I decided to go to St. Ceré today because that was where the exchange shop ‘Troc’ that was rumoured to take stuff and sell it on your behalf. I cleaned the washing machine and the little fridge and they both looked good as new. I packed them in the van with the single bed, and mattress and then had some time to wait until the shop would be open in the afternoon. I spent the time usefully dismantling the wardrobe, because I decided to offer it to the couple who came yesterday to view the furniture but scoffed at the price of it. They could have it for free I thought, and wouldn’t be able to resist it if it was nicely dismantled and easy to carry.
I set off for Troc, timing my journey to perfection and arriving exactly when the man was opening the shop after his marathon lunchtime. He was a funny little man and at first he annoyed me because he sneered at all the stuff I presented to him. Surprisingly for such a customer-focused country he couldn’t help me with a lot of things. The bed can’t be taken because it’s against the law in france to sell second-hand beds and mattresses. ‘Not unless they are vacuum-packed and fresh from the factory’ he said –which is kind of bizarre and spoils the whole ethos behind a second-hand shop. He does sell new mattresses and beds alongside the other tat, so perhaps that was the real explanation. Also a surprise was that he doesn’t get much call for fridges and washing machines and yes he could take them but they would command a very low price and after he took his commission (30%) there really wouldn’t be much left for me. Also he couldn’t transfer the money automatically to my bank because that would cost him. Also he would only send me a cheque if I lived in this country and knew all the words to ‘La Marseillaise’.
I decided to cut my losses and leave the stuff with him anyway. If it sells I should make 80 euros tops for the washing machine & fridge (assuming he bothers sending the cheque), but I had no other option.
I returned to Beaulieu where I needed to visit the bank, catch-up with my emails, and print-out my letter of complaint. I wanted to withdraw most my money out of the bank in case the council decided to sequestrate my funds after I have infuriated the boss a bit further. The only clerk in the bank was at a desk marked ‘No cash is kept at this desk’ so I wondered how that worked? But it does. I tell her how much money I want and she gives me a smart card that I go and use in a machine. Also – showing some uncharacteristic forethought as to my future financial needs I asked what methods were available to transfer the house money when it arrived to my account in England. It appears there aren’t any except for me to come to the bank in person and fill out a form. I explained my situation, and she was flummoxed as to how this could be done – this was unprecedented – someone wanting to transfer money without being in the country! Eventually we came across the only solution which was that I could fax my demand to the bank manager, and he/she would call me back to verify that it was me who demanded it. Okay I suppose if it saves me having to fly over to fill out a form – but it looks like a forethought too far on my part and I can only see ‘issues’ arising from my future financial needs.
I went back to the van to find that it had been covered in dust from a man overhauling the car park and it looked as dirty as it did the day before yesterday. It was clearly one of those days.
I went to the estate agent and as I walked in I was beckoned to sit down with a couple I’d never met. Apparently they were the new (future) owners of the house and were keen to come up and have a look round while I was there. Perfect timing. They seem a nice couple. White, working class, bikers – he was about 30, she was about 35 I would reckon, and we made an arrangement for them to visit within the hour.
Back at the house, I thought about tidying-up but that’s a stupid thing to do because there’s boxes and mess everywhere, so I had a beer and sat in the sun instead. It was a lovely warm day, and I needed a bit of quiet contemplation after the stresses of being ‘out there’.
They turned-up promptly with their friends in tow, and I left them to have a look round and show-off their new purchase. Their friends in tow included a dog that had to be carried everywhere like a pig being carried to market. I pretended to move things around a bit as they assessed the work that would be needed for their plans. The dog, which seemed to have no discernable legs was stupid enough to remain nonplussed by the indignity of being carted around.
I chatted to them about their future plans and they have very ambitious plans for the house which include doing everything that I wanted to do with it but with a more edgy contemporary feel to it. Oh the enthusiasm of the youth of today! I said that I probably wouldn’t be able to clear everything out of the house in time, but they weren’t too bothered, they understood – as long as it was as clear as possible and the old van was removed before they moved in they would be happy. I didn’t tell them that the old van had become French and so they would have to deal with it. C’est leur vie!
When they left I’d got the place back to myself again and it gave me time for reflection. What to do with those mirrors?
I thought about all those times of refuge I’d spent in the house. Whether alone or with Ilka, or with Jenny, or with bits of the family, with bits of friends, and with friends of friends. I like to think that friends of friends had always become friends after spending some time at house together. But that’s romanticism for you.
I had arranged to meet le Professeur (always a man deserved of italics), at night fall. I wasn’t quite sure when night fall was because he said it in Engleesh and he may have been saying something completely different. The fall of the night you say? So I decided that night fall was a few moments after the sun had set. It set about 6, and by about 6:13 the whole western sky was seeped in colour and it was just sitting out there on my doorstep. I took a moment to breathe in the ambience from the comfort of my front door then noticed that night was falling. Ah! That’s when nightfall is round these parts.
I snatched a jar of cranberry & orange sauce that was given to me one Christmas by some company or other I was working for at the time (in a hamper with loads of other stuff – they weren’t that tight!). I quickly soaked off the best before date, which might have been incriminating, and set off down the road to my aperitif.
We spent a great evening together. It started when he poured me a large glass of Pastis, and he chose ‘Queen Mary’s favorite tipple’, gin and tonic. He put it into a glass pint jug of the type you don’t see anymore. In England, let alone France. I think Queen Mary would have approved.
The aperitifs turned into supper and then cheese and then digestif and then a conversation about something profound, and then about something political, and then a humourous anecdote, and then a memory about a grandchild, and then an opinion about an aspect of modern living, and by the time we’d got onto other things our nightfall time was over and I realised that I’d spent an evening chatting to a bon vivant.
Le Professeur- let’s call him John shall we because that’s his non-italicised name – he actually talks quite understandable English. Sometimes it takes him a little while to get it out, but he always makes an effort to be correct and correct himself when it doesn’t sound proper. I like to think that my level of French is similar that of his English because when we talk now we chat to each other bilingually. A bit in French, a bit in English, a bit starting in English but moving into French – it all seems so effortless. And I suppose that’s because we’re using the best bits of both languages. Trying to use the best possible word in the sentence and knowing that the other one will understand.
Truly John, You are Le Professuer.
