and a new number plate to buy and register. Would it be expensive?
No, said the garage. Neither would it be a problem, they did it all the time, and if we wanted they’d do all the paperwork for us – the carte grise, the number plates, the lot. We wouldn’t have to set one English foot inside the Préfecture. Which sounded brilliant. And a useful card to add to ‘it was either this or the vintage saloon.’
The next day, we returned complete with 15,000 francs in cash and all the papers we possessed – passports, birth and marriage certificates, the lot. We’d heard about French bureaucracy and came prepared.
It went very well, we were succeeding in making ourselves understood, we had all the documents they asked for. And we had cash – which seemed to please them the most.
Then they produced the car’s papers. The contrôle technique (certificate of roadworthiness), the old carte grise (log book) and the bill of sale. Everything was there – except a current tax disc. But that wouldn’t be a problem, they told us. All they needed was a passport from us and they’d handle the rest. They’d go to the Sous-Préfecture at St. Gaudens, have the number plates changed, the car re-registered and taxed by next week.
Next week? What would we do for transport in the meantime?
No problem, they said – I liked this garage – you can drive it away now. They even had a special form for just such an occasion. I looked at the form. I’d never heard of it. Could my Living in France bible be out of date?
I tried to ask for more details, but the more they explained, the more it seemed akin to a Monopoly ‘Get out of jail free’ card. Had I heard it correctly? If stopped by the police, show them this paper – it grants you fourteen days to obtain the correct documents. Excellent! I’ll take two.
So we drove away in our new car. Well, I drove and Shelagh returned Jan’s car. And as I pulled away from the garage, I couldn’t help thinking how easy it had been. I’d read so many horror stories about buying cars in France – the interminable hours spent queuing for the right papers only to be sent somewhere else. Hadn’t they heard of the ‘Get out of jail free’ card? Perhaps I should pen a letter to French Property News.
Little did I know what the future had in store.
But I should have.
The first inkling trickled forth two hours later when we stopped at a small garage for petrol. It wasn’t self-service but I had all my, ’fill it up,’ and, ’a hundred francs worth, please,’ phrases memorised and to hand, and was feeling confident. That is until I tried to unlock the petrol cap. The key I’d been given didn’t fit. I tried the other keys – the ignition, the boot key. Nothing. The petrol cap wasn’t moving.
If ever someone looked as though they’d just pulled into a garage in a stolen car, it was me.
And then my French deserted me. I could almost hear the, ’we’re off!’ as all the verbs and nouns ran for cover. Shelagh took one look at the situation and wound up her window. She was a hitch-hiker and had never seen me before in her life.
I was alone on the forecourt with a confused petrol pump attendant and a non-functioning key.
“Er ... nous sommes Anglais,” I ventured after a while, added a few shrugs, opened my mouth again in case a stray noun or two had stayed behind. Then I pointed to the road. “Je suis er ... off.”
Then I left. Swiftly. Another garage added to the list of places I could never return to.
The next problem was could we reach the car dealer before we ran out of petrol? Naturally this was but a smokescreen. The real question we should have been asking ourselves was ’would the garage close for a half day five minutes after we’d bought the car?’
> The answer was, of course, yes.
We left the deserted showroom and drove home with eyes fixed firmly on the petrol gauge. It was on red but what did that mean? A gallon? Two? And how accurate would the gauge be?
The next day we returned to the garage. The car, however, had other ideas. Perhaps it was colder than I thought or I pushed the choke in too quickly, but whatever the reason the engine kept cutting out.
I dreaded the possibility that we were running out of petrol. The gauge was on red but not by much. Surely there was enough to get us to the garage?
After a while the car started to behave itself. Perhaps it was just the cold after all. Shelagh wondered if we should mention it to the garage but neither of us had the words and we didn’t want to confuse the situation further. We needed a key to the petrol tank. The rest could wait.
At the garage we quickly went into our prepared speech. Petrol cap had turned into quite a mouthful. According to our dictionary it was a bouchon de réservoir d’essence.
“Je ne peux pas ouvrir le bouchon de réservoir d’essence. Le clé ne pas fonctionner.” It was probably my largest speech ever in a foreign language and delivered without a pause for breath. The sales manager looked baffled. Whether by my accent or the fact that the petrol cap wouldn’t open, I wasn’t sure. I thrust my sheet of paper at him and pointed to my lines, adding a few key-turning finger twists to augment the words.
He still looked baffled.
“How is it possible?” he asked in French to no one in particular, as he stared at our key ring.
I could have told him. I expect one of my ancestors chartered the Marie Celeste.
A collection of different keys were collected from drawers and hooks and we joined the deputation marching out to our car. One by one each key was tried, accompanied by mumbled French words of astonishment as each key failed.
And then one key succeeded and smiles replaced the mumbles. The keys were switched, we filled up with petrol and for a short period all was well with the world.
That is until the next day when the car died.
We had barely left home when the engine started cutting out. I played with the choke and managed to revive it a few times but it seemed to be getting worse. We had been gradually acclimatising to the car’s quirks, we recognised that if the engine revs dropped appreciably any time in the first five minutes of a journey, the engine would cut out. But then it had been a simple matter of pulling the choke out and restarting the engine. It worked every time. Until now.
And we were in the middle of nowhere.
Well, not exactly the middle of nowhere, as that’s where our house was. More accurately, we were halfway from the middle of nowhere – a far worse place.
“I knew we should have told the garage yesterday,” said Shelagh.
You can always count on your passenger for helpful advice at times of stress.
“I thought we agreed not to mention it to them.”
“You agreed.”
“And what would we have said? It took us half an hour and a dictionary to come up with the petrol cap key doesn’t work.”
I thought my logic was unassailable but the conversation deteriorated from that point into a series of, “who bought the stupid car?”, “I never wanted to come to France,” and “I told you not to buy a red one.” No wall of logic could withstand that kind of assault.
I tried the engine again. Nothing. I pushed the choke in, I pulled the choke out. Nothing.
I looked at the scenery. Hoping to find an unexpected garage hiding behind the wall of greenery that spread from horizon to horizon.
“Lovely view,” I said before I could stop myself.
“Try the engine again,” came the terse reply.
Nothing happened.
We were stuck in the depths of rural France and ... I could see large buzzards circling above our car.
After another round of helpful suggestions from my passenger, I countered with a “You try!”
“All right, I will.”
We exchanged seats. I cast a nervous eye skyward as I walked around to the passenger side. I was sure there were only three buzzards the last time I’d counted.
Shelagh tried the same variations of turns, clicks, pulls and pushes. Was that a hint of life? The engine turned. We were saved! A frustrated squawk came from above. It would have to be mouse for dinner again.
We made it as far as the next junction before the car stalled once more. But we were making progress. We were nearly three quarters from the middle of nowhere.
Fifteen minutes later and several stop-starts, we limped into Tournas. It was only a small village but it was like Rome to us. Civilisation! It had a shop. It had people. It had a phone box.
We parked. The car was good at that.
And it was then that a possible answer to our car’s performance presented itself. An answer that had been waiting for all the panic to die down. Perhaps we’d flooded the engine? Which would explain why it suddenly stopped working with the choke out. And why it suddenly started again after a pause.
It didn’t explain everything. It didn’t explain the engine’s predilection for cutting out whenever the revs dropped. But it did explain our inability to restart it.
Perhaps there was something wrong with the idle speed that caused the car to stall? Perhaps it was time to take it back to the garage?
We decided to postpone our trip to the supermarket and return home for the dictionary. But first we’d stock up with food at the village shop. Just in case the car broke down again and we needed to feed the buzzards.
From that point the car behaved itself perfectly. I am convinced it heard us mention the word ’garage’. The word ’vet’ has a similar effect on dogs. One mention and all symptoms of illness miraculously disappear. What me? Sick? Never!
Stocked up with a new page of hastily scribbled phrases pertaining to idle speeds, chokes and errant engines, we returned to the garage.
I had my phrase, “I bought a Citroen Ax here on Tuesday,” handy in case they wondered who I was. But it wasn’t necessary. They remembered. And, “pas de problème,” they’d have a mechanic check our engine for us.
Which was when we noticed that our car bonnet didn’t have an arm to prop it open. The mechanic was totally confused. He looked all over. I felt like turning out my pockets to prove I hadn’t taken it. In the end he grabbed a piece of wood to prop the hood up.
I was told to sit inside and depress the accelerator every now and then, so the mechanic could hear the engine turning over. He made some adjustments, listened some more, adjusted some more and then with a, “bon,” that was it. Car fixed. We could say goodbye to the garage.
That is until a week later when we returned for the car documents. They were desolated. “Je suis désolée,” the manager repeated. A computer error – what else – had prevented them from getting a particular form from the Haute Pyrenees Préfecture. Apparently they needed a Certificat de Situation to prove the car had no outstanding hire purchase agreements. I’d never heard of that one. Luckily we still had seven days on our ‘Get out of jail free’ card.
We agreed to return in a couple of days time. And again a few days after that. More computer errors, more reassurances. On the last day of our ‘Get out of jail free’ card, we pulled up at the garage in a desperate frame of mind. No broken computers or papers in the post were going to deflect us.
“Pas de problème,” said the manager and handed us another ‘Get out of jail free’ card. He’d copied the details across from the old one, except that he’d advanced the date of purchase by two weeks.
Ah. This did not look exactly legal. I’d had my doubts about the old ‘Get out of jail free’ card, but at least the information it carried had been accurate.
“Don’t worry,” we were assured. Another few days and he’d have all the car’s papers. It was easy, he added. They did it all the time.
Two days later, I’m flagged down at a police roadblock. No tax disc, no document
s and a forged ‘Get out of jail free’ card.
I had been on my way to Samatan market. A trip I didn’t have to make but one I’d thought would be fun. Our neighbour, Claudine, had recommended it – it’s good to have someone else to blame. She’d said it was the largest local market by far and something not to be missed. It was held every Monday and attracted huge crowds.
No one said anything about police roadblocks.
oOo
It had all started when we dropped in at Claudine’s for hay and straw … and came home with four pints of milk. Nothing to do with our inability to speak French this time but the unfailing generosity of our neighbours.
We arrived at dusk to a deserted farmyard. Deserted, that is, except for four lounging dogs lying by the gate. Eventually, the smallest and most alert of the four guard dogs noticed our intrusion and raised the alarm. The largest dog, the redoubtable gardien de vache, opened a solitary eye, cast an appraising look in our direction, sniffed and went back to sleep. Not worth the bother.
Claudine appeared in the doorway of an old stone building at the side of the yard and beckoned us in. We’d arrived in the middle of milking.
As we stepped through into the light we wondered what we’d find. French farmers were generally vilified, depending on which section of the English press you read, as either inefficient and subsidy-ridden or barbaric animal torturers who loved nothing better than to import cuddly English calves and lock them up in veal crates. As usual, the truth was somewhat different.
There were twenty cows of assorted breeds, colours and ages. Including three very young calves, who, far from being housed in veal crates, were still suckling from their mothers.
This was not modern industrial farming. No gleaming stainless steel vat or state-of-the-art milking parlour. No vast homogenous herd, economies of scale or labour-saving devices. This was a small family farm as small family farms used to be. When all animals had names and labour was long, hard and mostly manual. The only hint of technology I could see was a small portable milking cluster which Roger was carrying from cow to cow.
