Such was the success of the venture that the family was able to buy a plot of land in leafy Boissy St Leger, a commune ten miles south-east of Paris. In former times, Boissy had been characterised by forests and lush countryside where wild boar and deer had freely roamed. By the 1940s, it had developed into a town of tranquil villas, yet to be fully engulfed by the metropolitan sprawl of Paris. When a photographer for LIFE magazine took a series of images of post-war Paris, he drew attention in imagery to what he referred to in words as the ‘tragic beauty’ of the city. Boissy then would have been a breath of fresh air, literally. A suitable plot of land purchased, Pepi could use all the tricks of his trade to design and build a family home to his exact requirements. Even for affluent Boissy, the house on the corner of Rue de Valenton and Rue de la Procession was a striking edifice, a labyrinth of multiple bedrooms and offices as well as outbuildings, which served as garages to the company’s fleet of bulldozers, trucks and other commercial vehicles. Number 40 Rue de Valenton was a statement house, a celebration of hard work, endeavour and acumen.
By any standards, Louis Dolhem was a handsome man. A photograph taken in the 1940s, after he had become a father for the first time, depicts a poised, assured individual exuding confidence. It is no exaggeration to say there was surely a touch of star quality about this immaculate Parisian. Certainly, women succumbed all too easily to his charm and film star looks. Precisely what went on inside the castle in those post-war years will forever stay within its very commodious walls. Louis had an eye for a pretty woman, that much is certain, and by 1952 Imelda was carrying his second child. What Ilva thought about the union between her husband and younger sister is anyone’s guess.
Fast forward to spring that year and at three o’clock on the afternoon of 26 March, Eliane2 gave birth to a boy, Didier Joséph Louis. It was a time of great joy, but also some anxiety.
1950s Paris was a very different place to the cosmopolitan city of the 21st century. What may be considered as a mere trifle to modern sensibilities would have been a real dilemma in conservative post-war France: two sisters, two sons with just a single father. As pillars of the local community, Giuseppe and Louis would have been understandably keen to avoid even a whiff of scandal. Mud, as they say, has a habit of sticking. Prior to Didier’s birth, the castle had echoed to the sound of endless discussions – many of them heated. How to avoid a scandal? Family honour was at stake.
Eventually Pepi, Louis and the sisters reached a solution, of sorts. A surrogate father needed to be found, one furthermore who would be prepared to marry the young girl. At this stage, love was not necessarily on the agenda. Step forward the shadowy figure of Valdi Pironi.
This mysterious individual was known to Giuseppe through a business associate. Of Friulian extraction himself, Pironi ticked many boxes. Imelda could now marry within her circle thus avoiding the stigma attached to childbirth out of wedlock. In the eyes of Monsieur and Madame Weffort, Valdi was the perfect solution to their problem. Elaborate as this plot now seems, in the context of the times, it must have seemed like an eminently sensible course of action, one that ensured the family’s reputation would not be tarnished. Valdi accepted the conditions. Did the promise of becoming an integral part of this upwardly mobile family of emigres with their booming construction business and shiny castle prove just a little too hard to resist? Not until he was a university student would Didier finally discover the identity of his real father. Until that time, Louis would always be ‘mon oncle’.
Whatever the ins and outs of this complicated domestic situation, when the time came to register the birth in the nearby district of Villecresnes, it was not in the name of Dolhem that Didier’s birth was registered, but rather in the name of ‘Pironi’. The family secret was safe. With the arrival of Didier and his surrogate father, the population of the castle had expanded to eight: six adults and two children. Business continuing to expand, theirs was a busy house. Louis’s involvement with both sisters made it an unconventional one as well.
Family secret notwithstanding, by the 1950s the family could rightly be proud of their achievements. Twenty-five years ago, Pepi had arrived in Paris with little else but a dream. In the ensuing decades, with his son-in-law’s assistance not to mention connections, he had established one of the largest building companies in the whole of the city. Not only did he now drive a sleek Mercedes-Benz – a brand to which the family would always remain loyal – he would later acquire a Piper Navajo aeroplane, the same plane in which both his grandsons would one day learn to fly. Among the many family cars, Didier and José would vividly recall a Ford Vedette, a luxurious American sedan designed in Detroit and manufactured in Poissy. Family holidays were taken in the south of France in a sumptuous villa up in the St Tropez hills complete with stunning views over the Mediterranean. Skiing became another favourite pursuit. Winter holidays included trips to the fashionable resorts of the Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes region of the country. Life was good.
Despite his success, the businessman never forgot his Friulian roots. Such was his reputation among his kinsmen, trips back to Villesse had all the hallmarks of a state visit. Surrounded by a throng of excited villagers, the prodigal son would roll into the village in his gleaming sedan – invariably a shiny Mercedes. Though only a small boy at the time, Moreno Weffort still recalls the awe such occasions inspired: ‘The whole village was in turmoil, it was a magical moment as we carried our best fruits and drink up to the family house in his honour. To this day, I can still remember the excitement those visits generated.’ Moreno also warmly recalls the generosity of an uncle who believed in looking after the family he had left behind in Friuli. In later years, the businessman would thrill his family and neighbours by arriving in his private aeroplane.
Whether by chance or design neither of Pepi’s daughters would give birth to any more children, by the standards of the time an unusual phenomenon. The same was not true of the dapper Louis, of which more later. It is hardly surprising therefore that Imelda formed a particularly strong bond to her only son. Didier literally became the centre of his mother’s world. Adored, cosseted and yes, a trifle indulged.
Family wealth of course provided material benefits. In some quarters, it also provoked envy. Throughout his life, Didier’s privileged upbringing would prove problematical for certain rivals who had not been similarly blessed and who clearly resented this urbane Parisian his somewhat pampered background. Money, both a blessing and a curse. Critics could and did claim that family money rather than talent had bought Didier a place at the top table of motorsport. ‘A lot of people were jealous of Didier,’ recalls an old school friend, ‘jealous of his family and his background, jealous of the big house, the money.’ The solution? To prove the critics wrong, repeatedly.
It was here within this somewhat eclectic Franco-Italian milieu, within the gilded walls of a fabulous Parisian castle, that José and his younger ‘cousin’ Didier grew up. It was undeniably a charmed existence, but one not devoid of the usual vicissitudes of family life, perhaps more so considering the somewhat unorthodox domestic arrangements. As a member of the Parisian bourgeoisie, a life of comfort and relative ease lay ahead. Along with José, Didier would surely one day take over the reins of the family business, expand its horizons, increase its fortunes further.
Not so Didier. Since his earliest years, the pleasure he derived from playing with his collection of toy cars had been apparent for all to see. These models captured little Didier’s imagination like nothing else. Cars, cars, cars. At the dinner table soup bowls would transform into temporary steering wheels, cutlery would take the place of a gearstick. At the sort of tender age when infants are intent on exploring the world around them and discovering its secrets, young master Pironi was already well on the way to finding a nirvana all his own.
Two
Wild thing
Eight o’clock on a peaceful morning in Boissy. The town is just waking up. One or two shutters are coming up in the Rue de Paris, the main shopping road of
this tranquil suburb. A few blocks away, the residents of Rue de la Procession are going about their morning routines, taking a sip of coffee, buttering a roll or two before the day’s work begins. All is quiet on the streets outside save for a familiar clatter.
The little boy flies down the road as if his very life depends upon it. Balanced on the handlebars of his prized mini-racing bicycle sits ‘Jam’, his favourite teddy bear, a mascot that accompanies him everywhere he goes. Determination is etched all over the rider’s face. Preoccupied with some imaginary childish quest, it is hard not to smile as the youngster from the big corner house streaks past at breakneck speed. Pedalling furiously, he reaches the junction with Hottinguer Avenue. He lurches precariously to the left, leaning into the curve in the style of a racing hotshot. But for a slight kink, it is a straight run down to the end of this elegant tree-lined boulevard. The young cyclist hurtles along. Ahead lies a steep uphill run to school. The five-year-old steels himself. If he wishes to beat his record time, he will need to summon up every ounce of strength in his tiny frame.
Twenty minutes later he charges into the school gates, sweat dripping from his freckled face. A crowd of children gather round.
‘Did you beat your record?’ As ever, Didier’s arrival is greeted with a flurry of excitement.
‘I did it!’ Didier mouths between gasps for breath. ‘I smashed it!’ His classmates roar their approval while casting admiring glances at the little bicycle. How dearly they would love to possess such a bike for themselves. Green with envy, the Valet brothers petition their father the Mayor of Boissy for a similar bicycle – without success.
He might not yet have been out of short trousers, but even as a five-year-old Didier was already developing a love of speed, a desire to set and surpass targets that would come to define the mature adult. Those daily dashes between home and school, juvenile, trivial and bemusing, were also the building blocks upon which a young man was moulding a character.
And never far away, the shrewd eye of an ever-watchful mother. As an integral part of the family business as well as doting parent, Imelda Pironi certainly had her hands full during these formative years. Those who knew Didier’s mother describe a shrewd, capable woman. Perhaps there was an element of control too, a natural disposition to influence the behaviour of those around her. While elder sister Ilva contented herself in the domestic sphere, Imelda it was who busied herself with matters of company administration. Here was a woman with very clear ideas of what was right and wrong. The two sisters could not have been less alike.
Much activity centred on the yard of 40 Rue de Valenton. From here, the company’s trucks would emerge each day before heading off all over Paris. With Imelda overseeing the paperwork, and Joseph (Giuseppe having adopted a more Franco-friendly moniker) and Louis running the contracts, Sud Est Travaux was a real family concern.
Didier would spend much time in the company’s garages and workshops. Things mechanical seemed to fascinate the young boy from an early age. Armed with a toy hammer, the youngster would carry out imaginary repairs on his own play cars. When it came time to eat, uproar often descended upon the castle.
‘Where are you? Didier! It is time to eat!’ Imelda could shout herself hoarse. Often his parents would discover the pint-sized boy sat at the wheel of some truck or other, lost in a world of his own, legs dangling unable to reach the pedals. It would take a sharp rebuke from grandfather Joseph (aka ‘Nonno’) to tear the young boy away from this fascinating world of clutches, steering wheels and gear levers.
This charmed existence was briefly disturbed one autumnal afternoon of 1960. Didier’s mother was sitting in the office when she heard a commotion in the yard, a cacophony of screams and shouts.
‘Mum! Come at once! Thieves!’ Imelda flung open the window to see, through a cloud of dust, Didier and some friends scrambling around the yard on their bicycles. Ignoring what she thought were childish games, she returned to her work.
‘I’m busy! Go off and play somewhere else!’
A while later Didier and his gang returned, this time with more urgency. ‘Call the police!’ yelled Didier. ‘Quickly! Tell them to come! We catch the thieves! Hurry!’ Hesitatingly, Imelda did as instructed.
Didier and his friends had been playing out on their bicycles when they had heard cries for help. A gang of thieves had targeted the home of a female neighbour, bounding and gagging the unfortunate woman while ransacking her house. The chums had heard her calls. Before tearing back to the castle, the friends had had the presence of mind to note the registration details of a grey pick-up truck parked outside the house. Consequently, the police located and arrested the perpetrators. Press and television descended upon Boissy to cover the story. Didier and his friends were the heroes of the moment.
In typical Didier fashion, the hero of the hour would never so much as even allude to this incident that so captured the news headlines that day. ‘I am not sure what displeased Didier, for I am sure I never heard him mention this episode again,’ notes Imelda in her memoirs, with just a hint of puzzlement. Taciturnity. A Pironi trademark.
It is no exaggeration to say that in the ensuing years Didier would achieve a certain amount of notoriety in and around the environs of this quiet corner of Paris – and not always entirely for acts of altruism.
One such episode occurred shortly after the amateur sleuth had helped to rid the streets of Boissy of at least a few of its more undesirable elements. On this occasion, the good folk of the commune simply could not believe their eyes: a driverless car! Sure enough, a car was making its way steadily through the streets of the town, up and down, a vehicle conspicuously lacking in any form of chauffeur… Mon Dieu!
‘Mrs Pironi! But this is completely unacceptable!’ The local police were understandably exasperated. ‘Do you comprehend, Madame, the enormity of the situation?’
Poor Imelda could only apologise. The young scamp had slipped out behind his mother’s back, making his way across the courtyard to the garage where he had slipped into the driver’s seat of one of the company’s trucks. Moments later the very same truck had emerged onto the streets of Boissy, its driver not tall enough to see above the dashboard. Taking Didier firmly by the scruff of the neck, his mother marched the young boy all the way home. It would not be first nor last time Mrs Pironi would find herself apologising profusely on behalf of the young miscreant.
‘You’ll get sent to prison! You’re crazy!’
Beloved son or not, back at the castle it was time for a furious mother to dole out some tough love. In her memoirs, Imelda vividly recalls the incident and ‘the little urchin’s response, or lack of it: ‘Didier looked at me fixedly, bolt upright, without a word, without flinching for a single moment from the spanking he so richly deserved.’ At certain times, Didier it seemed could exert an almost preternatural control over his emotions.
Imelda might have been forgiven for thinking there the matter might rest. Not a jot. No sooner had one crisis been averted than another one would begin. With his long, blonde hair and freckled face, he might have looked the archetypal choirboy, but this angelic creature had a distinctly wild, untamed side to his nature.
‘Mrs Pironi, Didier is going too far, really it has to stop.’ The telephone call had come unexpectedly. ‘Today we mistook his antics for those of a fugitive. We almost shot him…’ On hearing those words Imelda froze, shot him…!
As a tremulous mother registered these words, a car door opened and slammed shut in the courtyard. Didier came skipping into the house. ‘Yes, yes. I promise I will do whatever is necessary. Thank you, Inspector.’ Even as an agitated mother put the receiver down, her son had dismissed the incident. Meanwhile, the sound of gushing water indicated that the young rogue was taking a cold shower, a favourite way to unwind.
‘Hey! Get out of there. Now!’ shouted Imelda, banging on the bathroom door.
Wrapped in a towel, moments later Didier appeared, unconcerned, cool as you like.
‘Yes? What’s going
on?’ he asked calmly.
‘You know what!’
And with that, Imelda gave her son a slap to the cheek that almost knocked him flying. No reaction. Shaking with anger and pangs of regret, Imelda reports how her son didn’t flinch, but stood before her, ‘quiet, solid as a rock, with the beginnings of a smile upon his lips... ’
Earlier in the day gangsters had stolen a blue car, in response to which the police had set up armed roadblocks throughout the borough. It just so happened that on the same day Didier had decided to ‘borrow’ his cousin’s blue Gordini. Engine howling, the youngster had soon attracted the attention of the Gendarmerie, who naturally assumed that the blue car driving as if possessed by the devil was the one they were hoping to apprehend. Hotly pursued, Didier had led the constabulary a merry dance through the streets of Boissy.
And boy, could this kid drive! Many were the times when José, fatigued after a day of hunting or flying, had entrusted the steering wheel to a cousin only too eager to take the wheel. Illegal yes, risky no; José had every confidence in the ability of his little cousin. The police had never stood a chance.
There can be little doubt that the family’s exalted position helped to mitigate any possible repercussions such escapades might have been expected to attract. The Dolhem-Pironis assuredly had friends in high places, some of whom wore the badge of justice.
While the little ‘urchin’ was seemingly intent on raising hell on the streets of Boissy, cousin José was discovering the joys of speed in a more conventional arena – that of the racetrack. With the likes of François Cevert, Jean-Pierre Beltoise, Johnny Servoz-Gavin and Patrick Depailler coming through the ranks, a golden era of French motorsport had begun. Dormant for far too long, France was once more finding its motor racing feet. Just down the road in Villecresnes, José had become friendly with Etienne Vigoureux, another up-and-coming driver. The young men had much in common: they both shared a love of speed – four wheels or two – and both could depend on the munificence of wealthy parents to indulge their whims. In the case of Etienne, his family were said to cultivate the finest roses in the whole of France, roses which they supplied to the city elite – to celebrities and even royalty.
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