My Good Life in France

by Janine Marsh

  Two weeks later I met his secretary at the market and we stopped to chat. I told her that the waiting for permission was getting me down – it had been almost a year by now – and she advised me to get an architect to submit the request. Even though we didn’t need to according to the regulations, she said she thought it would help. I was at my wits’ end and paid an architect to redraw the paperwork and submit everything.

  It was then that we discovered that the cadastre, the land registry document that shows the plot of our land and the buildings on it, bore no relation whatsoever to the building plans we had submitted. The architect called within days to say that she had heard from the DDE and they had rejected our permit because it didn’t make sense because the drawings of our current building did not match their records.

  It turned out that the notaire had not checked any of the cadastral plans when we bought the house. The paperwork in the government registry showed a building of six rooms. We had bought a building with eleven rooms and a considerably bigger footprint. At no point did anyone ever mention it to us at the DDE, but one phone call from the architect sorted it out. One week later we had our permits.

  It appeared that since the last updated record of our house in the early 1970s, successive owners had added more and more rooms to the building but no one had ever mentioned it or thought to update the records.

  ‘Why bother?’ said Jean-Claude when we told him about it. ‘No one ever tells the authorities what they are doing unless they absolutely have to. You British are so odd with your rules.’

  I thought about how odd people were when a short while later we discovered the strange fact that we lived in the land of the giants.

  Giants have been around for centuries in these parts – huge wicker models that it is said represented biblical figures in the old days, but which over time have come to represent local heroes or animals, more folklore than Bible.

  Giants have their own ‘lifestyle’: from time to time they get together with giants from neighbouring towns. Over the course of decades giants may marry, die and even have children.

  In Grand-Fort-Philippe (on the coast at Gravelines) one Saturday, a giant known as La Matelote was due to give birth, and the whole town turned out in celebration.

  Local TV film crews and journalists arrived, ready to record this historic birth. Bands played, giants from towns and villages all around arrived to join in the fun and the crowd was jubilant.

  The mayor of Gravelines stood on a makeshift podium set up outside the town’s museum, surrounded by local celebrities and dignitaries; Miss Grand-Fort-Philippe, the resident beauty queen, greeted the crowds; speeches were made. It was all very formal. Baton twirlers whirled to crazy hyper dance music, their sticks lifted away by the breeze that came in off the English Channel, their glittery eye shadow flashing in the sun.

  The mayor welcomed the ‘midwife’ to the stage. Dressed in her nurse’s uniform, she took the microphone and announced, ‘The baby is born … it is a little girl and both mother and baby are well. The baby weighs thirty kilograms and she is two metres thirty-two centimetres tall. Her mother, La Matelote, is very happy with her family of four children – two boys and now two girls.’

  As Mark and I shared a look of utter bemusement, a mighty cheer went up at the news. Then there was a moment of hush. La Matelote was carried out into the crowd by several strong lads; her makeup was immaculate and she looked serene and proud, as befitted a new mother. The crowd cheered again.

  Then came the baby. Dressed in a white christening gown, she was the length of a very tall man, her blonde hair was plaited and she wore makeup. She was carried over our heads, up to the podium where a priest stood waiting to conduct a blessing. He welcomed Soeur (her given name) to the family of Grand-Fort-Philippe, and rejoiced that the baby was the image of her mother and asked God to bring her joy. A giant godfather and giant godmother stepped forward to meet their new giant godchild.

  Everyone applauded, the priest scattered holy water over them and it was time to parade and show Soeur her new home. The dancers and band marched off; the crowds followed, the giants twirling in among them. At the town hall a formal baptism was performed, sweets were distributed to the children, another parade took place and then a glass of wine was offered to toast the baby. The occasion was half serious and half tongue in cheek.

  It will be many years before a new giant is born and one day Soeur will marry and have children of her own, and the traditions will live on.

  Local celebrations like that make me realize just how far apart the British and French are in terms of daily life, and sometimes I truly feel like a fish out of water. Like the day we went fishing with friends. Jean-Claude was there with his wife Bernadette and her sister Josianne, the deputy mayor of our village and several of his cronies and Carine and Dominique, Belgians who spend as much time as they can at their holiday home in the village.

  ‘Just a fun afternoon,’ said Bernadette. ‘We’ll have a picnic, bring something to share.’

  Now, where I’m from, a picnic means sandwiches or a pork pie and a packet of crisps. In France, however, as I now know but didn’t then, a picnic is a chance to show off your culinary skills with quiches and tarts, scrumptious salads, and home-made cakes and sweets.

  As my neighbours laid their offerings out on a table we had set up under a tall leafy tree next to a trout lake on a sunny day, I gulped at the marvellous array of delicious food. Then I took out my corned beef sandwiches, wrapped in foil. Everyone was watching.

  ‘What are they?’ asked Josianne curiously, and not unkindly. She is famous in these parts for her duck à l’orange.

  I explained that we like beef in a tin. I was fairly sure that this would make my French friend recoil in horror.

  ‘Ah! Bully beef,’ said Jean-Claude, smiling. ‘I love the bully beef.’

  To my amazement, they all loved the ‘bully beef’ and everyone wanted to swap with us. Mark and I enjoyed goats’ cheese and fresh herbs in a tart with melt in your mouth pastry; we savoured cold chicken cooked to perfection with a sprinkling of rosemary and thyme; we fell in love with croissants filled with delicate smoked salmon.

  Our friends chomped on doorstep sandwiches of corned beef with pickle.

  After lunch there was a serious attempt at catching trout. With Belgian, British and French honour at stake, it was all hands to the line to catch the biggest haul of the day. The shallow lake was beautifully clear, you could see the vibrant green plants waving gently on the bottom and lazy trout swimming just below the surface; dragonflies buzzed overhead and birds tweeted. All around the lake, groups of friends and families were enjoying picnics and barbecues, a typical sunny afternoon pastime in this area.

  Jean-Claude had been boasting for several weeks beforehand that he was the best fisherman around, so when the catch was counted at the end of the day it was a huge surprise to discover that, along with the British contingent (Mark and me), Jean-Claude had nul points. The Belgians had the biggest catch and hosted the entire group at a barbecue at their home in the village. Jean-Claude was mercilessly teased by everyone. He put it down to the full moon, which he often blames when anything goes wrong.

  When you are up to your neck in plaster and concrete, it is a great comfort to know that there is a wonderful life to be discovered outside the walls. It kept us going.

  CHAPTER 12

  Village life

  THE TRANSITION FROM the gargantuan metropolis that is London to the rural countryside of northern France revealed plenty of differences. Apart from desperately missing my friends and family, a few issues popped up that I never expected, such as the problem of finding a hairdresser.

  A few years ago a wild pig weighing 63 kilos managed to get into a shopping centre in Nancy, north-east France, and went crazy. It blundered its way into a hairdressing salon and smashed the place to pieces before being tranquillized. Part of me does have sympathy for the pig, as going to the hairdresser in France can be a frustrating and sometime
s disastrous event. Every French hairdresser I have met seems to believe their customers are incapable of understanding what they want. You might ask for a trim and come out with a full crop. You might ask for blonde highlights and end up ginger. Both of these things have happened to me.

  In a remarkably trendy-looking salon in a small rural town, I was fooled by the Chanel-style black and white headshots in the window. I made an appointment and asked for a trim of ‘no more than two centimetres’ and a few blonde highlights. I knew something was wrong when I felt the scissors close to my neck, but there was no mirror to check in – I faced a blank wall. The hairdresser completed her masterpiece behind my back then revealed it to me by bringing a mirror on wheels into view. She clapped her hands with joy as I feebly mumbled ‘wow’ when I caught sight of my orange, very short hair.

  ‘She said waou,’ the hairdresser announced with pride to the other ladies in the room, spinning my chair round so they could all admire her handiwork. It was only then that I noticed that they all had the same short haircut that I now had.

  She bent and kissed me on both cheeks and told me she knew we would be best friends. I looked at her in abject misery and wondered how long it would take to grow out. When I got home Mark stared for several minutes and, I must say, in fairness to the hairdresser, it is the first time he has ever noticed that I have had my hair done.

  It’s not only the hairdresser who kisses me. French people are kissing mad. They don’t, on the whole, like to hug. My French friend Benedicte, who works in PR in Paris, says she finds it extremely odd that we wish to press our bodies together, wrap our arms round each other and stand there like that. Even now that I am used to all the lips to cheek stuff, when I am on a commuter train in the morning and people get in the carriage and start kissing it reminds me how French and British attitudes can be poles apart. Even more so when I am in a French office for a meeting and see people arriving for work and kissing each other. I do believe that knowing I might have had to kiss some of my former colleagues would have made me quit my job. My French friends find that notion very odd – even if they don’t particularly like someone they have no problem kissing them. I haven’t yet managed to successfully translate ‘I would rather boil my own head than kiss my old boss’ into French.

  Over time, I’ve come to accept this habit, but I am in awe of the stamina required when it comes to an event involving many people.

  The town of Douriez is close to the border with the department of Picardy. It’s a place with a grand church and not much else, through which the River Authie runs gently and steadily on its way to the English Channel. It was there that I witnessed a kissing session that lasted for hours. There is not much that lures people to Douriez, though it is a pretty enough town, but with no shops, the only real draw is the estaminet, a local bistro-style restaurant/bar/general meeting place where you can eat or drink (and sometimes dance). It is run by Monsieur Vasseur, a retired butcher from Montreuil-sur-Mer who is famous for his sausages. On certain Fridays throughout the year he roasts a suckling pig on an open fire, there is live entertainment of the traditional kind, and the tables are filled with locals who come to enjoy this true taste of yesteryear. Sprightly and spruce, white-haired and somewhere in his seventies, Chef Vasseur will come out from the kitchen in his apron to say hello and shake hands with his happy customers. His daughter, who manages the wait staff, always tells him off for getting in the way and slowing service down. He takes no notice and the customers adore him.

  One cold, dark Friday night, we drove across the plains of the Authie Valley to enjoy the famous hog roast. Several tables had been pushed together at the back of the restaurant, ready for a party. Large pieces of slate sit on the ceiling beams, showing the menu du jour – traditional meaty dishes like pieds de cochon grillés (grilled pigs’ trotters) and fondant de noix de joue de porc (pigs’ cheeks, to you and me). Myriad quirky artefacts hang from the walls and ceiling – old metal coffee pots, milk urns, dried hops, top hats, old signs, bottles, and jugs of all shapes colours and sizes. It makes you feel as though you are in the home of a local with an outrageous and eccentric taste for vintage.

  We were warmly welcomed into the restaurant, where the cochon de lait was in situ in the enormous fireplace. At the bar were the three drivers of the three tractors parked outside by a sign that promised a night of accordéon, suckling pig and tête de veau (boiled calf’s head). The men were enjoying a Friday night glass of robust vin rouge before going home after a long day of working in the fields. Otherwise the place was empty as, at 7.30 p.m., we were early by French standards.

  We were seated close to the fire, where we started to melt almost immediately, but where we also had a great view of the restaurant as we sat sipping a Kir pétillant, a French apéritif of blackcurrant cassis and sparkling wine. Mix the cassis with champagne and you have a Kir royale, and with red wine, a Kir communard, named after the blood red flag of the Communards, revolutionaries in Paris in the late 1800s. You’ve got to love French ingenuity for getting mileage out of something, haven’t you.

  After an hour or so, people started to drift in and fill the seats. At the back of the restaurant where the party table was, the first two people to arrive were joined by another two; they swapped kisses, three of them, left, right, left. A group of four arrived; they made their way round the table, three more kisses per person. Then another couple, and another. It was fascinating to watch. Non-French people might shake hands across the table and order a beer or two while waiting. It wasn’t like that here. Everyone waited until the whole party had arrived before ordering even so much as a glass of water. There were twenty-four chairs round that table. I began to pity the last person to get there, who would probably have chapped lips by the end of it all. I was coming to think the restaurant would close before they could eat when finally they were all seated, and surely by now they had worked up a thirst and must be gasping. We ourselves had got through our starters, main course and were awaiting our desserts.

  The kissing custom extends to every aspect of life here, including when you go to the supermarket, where the checkout person will think nothing of kissing a customer and then having a chat as if they were just meeting somewhere privately without a line of people waiting to pay for their goods. It wouldn’t matter if Gérard Depardieu was in the queue, late for an awards ceremony, or if the President of France had popped in for a bottle of milk and had to meet the British Queen in five minutes’ time – everyone must wait for this important social ritual. Amazingly, it never seems to bother the French, but you can spot the expats a mile off, faces incredulous at the delay caused by interaction with customers by people who should be working.

  I’ve grown to really appreciate these interludes, when I am next in the queue and can eavesdrop with impunity: it’s an opportunity to learn what’s going on in the village.

  Learning the language, on the other hand, definitely wasn’t as easy as we’d hoped. Mark knew hardly any French at all but I thought I would pick it up really easily. I’d studied French at school until I was sixteen. I spent many holidays in France, visited Paris on a regular basis and worked in Geneva where everyone spoke French. So it was a bit of a shock to discover that in our village they have a very strong accent and sometimes speak a different kind of French, for this is the land of the Ch’tis.

  You might not have heard the term Ch’ti, but if you visit northern France, even if you just drive through, it’s highly likely you’ll come across this word in shops, on car stickers or in restaurants. It’s a slang term that describes a native of northern France, a contraction of the term Ch’timi, and was an expression invented during the First World War by French soldiers to label their peers from northern France because, in the local dialect, the pronouns toi and moi were ti and mi.

  Some of my neighbours find my bewilderment at the use of different words for different things highly entertaining. Jean-Claude told me that I should ask Thierry if I could have a sit on his bidet and then laughed uproa
riously as he explained that bidet is Ch’ti for cheval (horse). He said he merely thought I might like to go horse riding.

  When we first came to France we had an English neighbour called Mrs Smith. I never knew her first name – she was one of those old school types who don’t like to be too familiar. I very much doubt that she embraced the whole kissing thing. She did, however, speak impeccable French and knew the local dialect very well. She gave me a Ch’ti dictionary and taught me a few words to use in everyday conversations, which helped a lot, like cayelle (chaise/chair) and boutelle de pinard (bouteille de vin rouge/bottle of red wine). Unfortunately, after we’d been here just a few months, her advancing years meant that living alone, even with the help of friends and neighbours to go shopping for her or chop wood, got too much and she left to live with her daughter in the Loire. We became the only Brits in the village and had to learn the language for ourselves.

  CHAPTER 13

  In which life will never be the same again

  ALMOST SIX MONTHS after we left England for France, I was back in the UK.

  My dad had had a heart attack not long before I left but he had recovered well and was soon back to his normal self – smoking, drinking, spending hours in the betting shop, going to the dog races, dancing round the front room to ear-splittingly loud jazz or the Sex Pistols. He was also doing voluntary work at a stable, supporting people who were seriously ill so that they could enjoy riding, and he’d made lots more friends through that.

  One night he phoned me in France and said that he had had a letter from the hospital where he had been treated for his heart attack. They had reviewed his records and X-rays and wanted him to come in for a chat. They had made him an appointment. The letter was from the Oncology Department.

  I went back to the UK and, with my sister, accompanied Dad to his appointment at King’s College Hospital in London.