A Chateau of One's Own

by Sam Juneau

  ‘I can’t stand that Hercule is taking off Fridays while the boys work so hard,’ Bud said one evening.

  ‘I know. I don’t know what to do.’ ‘Well, we need to set him straight. He has to work like the others or he’s out of here.’

  ‘I will try to talk to him. It’s awkward, though.’

  ‘I know, but we’re paying him five hundred euros a week. That’s a ton of money.’

  She was right. Hercule made almost double what the four boys made put together. Of course, we paid for the boys’ food as part of the agreement. It had seemed like a good deal at the time. However, the boys’ feeding costs seemed to be about double the mortgage for each month they were with us. No one told me that teenage boys consume their weight in food every day. But we did enjoy having them greatly and they brought life and passion to the once moribund property. The work they did would set the property on a good course for years to come.

  I caught up with Hercule one day on his two-hour lunch break.

  ‘Hercule, we have to talk. Bud and I are a little concerned about your work schedule.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘We feel the Fridays off just aren’t working for us.’

  ‘You know the work week in France is thirty-five hours?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s the official line. We are giving you a place to live for free and you’re your own boss for most of the day.’ I was truly uncomfortable talking to Hercule about this. I didn’t want to be argumentative or alienate our self-styled maître de maison.

  ‘Yes, that is true, but I am working forty to forty-five hours a week.’

  I couldn’t really argue with this unless I pointed out that the boys were doing most of the work and he was doing most of the supervising. When we hired the gardener we hadn’t expected to be offering early retirement. I think this is how Hercule saw the gig. How could I denigrate his work ethic and two-hour lunches without completely offending him? It was clear, I was an inexperienced lord of the manor.

  It’s surprisingly hard to be the boss, to be responsible for a grand estate. I realise there won’t be much sympathy for someone in my position. But the chateau and the boys and the gardener and a couple of cleaning ladies we hired from the local town, along with the worries, the renovation, the anxieties about the business, the baby, the coming baby – all this did bear down on us.

  In the heyday of the chateau, in the late 1800s, the owners, the Nepveu family, would have had about 15 to 20 full-time workers. Stable boys, gardeners, groundskeepers, foresters, nannies, cooks, groomsmen, carriage drivers, maids and a head butler would have all lived on the property working every day from dawn til dusk. The housebound workers would have lived on the second floor, in the chambres de bonnes or domestiques quarters while the rougher outdoors lads would have stayed in the outbuildings. All worked tirelessly to make the estate work. Most vegetables and fruits and livestock would be raised by the estate to feed this small army of servants. The main difference between the Nepveus and the Juneaus was a matter of means.

  At the time, the Nepveus lived in a largely agrarian world with over a thousand acres of land. The land would generate income and provide a reasonably lavish life. The Nepveus could do virtually nothing and still maintain the chateau and a lovely townhouse in Angers and Paris for the winter. Furthermore, they would pay the servants literally pennies a day, plus room and board. This life, a vestige of a feudal society, seems to have suited all parties well. The owners lived a comfortable, large life while the servants had work for life, a place to live, occasionally education for their children, health care as such and a real sense of where they fit in the world. I will not glorify the servants’ life. It must have been brutish and hard at times. But each and every man, woman and child had a place in the community, in the universe. It was simpler and more unjust at the same time.

  We didn’t have a thousand acres, but that little Guard’s House was working well for us. We had booked, in this our first full year, about 15 weeks. Grand total for all our efforts: 7,000 euros (£4,800) or so. Better than nothing. But in the scheme of things, close to nothing. Our guests seemed to be pleased. No complaints. Just the comings and goings of happy holidaymakers enjoying their few weeks in the sun.

  As the summer wound down, Hercule continued his crafty work schedule and I failed to correct him. The boys took a few weekends away from the chateau and met an occasional girl along the way. When the team was gone, the chateau was quiet and lovely too. I continued to work alongside them when time permitted. Some days I thought of myself as a latter-day Levin from Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. Like Tolstoy, Levin, one of my favourite characters in all literature, would work in the fields with the peasants in a romantic, honest attempt to get back to basics, to feel and smell and work the land. As we worked in the hot midday sun, I often thought of one particular passage:

  In the very heat of the day the mowing did not seem such hard work to him. The perspiration with which he was drenched cooled him, while the sun, that burned his back, his head, and his arms, bare to the elbow, gave a vigour and dogged energy to his labour; and more and more often now came those moments of unconsciousness, when it was possible not to think of what one was doing. The scythe cut of itself. These were happy moments… as though by magic, without thinking of it, the work turned out regular and well-finished of itself. These were the most blissful moments.

  Indeed, these were the most blissful moments. I can’t honestly say that we were ever really unconscious of what we had undertaken, but there were times when all was right with us and the chateau. The work never seemed to end but on some days, this was fine with us. Most of the work with the boys focused on the outside of the chateau: shifting what seemed like tons of stones from long-abandoned projects; trimming hedges; mowing the lawn; rearranging the hundred or so doors and shutters in the outbuildings; and other things that made the property seem more manageable. Inside the house, we knocked down walls that were not part of the original structure, scraped more wallpaper in a seemingly endless task to find the plaster, and moved furniture from one end of the house to other trying to find the right fit for each room. At times the tasks were mundane and tedious. Then there were moments when everything seemed to come together and we witnessed the appearance of progress. From time to time, after a long day’s work, we looked back and said yes, this was a good day.

  One day, I happened upon Hercule at the end of his ritualistic French lunch.

  ‘Hercule, do you have a moment?’ ‘Sure, what’s going on?’ So, this was it. The hard decision. Bud and I had argued about Hercule’s status on the property. As we received more devis, we realised the mountain of costs and work ahead of us. Hercule did play a part in ordering the property and the boys had carried out his plans well, but we simply couldn’t afford him… or his ways.

  ‘I wanted to let you know we are thankful for all your hard work and advice. But as things move along, our costs and our worries are mounting. I have to give you notice. We will help in any way we can, with recommendations. But I have to give you your two weeks’.’

  Hercule turned red. ‘What do you mean? We had an agreement.’

  ‘We did. And we agreed to three months. We are now in the fourth month. Like I said, we will pay you for the coming weeks while you sort out a new situation.’ So painful.

  ‘Why don’t you stagger the work so you won’t have as many expenses. Do some rooms now, wait on others. Open with fewer rooms.’

  I was a bit taken aback at Hercule’s advice. I felt awkward receiving business insight from our gardener. He wasn’t entirely wrong. But then again, this was about more than money. It was about Hercule’s self-realised retirement, long lunches and love of whisky.

  ‘We’ve thought about that,’ I managed. ‘But we are pushing ahead with the original plan to open in the coming spring with seven rooms. It’s the only way we can make it.’

  ‘I can’t believe you bought this chateau with no money,’ he added. If only he knew how little mone
y we had. This would be something we encountered in the coming months – every workman and visitor and supplier and friend would take one look at the castle and assume we were very wealthy people. It is not an illogical assumption, but in our case, entirely false.

  ‘I’m sorry to say, we are already very tight. I hope you understand. And again, thank you for all your hard work.’

  I had never fired anyone in my life and didn’t like the smell of it. It appears I would make a terrible CEO or lord of the manor. Hercule was our first casualty. He took it well, though. He slunk off to his room to lick his wounds. I slunk off likewise to Bud and related the story. She was pleased. I felt a little depressed.

  The next day, Didier turned up, with his devis. Bud and I quickly seated ourselves with the man himself in the library. We braced ourselves for the worst. In the time since his visit, we had gathered devis from a few other painters. The verdict was poor: one came in at 57,000 euros (£40,000), the second failed to turn in an estimate and the third was a respectable 37,000 euros (£26,000). Just painting, mind you. We had received another estimate for all the exterior windows: 12,000 euros (£8,300). That seemed fair. This would include sanding, recaulking, fixing broken panes and three coats of paint. We had no idea what things should or would cost, but this seemed, on an instinctual level, to make sense. That’s all we had; instinct.

  ‘This is the best price I can do,’ Didier began as he pulled a sheaf of papers from a thick brown envelope. ‘And I can begin in September, maybe late August.’

  We greedily took the papers and awaited our fate. Bud’s eyes lit up. She handed me the document. I searched almost frantically for the grand total.

  ‘We will have to make some adjustments but this is pretty accurate. Maybe there are things I forget but this is good.’

  I was almost shaking, with relief. 25,000 euros (£17,000) with an estimate of six months. Brilliant. Bud and I had to restrain ourselves from embracing him and begging him to move in with us.

  ‘This looks fair,’ I stammered. Bud and Didier spoke haltingly of what exactly the devis included. It was fairly comprehensive: one servants’ staircase, 11 rooms, including large bedrooms and bathrooms, and two long first-floor corridors. We figured there was about 6,000 square feet in the devis and it would take him six months. The chateau would be ready just in time for next season. We were fit to burst with joy.

  Being novices, we failed to negotiate or talk him down. The fees made sense and we were happy to book him. We signed straight away and paid one-third up front. Mocques the plumber would be coming later in the autumn. Everything was finally falling into place.

  There was one last bit of business. Even though I had quit my job in New York earlier in the year, my company continued to pay me for accrued holidays and other such things through the early summer. With this bit of documentation and ersatz income, I met with our local bank manager to request a remortgage with an additional 50,000 euros (£34,000) for travaux, or works. We could already surmise that with the incoming devis, the cost of Hercule and the boys, bundled with another full year before we were off the ground, we would need this extra money. One year into the project and we were already running out. The loan went through at a lower interest rate than we had been paying. Our new mortgage: 2,500 euros (£1,700) a month, the same amount we had been paying but with a much needed 50 grand in the bank. For 25 years. Not bad for a chateau, but a painful burden with little or no income for the next year.

  By late August of our first full summer at the chateau, Andrew and Richard had gone back to Ireland. Hercule packed his things quietly and discreetly while John and Tom remained for the last weeks of their school holiday. As the summer faded and the guests dwindled to a few late holidaying souls, John’s sixteenth birthday arrived without notice.

  ‘We were wondering if you wanted to go into town for a drink. It’s John’s birthday today,’ Tom said.

  ‘Sure, let me check with Bud and make sure she’s OK. You know, it’s always good to get planning permission for a night out,’ I said.

  The chateau was in good order and Bud thought it would be a nice idea for me to go out with the boys. Around seven that evening, the boys put on their best jeans and clean, beloved sports shirts showing off the latest line from Kilkenny’s hurlers. They spent time pomading their black mops of hair, and then after dinner we piled into the old red van and started off to Angers, our nearest large town of around 300,000 people.

  Conversation was modestly stilted on the road but we all anticipated a nice, relaxing night out with a few cold beers. In half an hour, we arrived in the centre of Angers and parked the dying truck near the hub of bar activity. In no time, we located an Irish bar along the ‘rue piétonne’ and sat out the front. The evening was warm but pleasant and loads of students seemed to be enjoying a cold one and watching one another keenly.

  After about three pints of Guinness, the conversation picked up.

  ‘You can’t ever tell Marion about this but there was one time we were in the bar near Ballacolla back home. John was eyeing up some lad’s girl. Now this lad was a thick-necked, strong little fecker…’ The stories spun out quickly and passionately as John and Tom told me of their adventures with girls and fights and drink and all the things young men do in the countryside of Ireland. Most of the stories began with the admonition: don’t tell Marion. Marion was Bud’s good friend from home and mother of these two strapping young men. I assured the boys that everything at the table would remain between us. Pub confidentiality prevents me from relating the full details of the adventures of Tom and John. Let us just say that the conversation was lively and violent and ribald. My adolescence was never so active or risky.

  Soon I was telling stories of documentaries I had shot on dogfighting and Ultimate Fighting, the human equivalent of cockfighting where two brutal, inhumanly fit and strong men fight with no gloves and few rules save no eye-gouging, pulling hair, biting or groin kicks. The lads knew the ‘sport’ well and revelled in the details of faraway battles. A few more pints and we were eager for another bar.

  We drifted off down the street as the boys enjoyed the sight of French university girls smoking and laughing and holding forth on the square. We landed at a nearby bar and positioned ourselves out the front for optimal viewing. The boys chatted quickly and started in – with a full helping of Irish charm – on the girls at the table next to us. All was proceeding as planned on this their last night out. John, well intoxicated at this point, took it upon himself to sidle up to the bar for a closer inspection of the girls inside. Tom and I held the fort out the front and enjoyed a perfect summer evening. By 10.30, the sun still hovered low on the horizon, as we sipped and chatted and recounted the summer’s events, surrounded by the medieval Norman buildings.

  Our calm reverie was suddenly broken by a loud fracas several tables away. Tom and I turned quickly to investigate the source of commotion. Two men, Moroccans, had pushed a couple up against a wall. They were yelling and gesticulating madly. Suddenly, one of the aggressors slapped the man hard across the face while the second aggressor grabbed the woman’s arm, restraining her from helping the luckless man. Another man, seemingly part of the gang, stood watch in the middle of the street, gazing at his partners and looking up and down nervously. We took this all in within seconds. John continued his excursion in the bar chatting with unknown denizens and enjoying his Guinness.

  Tom and I automatically stood up, sensing danger and overly ready for a little action. All that chatter of bar fights and Ultimate Fighting and vigorous talking shite made us hypersensitive to an impending opportunity. Tom was obviously fight-ready. I felt fit and relatively strong after a summer working and lifting with the boys. But the truth was, I had not been in a fight since my last year in secondary school. That one turned out OK for me but was over within minutes. My normal capacity to reason was inhibited by the source of most fights: beer. As we stood up, we glanced warily at one another filled simultaneously with repulsion and excitement.


  Be careful what you ask for. Just as we stood up, rather blatantly, the three bad guys caught sight of us. The lookout man started over and stood directly in front of me while the woman-handler stood directly in front of Tom. The worst one, the hitter, decided to finish up business with his victim. The men started to yell and flail their arms. I couldn’t understand much of what they were saying. I presume it involved well-worn phrases like ‘This is none of your business, sit down’, ‘Do you want some of this?’ and other pre-scuffle warnings and beratings.

  Out of the blue, Tom’s guy squatted down and kicked him just below the knee. Without hesitation, I leaned back, balled my fist and threw my entire 190 pounds behind a punch that connected with a loud crunch against my foe’s mouth. He fell into a heap as Tom began his well-rehearsed work on an unsuspecting kicker. Out of the corner of my eye I saw only the last second of a punch coming from my left side, before I felt it hit right above my eye and I reeled backward. I think it was the original aggressor. As I stumbled back, I could see Tom standing over his charge, knee thrust down into the poor thing’s chest, Tom wailing away as his victim tried to cover his face.

  I immediately grabbed my puncher’s shirt, pulled him in close and opened up a flurry of punches directly into his surprised face. The first guy I had hit struggled to his feet, bleeding from his mouth. At that moment, John finally copped on and came running out of the bar. As soon as he reached the middle of the street, the bloody-mouthed fella stood up and cold clocked him. John fell in a bundle on the paved stones. By this time, Tom’s guy was rolling around on the ground nursing his wounds. My partner and I had managed our way across the street into an alley. I continued punching him and holding his shirt as John’s assailant rushed to the melee. This one began reaching over his associate’s shoulder, landing the odd punch while I worked away. For one brief moment, I looked down and saw my torn shirt and drops of blood on my front.