A French Escape: FRANCE CALLING, #2

By Barry A. Whittingham

When a young French schoolmaster accepts an offer to spend a year teaching English in a lycée in a remote corner of Eastern France it's not just to improve his spoken French and gain a deeper insight into the workings of a foreign culture. He longs to wipe his slate clean of past failures and to escape the entrenchment into which his English life is sinking. He dreams of freedom, adventure, romance, a more authentic kind of living, and the narrowing of that gap between what he is and what he'd like to be. But his year reserves some dramatic surprises. And over his head dangles the gut-piercing threat that at any moment this fascinating new life could be brought to a premature end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barry A. Whittingham
• Release date: Jul 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9791097201104

Book preview

1

It was while he was driving round Chaumont that the first sign for Vesoul came up. There was no indication of distance. Not that it really mattered. Being of a conscientious, methodical nature he’d planned his journey in scrupulous detail ; and, even though there was more holiday traffic than he’d bargained for, he was pretty sure it wouldn’t take him much more than a couple of hours to cover the hundred and fifty kilometers he calculated were now remaining. It wasn’t as if Vesoul represented the finishing tape ; but the name rang in his head with much the same feeling of release as a bell signals to the long-distance runner that he’s entering his final lap. From there it was only thirty kilometres to Vernois where he’d be almost in sight of the end. As he drove along he was struck by the vaguely disturbing thought that his recollection of yesterday’s four hour Channel crossing was shrouded in a vaporous haze and that a strangely metamorphosed creature was now wriggling itself free of the slough of its former self.

After landing at Le Havre he ventured only a short distance beyond Compiègne. He spent his night in a small town camp site where he pitched the same modestly-sized tent that had sheltered him during last summer’s Grand Tour. Even before slipping into his sleeping bag he knew there was too much apprehensive excitement pounding within for sleep to be more than fitful. His tent was located next to a much grander affair accommodating an English family. As he was heating a pan of water on his camping stove next morning he exchanged a few words with his neighbour. The fact that a young chap like Michael was travelling alone seemed to intrigue him enough to elicit a tentative enquiry as to whether he was going on holiday or coming back. When he explained it was neither, that he was on his way to a remote corner of Eastern France where he’d be spending a year on a teacher exchange the man’s eyes had opened wide. He ended their chat with a, Well, the best of British! It was as if in his mind this young fellow countryman was embarking on an ill-considered expedition into some unmapped territory peopled with savages and outlaws and that an arrow in the back or a bullet through the brain could be the price he’d pay. But though it was not without triggering a quiver of alarm its main effect was to make him promise himself that, apart from his future lessons and telephone conversations with his parents, this would be the last time he’d be speaking English until he went home for Christmas.

He estimated the distance from the camp site to Vernois to be not much more than three hundred and fifty kilometers and reckoned that, in view of the unexpected density of the traffic, he needed at least six hours to cover it. But even before departing from England he’d planned to break camp at an early enough hour to allow him to turn off the Route Nationale at midday in search of what his imagination had pictured as an unspoilt village restaurant. He’d conceived this part of his itinerary after reading a cookery book vaunting the rich variety and unpretentious wholesomeness of French country cuisine. The prospect of putting it to the proof of the pudding had caused him some excitement. But, though the author had included photos of many of the peasant dishes, he’d left his readers to represent for themselves the type of rural establishment in which they could be savoured. Michael was confident he’d know it when he saw it. And having lunch in such a peaceful country setting would act as a foretaste of the new life that lay so deliciously ahead. Then, if he got on the road again no later than two o’clock he should have no problem reaching Vernois by four. But before driving on to Montbel he’d stop there for a short while. It would serve as a preview of his future surroundings. Yes, that was it. He’d take a brief, exploratory stroll round Vernois and then choose a shady café terrace where he could relax and refresh himself over an ice-cold beer ; and who knows, he might even come across the lycée where he’d be teaching. He wouldn’t go so far as to ask where it was. He’d told Jean-Paul not to expect him before six so he wouldn’t be pressed for time. Montbel was only a twenty minutes’ drive from Vernois and he had his exchange partner’s detailed instructions on how to get there.

He turned off the Route Nationale as planned at midday. After driving past a succession of barbed-wire enclosed fields of grazing cows and clutters of rusting agricultural machinery long since laid to rest on the rutted, unevenly-cobbled yards of run-down farm buildings he came to a sign displaying the name Saint-Pierre. It was this same village name that had induced him to pull off the main road some ten minutes before. Then it had been at the head of a list of three ; now its solitariness gave it a distinct identity leading him to think that the community it announced five kilometers ahead could be of enough consequence to harbour a restaurant of the type his imagination had furnished a tempting glimpse of. As he drove through the village his eye caught a blue-enameled, white-bordered sign affixed to the wall of a narrow, perpendicular side street. It carried the words Place de Eglise Saint-Pierre (14ème siècle) followed by an arrow ; but what caught his attention was the modest wooden pointer below indicating that, in addition to its venerable church, the village square accommodated a café-restaurant, and that those wishing to take advantage of the opportunity it offered to satisfy hunger and thirst would benefit from the homely conviviality which the words chez Odette seemed to promise.

He couldn’t quite convince himself that the establishment presented more than just the faintest resemblance to what he’d imagined he was seeking : for one thing, the paintwork of the wooden surrounds of its large, shop-like front window languished in peeling, faded testimony to the relentless onslaughts of time and weather ; and the same debilitative process had cast a sickly, yellowish hue to what had probably once been the pristine white net curtains draped behind. But the restaurant’s local reputation might be solid enough to dispense with most visible signs of culinary propriety. And somewhere the name Odette came in support. It brought up images of a sturdy peasant woman sedulously stirring the contents of a large stew pot softly simmering on a woodburning stove. And he was hungry and thirsty and conscious of being rather pressed for time. What finally made him decide in its favour was the wide, paved terrace stretching the whole length of the front. It seemed a perfect place for his first full meal on French soil. Not only did it give diners and drinkers a commanding view of the square and the ancient church opposite but it lay partly sheltered by the arches of an old linden tree which the sun was now addressing at an almost vertical angle ; and helped by a faint breeze its broad-leafed branches patterned the terrace with a cooling, gently-swaying play of light and shade which more than compensated for the lack of human presence there.

He sat down at one of the more lightly-shaded tables. He barely had time to take in his surroundings when a woman emerged from inside. Her neat figure and dark, closely-cropped hair gave her a sprightly, juvenile air. A murmur of male voices seemed to cling to her as she came strolling up. She was wearing jeans and a plain, white T-shirt that seemed to cling to her small, trim breasts. The thought that some kind of striking, decorative imprint would have drawn more eyes brought back to mind his and Adrian’s T-shirt print of an armadillo-cum-World War One tank. His stomach suddenly churned at the thought that his coming French adventure might turn out to be a ghastly mistake and that he’d foregone the opportunity of a lifetime. As she came closer he noted that her face was beginning to show a faded look and that her make-up couldn’t quite hide the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

Bonjour monsieur. Her greeting was spoken with cheery politeness. Qu’est-ce que je vous sers?

Bonjour madame. A beer please.

Bottle or draught monsieur?

Bottle please. Hardly had he answered than it occurred to him that ordering a pastis was so much what a Frenchman would have done that he was on the point of telling her he’d changed his mind. He was stopped by the thought that speaking at further length would reveal his foreign origins – though he couldn’t help reflecting that the few words he’d spoken had already given him away. Or had he been betrayed by the guarded nature of his manner ?

And I’d like to eat, if that’s possible.

Of course monsieur. I’ll bring you the menu right away.

He’d scarcely had time to look around him when she was back with the menu under her arm. The tray she was carrying bore his bottle of beer and a glass, a stainless steel knife, fork and spoon and, to his disappointment, a paper napkin. When she leaned over to set his place he noted that the veins on the back of her hands stood out like greenish worms ; and as she handed him the menu her long, ringed fingers and crimson-varnished nails seemed to exude an air of sophisticated refinement that clashed with the unpretentious nature of the jeans and tee-shirt and the timeless rurality of the tree-fringed village square. It was as if in some mysterious past she had fondled crystal glasses and silver cutlery at some palatial table. He felt a quiver of excitement at the thought of abandoning himself to her knowing caresses. It crossed his mind that she might expect him to initiate some kind of small talk – perhaps a trivial remark about the weather. In a similar situation in England it would have been the cordial thing to do. He dismissed it with scorn. A lone Frenchman of his age wouldn’t attempt to break the ice in such a mundane sort of way. He’d either put on a delicate show of gallantry or stage some kind of flirtatious play. And she might even be flattered by this tribute to her femininity. This sort of trifling was so foreign to his own serious, reserved nature that he could find nothing better to do than open the menu and pretend to peruse its contents. It was preferable to staring awkwardly ahead.

Voilà monsieur. I’ll leave you to choose.

Merci madame.

As she walked away he couldn’t resist taking a furtive look at her derrière. Her jeans were close-fitting enough to reveal a neat, apple-like roundness. It made him wonder why most English women of her age insisted on wearing loose-fitting dresses or skirts ; or when they did venture to wear slacks or jeans why they never allowed them to mould their rumps in the same titillating way.

He poured half of the bottle’s contents into his glass, took a long draught and set himself to studying the menu. Tucked behind the front cover a loose sheet announced the plat du jour. It was civet de lapin. Rabbit was something it would have been unthinkable for them to have eaten at home. He remembered as a child in Bridgeford strolling past meat market stalls hand-in-hand with his mother. She would shudder with horror at the sight of rabbits, stripped of fur and skin, dangling head downwards from hooks outside. For her a rabbit was a rodent, as repulsive as a rat. Strangely, he’d never felt the same aversion himself. Now the thought of rabbit slowly simmering with vegetables and wine seemed to be in perfect communion with the Frenchness of the world he was now in. When she came back to take his order he might even dare ask if the entrée of terrine du chef was home-made.

Was it the united effects of beer on an empty stomach, a sleepless night and an alien environment that made his thoughts wander back to his final days in England ? It wasn’t as if anything dramatic had happened during his brief sojourn in Rivermouth. But certain details must have impressed themselves on his mind. It had been planned that on the day of the removal he and grandpa would set off early for Rivermouth and, since their new abode contained just a single bedroom, sleep at Auntie Marguerite and Uncle John’s. His parents would follow the pantechnicon later in the day and supervise the moving-in. While relieved at his godmother’s confirmation that grandpa would be staying with them until he left for France he was dismayed when she’d announced they’d be sharing Ted’s double bed. Ted was their only son. Though now married with a family and living some distance away, he remained present enough in their hearts to be inneffaceably associated with their bungalow’s second bedroom. The distaste Michael felt at the prospect of sharing such a confined space with an old man – even though limited to a single night – seemed irrational and unmerited enough for him to grope at some kind of expiatory justification. He found himself agreeing with his dad. Being of a family of miners his father had kept racing pigeons in his youth ; and having frequently observed that, as far as the narrowness of their loft would allow, young birds seemed to hold themselves determinedly aloof from the old, he’d concluded that a similar code applied to the world of humans. Michael’s shame was also attenuated by the thought that his repugnance was not due solely to the prospect of spending the night within touching distance of a decrepit old man but to this old man being an inveterate snorer : for back in Bridgeford, whenever he’d had to get up during the night, he was horrified by the sonorous raspings emanating from within his grandpa’s bedroom. And that night, soon after they retired to bed, his worst forebodings were confirmed. Though Michael’s loudly-spoken remonstrances were reinforced by vigorous pokes in the ribs they only served to produce a grunt and not much more than a few minutes’ silence. Finally he could stand it no longer and retreated to the limited comfort but immeasurable tranquillity of the living room couch.

The removal to their new home in Riverside was accomplished without any real hitch, and during the two weeks remaining before his departure for France his parents’ wondrous delight at such a miraculous acquisition along with the absence of grandpa brought an unaccustomed atmosphere of peace. His mother’s efforts were concentrated on positioning furniture, fittings, carpets and diverse ornaments to the best possible effect. She set a bed up for Michael in the small dining room with repeated assurances that this was a only a temporary measure and that their first priority would be to have two dormer bedrooms built into the roof. Michael and his father’s morning energies were united in establishing the beginnings of order in the garden – though the latter could occasionally be observed leaning heavily on his spade and gazing meditatively at the spot where he was planning to erect his greenhouse. Their first diggings were plagued by the close hoverings of scores of bees whose persistance was menacing enough for them to seek the cause. It lay in the form of a nest in the thinner part of the dense hawthorn hedge running down one side of the garden and which, on them peering through, afforded enough perspective of their neighbour’s back garden to reveal the presence of three or four hives.

On discovering the origins of this renegade colony his father uttered a grimly-determined : I’ll soon do ’em. Michael could only conclude that a brutal solution had already been found to what was perceived as a serious obstacle to his horticultural plans. It was no idle threat. After soaking a rag in white spirit, he placed it as near as he dare to the offending nest and set it alight. Though his father emerged totally unscathed, Michael’s dubitative observations were not distant enough to prevent one of the bees from considering him a partner in crime and pursuing him into the kitchen where it sacrificed its life in a punitive sting.

The following morning Michael and his mother had a first time chat with their bee-keeping neighbour through that part of the hedge which ran past their opposite-facing kitchen doors. While they were talking his father seemed intent on keeping a discreet, yet watchful distance at the farthest corner of the garden. Being a highly sociable woman his mother flung herself into the conversation with her usual enthusiasm ; and Michael, who hovered on its perimeter, only occasionally fluttering in, had been embarrassed when she confessed to her husband and son’s murderous confrontation with the bees. If you’d only informed me I’d have been able to transfer the swarm to one of my empty hives, he replied in a mildly reproachful voice. He spoke with an educated, middle-class accent. Michael couldn’t help thinking that someone who was less of a gentleman would not have made such a point of controlling his anger.

The rest of the time went quickly by. The weather was much warmer than in the North and this, together with a desire to share in the holiday atmosphere, induced them to spend one of their first afternoons on the beach. It was hot and crowded and they decided it would be far more pleasant simply relaxing and enjoying the sights and sounds of their new environment from the cooler, secluded privacy of their back lawn. They were systematically joined for afternoon tea by grandpa, Auntie Marguerite and Uncle John. It was as if his godparents considered these daily visits as necessary proof of their devotion to such dear, longstanding friends. But after a while he detected signs of irritation in his mother. Of course we’re extremely grateful for all they’ve done for us, but once we’ve got really settled in I hope they’ll give us a bit more breathing space, she declared one afternoon just after they’d left.

*     *     *

"I’ll have the dish of the day, please. Is the terrine du chef home-made ?" Michael enquired as she stood by him, pencil poised. He now felt more emboldened.

"Not quite monsieur, but I can certainly recommend it. We have an excellent boucher-charcutier in the village. He prepares all his own cooked meats and we have only compliments. If you like I can serve you some of his pâté en croûte which is equally good."

"No thank you. I’ll have the terrine."

Very good monsieur. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed. And what will you have to drink monsieur?

"I’ll have a pichet of your red house wine."

Though he would have expressed himself with far less inhibition had the same scene taken place in England their brief conversation brought him some satisfaction. But her insistence in adding monsieur to everything she said meant that she still wished to conceal her more deeply-grained self beneath a veneer of professional politeness. He’d already observed that, compared to his countrymen, the French usually presented a politely formal shell to strangers, and that the soft-hearted creature retracted within only risked exposure once some form of amicality had been established. Perhaps a complimentary remark about the coming terrine might bring her out. But when she came back she was carrying only the pichet of wine and a basket of bread. All he could find to say was a murmured : Merci beaucoup madame. Having finished his beer he poured himself a glass of the wine and took a sip. It was as cold as if it had been white. He knew that chilling was a common way of killing the harsh taste of cheap red wine and found himself wondering whether it had originated in a litre bottle from the local supermarket. Still, what could he expect for the price? And when all was said and done what did it matter ? It certainly wouldn’t poison him. It had the merit of being refreshing and making him feel even more light-headed. By the time she was back he was sipping his second glass.

It looks delicious, he said as she placed the terrine before him.

Thank you monsieur, she replied with a smile and a dart of the head. Bon appétit.

The terrine, the civet, the slice of tarte aux pommes, and the contents of the pichet were all despatched with relish. When she brought the cheeseboard he felt confident enough to ask whether he was addressing the Odette of the restaurant name.

Oh no, she replied with a laugh. "I’m her niece. She and my uncle ran a small farm but he was blown to bits at the beginning of the Grande Guerre. They never managed to find his body. They’d only been married for a few weeks. As they had no children she sold up and used the proceeds to start the café-restaurant. She gained quite a reputation for her cooking and used to feed and shelter resistance fighters and even shot-down English and American pilots during the Second World War. The Bosch never suspected. She’s something of a village legend today."

What’s the population of the village? he enquired. She’d now dropped the ‘monsieur’ and seemed to welcome the opportunity to talk. He felt a surge of satisfaction at having managed to draw her out.

Oh, around three hundred. It used to be a tightly-knit farming community and we were the only place in the village where the locals could meet over a drink and a bite to eat. In those days we did as many as thirty meals a day during the week. But things have changed. Now the youngsters find farmwork too much hard work for too little reward. They prefer to work in Crotenay. It’s a small town ten kilometers from here. They’ve built a plastic injection factory there. It’s got a canteen and people stay there for lunch. Now, during the winter months we close the restaurant. What keeps it going in summer, especially at weekends, is the tourist trade. I don’t know why but today’s an exception. You’re probably the only tourist we’ll have. You’re Dutch, I think ?

Even though he felt disappointed that she’d recognized him as a foreigner – and this probably from the start – he had to admit it was inevitable. At least she hadn’t identified him as being English.

No, Actually I’m English. He said it almost apologetically, without really knowing why.

Really. Most of our foreign customers are Dutch with the occasional German. Your French is very good. We get English tourists here now and again but they rarely make much effort to speak our language. And I’ve only got my school English. So we never have what you could call a real conversation.

He wondered whether her compliment on his French was sincere or whether it was more a question of saying what she thought would please him. Perhaps the answer lay between the two. He’d been on the point of adding that he was a French schoolmaster but thought better of it. A teacher of French should speak the language better than he did.

Would you like a coffee ? It will give me great pleasure to offer it to you.

He readily accepted and even contemplated ordering a cognac to go with it. In view of what he’d already drunk and the two hour drive that lay ahead it would have been unreasonable. But, above all, he didn’t want to appear so indelicate as to give her the impression he was placing her in a position where she might feel obliged to offer him the pousse-café, too.

Though he enjoyed the meal it was their warm exchange that gave him the greatest pleasure. It was even a triumph. But the elation he felt on resuming his journey gradually gave way to niggling considerations which he tried to dismiss as a natural reaction to his impending encounter with the unknown. It was meeting Jean-Paul that worried him the most. Wasn’t it of the utmost importance that they got on well right from the start ? He couldn’t help sketching a mental image of the man. They’d exchanged three letters in all. Though none of them made the slightest reference to their physical appearance, he’d imagined a tall, aimiable-looking man with dark, crew-cut hair beaming at him from behind a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and a bushy, Georges Brassens moustache. He also realized that his exchange partner had formed a mental picture of him. He was, however, aware that his and Jean-Paul’s portraits were based on nothing more solid than the vagaries of fancy and that, as experience had already taught him with regard to both people and places, their encounter would probably prove them to be wide of the mark.

It was certainly the result of Jean-Paul’s unflattering description that the town of Vernois was far less the object of apprehensive conjecture : for the nearer he came the more he found himself thinking it would present little difference to the unremarkable little towns he’d already driven through. It was not the same with Montbel. Somewhere, Jean-Paul’s brief presentation of the village as being a remote farming community of only a hundred inhabitants had seized his imagination to a point where he associated it with that bygone bucolic world of huge farmyard manure heaps and smock-clad peasants guiding ox-drawn ploughs which the black and white sketches of his first school year French textbook had so charmingly portrayed. An incident brought it sharply home that such a retrospective comparison might be too picturesque a portrayal of present-day reality.

As he was driving through a small village just before Vernois the sight of a filling station reminded him that he was getting low on petrol. He was served by a pump attendant who, after delivering the requested amount of fuel produced three or four loud sniffs before announcing that he could detect a strong smell of burning. In his professional opinion this was a sign that his car was in urgent need of an oil change. As Michael had had his Mini thoroughly serviced just before leaving England his suspicions were aroused. His reaction had been to stare the man hard in the face and to dismiss all thoughts of giving him a tip. It reminded him of that time when, as a young boy of eleven on his first school trip to France, a shopkeeper had tried to shortchange him. The effect was very much the same. Not only did the man’s dishonesty cause him anger but it served as a sobering reminder that for some an obvious foreigner could be considered easy meat. While he might have tried it on with a woman he would never have attempted to trick a Frenchman in this way. He was again gripped by the thought that his French adventure could turn out to be a horrible mistake. And suddenly he felt frighteningly vulnerable. Like some tiny, furry creature who, on creeping into a lush meadow of brightly-coloured, sweet-scented flowers, had suddenly caught sight of predatory wings hovering above.

2

The Grande Rue was choked with so much through traffic that his progress was punctuated by a succession of stops and starts. Not that it displeased him. It let him have a good look around. He was agreeably surprised. All the more so as Jean-Paul’s verdict that Vernois was a dull little town (in French we call it a ‘bled’, he’d announced) had prepared him for the worst. Admittedly, this ‘hole’ seemed to be nothing more than a long, unbending street; but the cloudless blue sky, the fluttering buntings, the parasol-shaded terraces and strolling, summer-clad shoppers provided a backcloth of movement and colour to which the lively strains of piped music drifting in through his open windows added a merry, carnival-like air.

The main street ended in a roundabout which he used to double back. After parking his car down a side street he began his stroll. It again occurred to him that he might come across the lycée where he’d be teaching. On reflection he decided that it was unlikely. Schools were always located at some distance from town centres. He might spot a sign with Montbel on it. That again was unlikely. Wasn’t it too retired a village for its presence to be brought to public notice before you were almost there? It was baking hot and he hadn’t been walking long before beads of sweat began trickling down his brow. His thoughts focused on the the ice-cold beer. As he was driving down the main street one of his stops had been before what appeared to be the town’s grandest café. Its terrace offered an inviting expanse of wicker, parasol-shaded tables and matching cushioned chairs. And he was struck by the surrounding planters of bright red and white pelargoniums reposing on wrought-iron stands. They seemed to set out the limits of some peaceful backwater from where he could contemplate at leisure the passing flow of life. So, when he came to the café he decided to abridge his stroll. Before going in, he paused to consult the price list displayed at the entrance. Not that he wasn’t prepared to pay a little more for this deliciously shaded comfort. But knowing the price of his beer would arm him against the trickery his encounter with the petrol pump attendant had proved a foreigner was exposed to.

There was a vacant table next to one around which two teenage couples were sitting. As he sat down the two girls giggled loudly. For a moment he thought he was the object of their mirth. There might be an odd-looking foreignness about him that had caught their attention. They hadn’t even noticed him. He cocked an ear to their chatter but could only make out the occasional word. They were speaking quickly. They probably had a strong local accent. And they were certainly using a good dose of school slang. One of the girls was remarkably pretty. Pretty enough for there to be some amorous rivalry between the two boys. He could detect nothing in their demeanour to suggest this was so. This apparently platonic comradeship would have been inconceivable between English teenagers. He might be wrong. He’d never seen English youth showing so much boisterous exuberance. Their high spirits seemed to belie Jean-Paul’s declaration that his pupils were undemonstrative country youngsters. They were probably in the same class at school. They could even be his future students.

The waiter came striding up. He held a silver tray before him. A white serviette was folded over his arm. His black trousers, black waistcoat, white frilled shirt and black bow tie gave him an air of sober, uniformed chic. His dark, sleeked-back hair glinted glossily in the sun. As he ordered a vague feeling of intimidation made his voice quiver. His hands trembled slightly. He wondered if it had been noticed. Why did he feel in an alien world? It wasn’t as if he was a stranger to France. As part of his French course he’d spent a year at a French university. It had been to improve their spoken language skills and give them a first-hand insight into the mysteries of French life. It was a wretched time. He’d made little progress in the language and he’d barely scratched the surface of student life. Some of the blame lay with his home university. Why had they arranged for the four of them to share the same flat? Perhaps there was a lack of student accommodation. How could they have been expected to converse together in anything but their native language? It had also been his own immaturity and retiring, timid nature that had made him fearful of reaching out to others. And then there was his room mate. Though back at home they’d got on well, their friendship couldn’t withstand the stifling intimacy that living in each other’s pockets imposed. At times they’d nearly come to blows. He’d even threatened to throw him out of the window. A wasted year. He couldn’t wait for it to end. It was a thorn still lodged deeply in his flesh. And last year’s Grand Tour had done little to ease the pain. This exchange year was that second chance he’d dreamed of. This time he would not let it slip away.

The waiter set his glass and bottle down on the table followed by the receipt. A discreet glance told him the price was correct. He’d already prepared a note. It wasn’t so much the English habit of paying right away. Waiting until he was ready to leave would have meant calling the waiter. Now he’d be free to go whenever he chose. With a deferentially-spoken Merci monsieur the waiter gave the receipt a short tear before giving him his change. He could detect no scorn. It deserved a small tip. After downing a long draught he took out his map of the Haute-Saône and the letter with Jean-Paul’s instructions. He didn’t really know why. He knew them by heart.

Just before you arrive in Vernois you’ll come to a roundabout. Take the second exit and follow the sign for Vuillard-les-Etangs. It’s a small village (though bigger than Montbel!) about five kilometers away. The road is straight and quite wide. In the village centre there’s a baker’s shop on your left and opposite you’ll see a sign pointing right to Montbel. It’s fixed to a house wall but you can’t miss it! Montbel is ten kilometers from Vuillard. Normally it takes only fifteen minutes but I advise you to drive carefully as the road is very narrow and winding, and in some places it’s in need of repair (plenty of potholes!). Usually there’s not much traffic (just the occasional tractor and the odd stray cow!). You’ll arrive directly at the Place de la Mairie, the village square. Carry straight on up the main street for two hundred metres or so and you’ll see the church on a hillock set back from the street to your right. Take the little road leading round it and you’ll come to our house which faces the far side entrance. I’ll be on the look-out for you. Bon voyage.

He would, of course, have to double back. Jean-Paul hadn’t anticipated him taking a break in Vernois. That would be no problem. He thought about ordering another beer. He decided not to. While reading through Jean-Paul’s instructions his heart had begun thumping and his brow felt clammy. It took him back to his student days. He was on his way to the examination room. He’d conscientiously revised the subject; and yet he was nagged by the fear that this moment of truth could contain something he’d not bargained for. Usually, a glass of beer put a more comfortable perspective on things. Now, it simply made him want to get it all over with as quickly as possible. Having another might double the effect. Not that he didn’t realize that his thoughts were again prompted by his anxious nature. After all, their correspondence had always been friendly. Why shouldn’t he be given the warmest of welcomes?

3

As Jean-Paul had explained, the road to Villard-les-Etangs was wide and straight. Before coming to the village he’d driven past one of the étangs he presumed it was named after. He’d taken the word to designate no more than an oversized pond and was surprised to see its proportions could rival those of a small lake. He easily spotted the sign affixed to a pitted, windowless house wall. It bore the single name ‘Montbel’. The number of kilometers was not indicated. As if it were there more as a warning that the village it pointed to was not within the measurable limits of known civilization. He couldn’t prevent his apprehension from growing as the pot-holes made their jarring presence felt. For the next two or three kilometers the narrow road snaked through a dense forest of tangled undergrowth and towering, ivy-smothered trees whose overhanging branches formed a canopy of leaves thick enough to deter all but the most resolute rays of the sun. Then, all at once, it broke out into a sunwashed country of open fields, grazing cows and small roadside farmsteads. He was seized by a strange feeling of deliverance: as if a fairy’s wand had suddenly waved into glorious, coloured life the black and white sketches of the bygone rural idyll that had so often set him dreaming as a young schoolboy.

The village sign appeared after he’d rounded a sharp bend. The square, just a short distance beyond, caused his initial excitement to fade into a mingling of surprise and disappointment. For him a true French village square was bordered by full-grown plane trees that provided deliciously shady shelter for the pastis drinking pétanque players besporting themselves beneath. This one was a treeless, sun-scorched, deserted affair that swallowed the road he’d taken from Villard-les-Etangs only to regurgitate it some thirty metres or so beyond.

He nevertheless decided to grant himself a breather before taking the final irrevocable plunge. It might give him some reassuring indication that the territory he’d entered was not quite the bleak, hostile place this first glimpse inclined him to believe it was. Some relief from the sun was provided by the half shelter of a narrow band of shade cast by a squat, two-storey building. Its only distinction was provided by a broad, semi-circular perron rising up to a solid-looking wooden door. It was crowned by the date 1853. The words Liberté, Egalite, Fraternité were carved in the stonework above. This, he deduced, could only be the mairie. Knowing that many rural primary schools were located in the village hall his thoughts turned to Jean-Paul’s mother. Her entire teaching career must have been spent within these walls. He’d read that French primary school teachers were reputed for their anti-clerical, often communist convictions and that, in addition to their teaching duties, frequently held the part-time job of secretary to the maire. He wondered whether this was the case with her. He’d make a point of asking.

Apart from the meagre shade cast by the building the square shimmered in the baking heat. Not a soul was to be seen. It brought to mind the expression ‘Il n’y a pas un chat’. He’d come across it in one of Hervé Bazin’s novels and had sought an explanation of its origins in his French Encyclopedia. Since these felines depend mainly on humans for food, it stated, one is rarely present without the other. He found it vaguely unsatisfactory. Though no cat was present the a black, wolf-like dog stretched out on the opposite side of the square caused him some disquiet. A chain attached it to a ring set in the wall of a dilapidated, two-floor building. The chain was just long enough for it to repose in the shadow of one of the three parasol-shaded tables resting on what was doing its best to present the appearance of a café terrace.

As he stepped forward the dog raised its head and gazed at him thoughtfully. It was panting heavily and its tongue lolled out from the side of its mouth. For a moment he thought it was going to bark but it flopped silently back. Presumably, it didn’t perceive him as any serious threat. Or would the effort involved in showing vociferous hostility to this peaceful-looking stranger have placed too much strain on its overheated resources? As he drew nearer the sign Café Restaurant de la Mairie confirmed that the building in whose peripheral shade he had parked his car was indeed the village hall, and that the main activity of the establishment he was now stepping towards lay in the purveyance of food and drink. Adjoining the café restaurant and part of the same building the words Alimentation Générale inscribed above a large shop-like window announced a grocery store. The single entrance probably meant they had the same owner. Next to the shop and set back just enough to provide parking space for a single car stood an ancient-looking petrol pump. It reminded him of the one he’d seen in a Bonnie and Clyde film. The infernal couple had pulled into an isolated petrol station, drawn their guns and invited the terrified attendant to fill them up. He’d used a similar long, upward-pointing, hand-operated lever to pump petrol up from the underground tank into the large, graduated glass bowl fixed to the top. When it was full he’d inserted the nozzle of the pipe into the car fuel tank orifice and the force of gravity had done the rest. It added to his growing impression that he was now entering some kind of time warp. It was not to his disliking. Wasn’t such incongruity part of the adventure he was seeking?

As he walked back to the car his eyes followed the main street as it rose up opposite. Three or four farmsteads stood to the left. Behind were empty, barbed-wire-enclosed fields. A distant lane led somewhere beyond. A rusting metal horse trough lay under the single front window of the farmhouse nearest to him. To the right a large central archway seemed to run right through to the back. A pile of un-chopped logs rested on the narrow, unevenly-cobbled, weed-infested forecourt. On the opposite side of the street the ground rose up too sharply to accommodate any habitation beyond a single house separated from the café by a narrow, grass-choked alley. Its front and side walls were covered by galvanized, rusting metal plaques. Some of them were hanging off. A pile of cut logs, half covered by a blue tarpaulin, lay stacked against the front. The rest of the garden was a riotous tangle of weeds and grass. Amid all the abandonment he was astonished to see what appeared to be a Red Indian teepee rising up from a space that must have been cleared for the purpose. At first he’d taken it for a child’s canvass plaything, but its size and a closer scrutiny of its wood-poled, hide-covered structure gave him every reason to believe it was the real thing. On glancing farther up the street he could just glimpse the tip of the church steeple and its weather cock peeping above the roof of a house some two