Reflections of Sunflowers

by Ruth Silvestre

  CHAPTER TEN

  The rest of the family arrived safely. Thomas was highly delighted with his golfing trolley and its contents and was impatient to try them out. When we made our next trip to Hugh and Sally’s golf course his boxes of Simone’s golf balls, still in their original Jack Nicklaus wrappers were examined with interest by other players, pronounced rare and quite possibly valuable, which pleased him. While he set off to practise, Sally took Elliot to feed the geese and then to the nearest lake which was full of fish and, in spite of a recent visit by yet another of M. Bernard’s former cronies, also frogs. One quiet afternoon, Hugh told us, a total stranger had turned up with a rod and line. Hugh had watched him, intrigued, as he baited his hook with a daisy and then been amazed as within half an hour this clearly competent angler caught fifty frogs. He pronounced himself satisfied, thanked Hugh and departed with his catch.

  I left the family in a sea of croissant crumbs the next morning to keep my appointment at the hairdresser. This is a great place to hear local gossip – if the customers, their heads in rows of rollers or wrapped in cling film, don’t speak too quickly or lapse into patois. After declining to have my hair completely restyled, pressed to choose from a selection of photographs of models, alas, less than half my age, I managed to convince Madame that I simply wanted my roots retouched. Half an hour later, I was just beginning to understand an interesting conversation about the demise of the Monflanquin music festival when I was scooped up to the basin and my formerly attentive ears were filled with water.

  My hair finished, at last – no one hurries here – the sky was a blazing blue outside the hairdresser’s tinted window and I was anxious to leave. I had forgotten that Madame did not take a credit card and began to apologise, thinking that I would have to walk down the hill to the cash machine outside my bank, the Credit Agricole.

  ‘Mais non, Madame!’ she exclaimed, her delicately pencilled eyebrows disappearing under her lacquered fringe. ‘Il y en a une en face.’

  I’d never noticed the machine across the road. I put in my Abbey National card and, as I casually folded my Euros and turned to re-cross the road, I had a sudden flash back to the dark days of ’76 when we bought Bel-Air. Almost with disbelief, I realised how much had changed. It is so simple now to access one’s money from a ‘hole in the wall’ all over Europe, and every week TV programmes actively encourage, seduce even, potential buyers to borrow freely to buy their dream home abroad. It seems barely credible that thirty years ago we, among hundreds of British pioneers, were made to feel guilty as we did our best to beat the then-current punitive system.

  In those austere days, far from being shown a selection of desirable, completely restored properties by a glamorous young enthusiast who promises to complete most of the financial arrangements for you, one had to spend weeks looking at highly undesirable ruins. Handed a list by – often disinterested – agents who seldom had even a photograph of the property on offer it was quite an adventure, one certainly found oneself in the most extraordinary places, but it was very time-consuming. The greatest difference, however, is that in those days, having found a house one had first to apply to the bank of England for permission even to buy abroad. Then it was necessary to pay a severe dollar premium on one’s own money on which, of course, one had already paid income tax. It now seems almost unbelievable but at that time, onto the price of any potential property one had to automatically add 40% for the hated premium, before considering the additional cost of agent’s and solicitor’s fees. It was just as well that the properties themselves were incredibly cheap but, nevertheless, everyone tried to circumnavigate the regulations in one way or another. Stories abounded. A useful asset, it was said, was an American friend with an English bank account who would do the deal for you and then be repaid. Another friend of a friend, more daring than we, took out the whole amount, filling her knickers with bundles of pesetas to buy an apartment in Torremolinas. Torremolinas has, of course, changed as much as the currency regulations since those days.

  On a hot day in August ’76, with a spruced-up Raymond and Claudette as the happy vendors, Mike and I sat in Maître Fournon’s office, eager to become the new owners of Bel-Air, this long neglected house that we had just discovered. The office was cluttered with a great deal of dark wood panelling and smelt of polish. I remember the many photographs of rugby teams on the walls, serious fellows with rows of brawny arms folded above sturdy thighs. There was also something about the bulk of Maître Fournon and the width of his shoulders that suggested that he might in his youth have been more than just a spectator. Our French was not so good then and we made a great effort to understand not only the required documents but also all the conversation, which was rapid and with a strong local accent. As I remember it, somewhere between the team pictures and shelves of files there was also a notice to the effect that a sous seing privé on a purchase of a property was Strictement Interdit. This did not prevent us all from signing there and then just such a document.

  Raymond, like every other Frenchman at that time with property to sell, was worried by a rumour that France was about to bring in a capital gains tax in the new year. Obviously they all wished to avoid this if they could and a great deal of cash was changing hands. At the very least, all vendors favoured the solution of declaring a slightly lower price than the buyer would actually pay. For the remainder, a private arrangement, ‘sous la table’, a time-honoured tradition in France, would minimise the possible tax. For us, of course it would be an even greater saving. A private arrangement seemed eminently sensible and simple and Maître Fournier didn’t bat an eyelid. Who am I, he seemed to imply, to collect taxes? As long as he got his fee he was content. Before we left for England that summer we arranged to bring down the rest of the money before Christmas, when the contracts for the exchange of the property would be ready for signing.

  To amass even a small amount of French francs in London was not easy. The allowance of foreign currency in 1976 for an annual holiday was the equivalent of £100 each and had to be marked in one’s passport. It seems like another world now, even the realisation that, then, not everyone went abroad automatically each year. Those of Mike’s colleagues at Goldsmiths’ college who preferred Dorset, or rural Wales perhaps, brought him small brown envelopes containing francs and were given sterling in exchange. As more and more ordinary people sought the adventure and challenge of buying abroad, friends and relations everywhere were being similarly pressed into service. Gradually our little pile of francs accumulated; now to get them down to Lot-et-Garonne. There were endless discussions about how, and where to hide them. The ideas got wilder. We met a couple just returned from a similar trip to the Loire valley, who had, they told us, lined their shoes with francs. Eventually Mike just pushed the bundle into his duffle coat pocket – ah, the duffle coat – and decided he would plead ignorance. It was all quite ridiculous.

  We drove our camper down to Newhaven on a very wet and windy Thursday evening in late November. The large notice that greeted us on arrival in the customs house did nothing to calm our churning stomachs. In bold black letters it stated that anyone caught with over the limit of even English currency would not only have the sum confiscated but also their vehicle would be impounded. I seem to remember this limit being £25! Mike is no actor. He looked pale. Would he be guiltily silent, or, much more likely for a lecturer, would he talk too much?

  ‘Just leave it to me,’ I pleaded. But this was one role I did not relish.

  At the very moment that we drove through customs there was a tremendous bang. We were so jumpy that we thought it must be to do with us. A currency-seeking device perhaps? The IRA? Whatever it was, it was unnerving. A sombre figure in a long, black, flapping raincoat came purposefully toward us. This was it. His pale face loomed closer. Lank black hair plastered his forehead.

  ‘Hurry up,’ he yelled, over the roar of the wind. ‘They’re just about to launch the lifeboat. Drive the van over there and you’ll be able to see it.’

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bsp; We sent up a prayer of thanksgiving as we watched the lifeboat set out into the dark, heaving sea. Then we drove our camper onto the ferry, parked it behind a couple of lorries and climbed up the swaying staircase into the saloon to celebrate. We were a little premature. The weather grew steadily worse and there was an announcement that the ferry was unable to leave. A communication had been sent to Arundel for a tug to pull us out of harbour but if this proved impossible, said the crackling voice over the tannoy, we might have to disembark and repeat the whole process the following day. We sat in a tense silence until it was announced that the tug had made it. We would soon be on our way. At last we unpacked our sandwiches, drank a toast and dozed fitfully on the lurching ship.

  The bad weather followed us all down through France. We slept briefly in a lay-by but before dawn decided to resume our long journey. We finally gave up by early evening and stayed that night in a small hotel in Villereal, an ancient bastide town about ten miles from Bel-Air. We were exhausted. The next morning, after calling on Maître Fournon and signing the papers, we drove to Raymond’s farm. On the way we stopped and recounted our little wad of money, just to make sure. The next time it was counted was on Raymond’s kitchen table with the whole family, Grandma and Grandpa and the two children all gathered round.

  ‘Where did you hide it?’ asked Claudette.

  ‘In my pocket,’ said Mike nonchalantly. Grandpa whistled between his teeth. Then shook his head and laughed.

  We heard later about a couple who hid a much larger amount in a talcum powder tin. All went as planned until their farmer took the notes to the bank. Being market day the bank was crowded and, as the teller fanned the notes with his thumb, the customers gazed in astonishment as he disappeared in a fine cloud of Johnson’s baby powder!

  I folded my so easily obtained Euros, walked back across the road and paid Madame. When I got back to Bel-Air the children were in the pool. I changed quickly to join them.

  ‘Wow, Grandma, you look smart,’ said Elliot. Then he shrieked with laughter as I jumped in and the carefully arranged hairdo was no more.

  Matthew’s brief stay was almost over. Bel-Air being complet and Judith due to arrive the night before his departure, when his brother Adam would gallantly drive him to catch the 6 a.m. TGV from Agen, we begged a bed for that night for Judith from our generous friend, Ruth Thomas.

  Ruth and Edward Thomas also bought their house, about a mile away, in ’76 and have proved kind and extremely hospitable summer neighbours. Long before we could afford a pool, we spent many happy hours in theirs and were always welcome to bring friends. Even Raymond was persuaded to try his first tentative strokes there and, afterwards, Edward always delighted in opening the Gosset, his favourite champagne.

  On Matthew’s last evening we planned a small celebration as his birthday was in a few days’ time. We made a great variety of salads and barbecued small trout stuffed with garlic, salt and rosemary. I made a large chocolate cake, which is a family favourite, Claudette brought up a bowl of the last strawberries of the season, Ruth arrived with champagne.

  Raymond gave Matthew a bottle of extremely vieux Cahors; from his diminishing store of dusty, unlabelled bottles laid down by Grandpa in the early fifties. Inevitably, with wine so old, we have had the occasional disaster, but nine times out of ten when he opens one of these special bottles, the wine is sumptuous, almost black and with a flavour like no other wine. I am told that vieux Cahors is an acquired taste. I am just grateful that I have been privileged to acquire it.

  Raymond was on good form. The first harvesting of the orchards had been completed. Although a great many plums had been knocked down by the heavy rain they were large and unharmed by falling – that it was thanks to Jean-Michel, I forbore to mention!

  It wouldn’t be such a bad harvest after all, he agreed, and of course, the rain would be good for the maize and the vines, and the grazing cattle; the great advantage of ‘la polyculture’. As Claudette dished out the strawberries and the children debated whether to have coconut ice cream before or after the cake –Thomas favoured both – Raymond was reminded of the story of the old Curé and the village fountain.

  ‘Vous n’avez jamais entendu ça?’ he said in surprise. Then his eyes shone at the chance of telling us a joke. ‘Il était une fois un certain village,’ he began dramatically. Apparently their Curé had, tactfully, for the purpose of their confessions, invented a euphemism for a marital lapse on the part of the women in the village.

  ‘Not that they were a particularly promiscuous lot,’ Raymond explained with a shrug. Claudette pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. ‘Mais non!’ insisted Raymond. ‘C’était une question de délicatesse.’ Claudette giggled. ‘Alors, when they came to confession,’ continued Raymond. ‘It was not necessary to go into details. The gentle Curé suggested that, as long as the sinner was truly repentant, they should simply say ‘J’ai glissé à la Fontaine,’ I slipped at the fountain. This would suffice, he would understand, forgive and name a suitable penance. This custom continued for so many years, it passed into the language until eventually the old Curé died. The new, young Curé was puzzled. He went to the Mayor. ‘Monsieur le Maire,’ he said. ‘Something must be done about the fountain.’ The Mayor expressed surprise. The Curé insisted. ‘Perhaps it is the steps,’ he suggested. ‘When the women go to get water they are always slipping over.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ declared the Mayor.

  ‘Nonsense, is it?’ cried the Curé. ‘Why, your own wife slipped over twice last week!’

  We translated an edited version for Thomas. Elliot was, as usual, in a world of his own. We drank toasts; one for Matthew and his coming birthday, another for Mike, looking so much better and grateful for his continuing recovery. Then, sadly, we toasted our old friends, Barry and Edward, no longer with us but so much a part of our memories of gatherings of friends at Bel-Air.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The days flew by as they always do when the family are at Bel-Air and all too soon it was their last market day. We arranged to meet Jonathan, Miranda and Abie, who were also leaving for England in a few days’ time, at our usual rendezvous, Le Winger, the bar in Libos market. As the weather was not promising, instead of a picnic at Bel-Air, we decided to take them all out to lunch to a restaurant we thought they would enjoy.

  It was in the very early years at Bel-Air when we first discovered the Hôtel Climat, as it was then called, nestling at the bottom of the square behind the church in Fumel. Its centrally heated, spotlessly clean and simple, modern interior was a welcome change on cold evenings in spring when our house was still in a very primitive condition and we had been labouring in the garden all day. When the temperature had plummeted with the setting sun, the wind had begun to whistle under the door and the fire had almost gone out, we would spruce ourselves up, put hot water bottles in the bed and set off to dine very cheaply in what, by comparison with our unrestored interior, felt like extreme luxury.

  Now renamed Hôtel Kyriad, it is, as before, extremely well managed by a sweet-faced Madame Anne-Marie Julien, originally from Holland, and her French husband. Some of the staff have changed over the years but they take their cue from Madame and are always friendly. I still remember an elderly waiter in a rusty black jacket who, one lunchtime, when I was not particularly hungry, introduced me to the cheapest way to eat there. The restaurant has self-service buffets of hors d’oeuvre and of desserts, each costing only, at that time, 30 francs.

  ‘For only 60 francs, Madame,’ he said gently, ‘you can choose and eat as much or as little as you like.’ He shrugged and smiled. ‘Why bother with le menu today?’

  It was quite a revelation when, for the first time, we went to the restaurant during the day. We ate outside on the terrace at the rear of the building. The view from there stretches down across the panorama of the Lot valley and up to the splendid trees in the gardens of the Hôtel de Ville, once the Château of the Seigneur de Fumel. The Château, home of a noble family since the eleventh ce
ntury, was rebuilt in the sixteenth century in the same flamboyant style as the Palais du Louvres. Unfortunately for the family they fell foul of the local populace in the long and bitter wars of religion, and the Seigneur was brutally murdered. The beautiful terraced garden, designed in the eighteenth century, can still be visited.

  The small town of Fumel is now known chiefly as the site of the only heavy industry in the area. The iron foundry, which draws its power from a barrage built over the river at the base of the town, still provides a great deal of employment. During the war it was from one of the offices at the factory, where many of the workers were Communists, that, in March 1943, members of the local Resistance were recruited. The accounts of their activities, kept in the archives at Bordeaux, make interesting reading.

  The group were extremely well organised. They had small English radios which had been parachuted in, as well as arms which were hidden in nearby farms all over the region. Morning and evening liaisons were established but very soon one of their leaders, Conti, was arrested by the Gestapo and they were forced to lie low for a while. When they resumed their activities, as a further precaution, the parachute drops were given code names. They were somewhat literary, being ‘Gauthier’ and ‘Honoré’.

  The messages to be passed identifying the location were ‘les feuilles sont chassées par la tempête’ (the leaves are chased by the storm), indicating that the drop was at ‘Gauthier’. ‘Si seulement vous vouliez m’aider’ (if only you would help me) told the listeners that it was to be at ‘Honoré’. They set ambushes and immobilised many trains by simply blowing up the wheels on the front and back wagons.