‘Come on!’ I yell into the snowy abyss.
And it’s not Doris I’m calling. It’s myself.
23
CIRCE
Zuleika has landed. And it isn’t long before the local inhabitants – that’s me – begin to feel the strain of the invasion.
La Folie, so big and yet so small, is still waiting to be renovated. Sure, I have built gates and nesting boxes; feed-troughs and fences. I have installed a shower in the bathroom and made other puny domestic improvements. But the yawning void of the summer sitting-room and the whole of the maison des amis are still waiting for me to press the maçons and menuisiers into committing to a definite date for starting work. In the meantime, the liveable part of the house is no bigger than a pocket submarine. This may be fine for one man and his cat. But it’s not with several people staying, especially when one of them is Zuleika.
I thought Zuleika was going to be coming alone. And then, in an email, she casually mentioned something about ‘my current squeeze’, so I asked if she’d like to bring someone with her. She said yes, please; she’d bring her gay flatmate, Billy. And my brother Steven, a sculptor, and his Romanian wife Lumi have decided to come, too. So we shall be five for New Year. It has not occurred to me that such a decompression from the depths of my hermitic retreat could give me the bends as I rise to the surface.
But the real problem is that Zuleika is a paid-up Big Smoke person, allergic to mud, fresh air and – as I shall soon discover – me. She needs her own space, too. A lot of it. God knows why I ever thought a few days at La Folie might be good for her.
Marisa said La Folie felt like sanctuary; Simon called it A Perfect Place. Two of my flying pals from Rochester who came in August were so bored that they spent most of the daytime in bed. Bemused French visitors describe it as le bout du monde, the end of the world. One childhood friend who stayed was so flummoxed by the lack of distractions that she spent a whole weekend yelling and swearing at me, and then couldn’t understand why I dropped the teapot when she suggested a second visit. My dad has told me things here that he never told me back home in England. And Zuleika?
Zuleika’s stay starts so well. I manage to turn up at Limoges airport on time in the Espace, and we seem to have a million things to say to each other as we drive back to La Folie. Next morning, we go to the market at St Juste, though it’s hardly the weather for being outside. The wash of sunlight that filters through the milky clouds fails to melt the sugar-frosting on the fields. But we need provisions, and Zuleika saves me from buying unwanted fromage from a cheese lady who has inveigled me into trying a piece – I’m so bad at saying non – and a gnarled old gent in a black beret advises her not to purchase any of the huge black radishes in the market.
‘I warn you, Madame, they can stick in your throat and kill you.’
This is all very charming, and satisfies Zuleika’s craving for French Experiences.
Steven and Lumi arrive, and Zuleika – wanting solitude, or a stronger signal on her mobile – decides to walk down to Jolibois in the icy rain. I’ve rather lost track of the days, what with the sick sheep and the visitors, and forget to tell her that, as it’s Monday, all the shops will be shut. She returns looking like a cartoon cat that has been locked in a cold-store. If we touch her, I fear she’ll shatter into a thousand pieces.
And from here on in, things begin to go poire-shaped. Zuleika’s flatmate, Billy, arrives, bringing me teabags and lemon-butter biscuits from Fortnum’s. For Zuleika, he brings a personality transplant. Her gentleness and warmth vanish, and now she’s all glossy brilliance and irony and a thousand miles away. Her double-act with Billy functions as an extended private joke.
There were meant to be five of us at La Folie for the nouvel an. But with all Zuleika’s personalities on display, there are at least twelve people sitting down to dinner. And eight of them vant to be alone.
The storm-clouds gather. Zuleika has stopped speaking to me, and appears to be trapped in a small black mood to which only Billy has access. Unused to either mucking in or muddling along, both of them look cold and miserable in their black designer clothes, and only perk up when their mobiles bleep with another text message from the outside world. I presume they’re texting Air-Sea Rescue at Culdrose, in an attempt to get themselves winched out of here.
‘This place feels like the Big Brother house,’ I hear Zuleika murmur to Billy, ‘only without the comfy chairs.’
Everybody is trapped, and it must be my fault. I’ve raced down to the supermarket umpteen times, provided lashings of wine, kept the stove burning with enough logs to immolate several martyrs, driven people wherever they want to go, offered them the use of either car, and it isn’t enough. The trouble is that, once you come in and shut the door behind you, there are no distractions here. There is no telly; no place to hide.
I had imagined that my guests would take pleasure in helping out with some of the outdoor tasks around La Folie, but it turns out that they’re much happier feeling bored indoors than staggering out into the blizzard to chop wood or collect eggs or help me inject the sheep.
‘I’ll do my best to help, Mike, if it’s absolutely vital,’ says Steven, shivering beside the stove.
‘Has Michael always been this gung-ho?’ I hear Billy ask, in an appalled stage-whisper.
‘He’s always had a thing about self-improvement, especially for other people,’ laughs Steven, who sounds as if he knows I’m listening. ‘When Star Wars first came out, and our whole family went to see it in Bogotá, he brought his school notes along to give us a lecture on Napoleon in the queue outside the cinema. And then he tested us, to make sure we’d been listening.’
I smile at the memory of this me from another universe; I wish I had his childlike certainty to help me now.
Indoors or outdoors, it’s too cold and miserable for my guests, and all the charming local restaurants I promised them are closed. The air in the submarine is rapidly running out. So I carry on as usual, by myself. Only it’s worse than usual, because the sheep appear to have deteriorated. Tonight I found bright splotches of blood in the feed-trough.
I am used to feeling alone, but not this alone.
‘Are we still connected?’ I ask my friend, as she sits in another country by the stove. Even the cat has decided it prefers Zuleika to me. At this rate, I’ll soon be talking to the goldfish.
‘Yes, we are,’ she lies.
Outside in the gathering dusk, I can see Daphne and Ella at the water-trough, dipping their soft muzzles to drink. But the water has turned to ice.
24
JANUARY: THE WILD BULL OF CRETE
La Folie is empty again, and I am struggling to return to my familiar rhythms. I had hoped that having a house full of guests would recharge my batteries, but instead they appear to have been drained.
And then, one fateful morning in the barn, there is a violent change. Gaston stands motionless in his pen as I feel my way through the darkness. He doesn’t move as I come closer to examine him. Instead, he lowers his weary head, as though too weak to support it any longer.
And that’s when he charges me.
Luckily the little rascal doesn’t have room to get up much speed. But it doesn’t half get your attention when thirty pounds of flying Ouessant ram crash headlong into your unsuspecting thigh in the dark. It’s like being karate-kicked by a Chelsea pensioner.
I clench my fist. I yell. I punch the air. Not because I’m hurt, but because I’m so happy. For I know what this means. It means that the randy old patriarch is on the mend. Gaston is back. It makes me want to hug him. And then he lowers his head for another charge.
Under the circumstances, I opt to skip the hug. I can take his temperature tomorrow morning. Instead, I half run and half dance out into the frosty sunlight. For this promises to be a happy new year, after all.
Peter Viola phones, and suggests a New Year flight. So things are looking up all round.
At the aeroclub, a small crowd has gathered to drink coff
ee and discuss flying. They watch with fascination as we zip ourselves into the Arctic survival suits that Peter pulls out of his locker.
‘Only les Anglais are crazy enough to go flying in this weather,’ growls grouchy old Marcel, sucking on a cigarillo. Peter winks at me as we wheel his microlight out of its hangar.
‘C’est vrai,’ Peter calls back to Marcel, grinning with delight. ‘And only les Français are crazy enough not to.’
We soar over the Monts de Blond in the Thruster, which feels like a motorbike with wings, only noisier and draughtier.
‘This is the life,’ yells Peter over the distorted intercom. I give him a thumbs-up and we grin at each other. I can’t wait to have the Luscombe here at St Juste. But first I still need a thumbs-up from the committee, before I can be granted a space in the hangar. And in the meantime, the weeks and months drift by.
A British couple lands soon after us, in a battered old 1940s Auster they’ve flown down from Fontenay-le-Comte.
‘God, it feels good to blow away the cobwebs, after the New Year we’ve had,’ says the pilot, Gary, jumping down from the cockpit. He’s a big man, in a voluminous sheepskin flying-jacket. I can see why he needs such a big plane.
‘Why, what went wrong?’ I ask.
‘Oh, you know. Friends to stay,’ he groans. ‘What’s so funny about that?’
‘Sorry,’ I say, converting my smile into a frown. ‘It’s not. I’m Michael, by the way. How was the flight?’
‘Couldn’t see a damn thing, really,’ he says. ‘Thought we might wind up in Spain, there was so much cloud. And then it cleared, and here we are.’
‘I love these old things,’ murmurs Peter, gazing appreciatively at the Auster, and addressing no one in particular. ‘I had one myself once; wish I’d never sold it.’
‘So New Year was a bit of a trial?’ I ask, turning to Gary’s wife, Liz, all blond highlights and tailored tweeds, who is checking the Auster’s undercarriage. A pilot herself, she looks as if she’d be more at home at the controls of a Citation than an Auster.
‘It was absolutely awful,’ she says, ducking out from under the wing. ‘We had a houseful of grumpy Londoners, who complained because the house is only half renovated.’
‘And you couldn’t go outside because of the weather?’
‘Exactly.’ She nods, the word trailing off as she gazes at me.
‘And all the wonderful little restaurants you promised them, the ones with ten-euro menus, were shut?’ I continue, feeling a warm glow creeping up my spine.
‘How did you guess?’ asks Gary, squinting at me with interest.
‘I was there.’
‘And when we did finally find an expensive place for New Year’s Eve,’ continues Liz, ‘it wasn’t terribly good.’
‘Well, at least you found somewhere.’
‘Yes, and everyone got terrible food poisoning.’
‘Ah, thank you.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ asks Liz, bemused.
‘Sorry. I mean, poor you.’
‘How was your New Year, then?’ she asks.
‘Not half as bad as I thought.’
Each day seems to dawn more icily than the last. Yet today the sky is so clear and blue and gilded with early-morning sun, the temperature could be another ten degrees colder and I wouldn’t mind. Gone is the squelch underfoot of the past few days. Now the ground crunches like walking on muesli. With the dreary zinc patina of sleet and snow scraped away, the world looks refreshed: raw as a gleaming snake that’s just shrugged off its worn-out skin. I can breathe freely at last.
Gazing out of my bedroom window at the frosty beauty of La Folie – at the white trees and the perfect sky – I feel renewed. Frustrating as it is to waste this perfect flying weather, the world is still beautiful, I remind myself.
I have just put a saucepan of water on the stove to boil myself an egg when I remember that I took a dozen eggs to Fred and Émilie yesterday. So the fridge is bare. I wander out to the chicken house, and find a freshly laid one just sitting there, ready for my breakfast. The sight of its smooth, pale perfection, nestling in the straw, makes me smile. In the nesting box on the other side, Martha is in the process of laying another, with Melissa queueing next in line. They often prefer to queue rather than use the ‘wrong’ side. Gilles says that the eggs are better left for a couple of days before eating them. ‘Sinon, ils sont toxiques,’ he warns, wagging his sawn-off finger at me. But today’s is still warm when I slide it into the trembling water.
Nevertheless, it is not a boiled egg that has made today such a good day. The good news is that Gaston is officially better. Out in the barn, I’ve shoved the thermometer up his bum, just like the vet did, carefully avoiding eye-contact out of respect for the old boy’s dignity, and because I don’t want him to charge me again. His temperature is back to normal. Still a bit off-colour, perhaps, and still a bit runny in the nostril department. But he has a future after all, and the wheezing and snorting have passed. There is not a trace of blood from Ramekin’s nose when I grab him for his last injection. And I could swear that Doris smiles a brave smile at me as she submits to the final needle.
Sheep smell wonderful, especially when you know they’re feeling better; when you know you won’t have to give them any more injections for a long time. And there’s no doubt about it this time: Doris definitely gives me her gap-toothed, gummy smile as I gently hoist her over the fence, and Ramekin bounces with lamb-like delight as I stand him next to his dad in the frosted grass.
The other sheep come trotting over to greet the returning heroes and listen to their tales of war and woe. They are a flock again, and hustle back up the field to their favourite tree, like happy teenagers who have rediscovered their old friends at the start of a new school term.
Seeing them all together reminds me that I urgently need to find a home for my surplus rams. It won’t be long before they are all fighting again. And lambing – if it should happen – may be only a couple of months away. The moment will come when I must capture three of Ramekin’s young brothers – Charlie, and the two sweet-faced thugs – and take them on a journey from which they will not return. But for now I just watch their silent communion, and give thanks.
25
PHAETHON
With the sheep fully recovered, I can start thinking about the house again, and about persuading some local ouvriers to start doing heroic things on my behalf.
Today, after a mercy dash to the boulangerie, I am off to buy kitchen units in Limoges. Never mind that the kitchen in the maison des amis is a figment of my imagination, and still needs a floor, walls and a staircase to the next level. I never was very good at getting my priorities right.
Usually, when driving anywhere, I take the Espace Mouton-Mover and brim with local pride. I still feel such a beacon of Englishness in le Pug Rouge that I need only fly a Union Jack from the aerial and fill the boot with a dozen crates of Stella to complete the picture. The jovial comments from the locals about an English invasion don’t help, however warmly they are meant. But gazole is so much cheaper than super in France that on longer trips I crouch down in le Pug and do without the friendly waves of passers-by. I really should transfer the little car on to a French immatriculation.
The road out of Jolibois splits into two lanes as it curves up and around a steep hill. Seeing a lorry ahead of me, I put my foot down as I pass the Risque de Verglas sign. There’s no danger of skidding, because it hasn’t been raining that hard. Absolutely no danger at all.
I’m level with the lorry’s tail-gate when the steering begins to wobble.
Ace driver that I am, I ease off the accelerator and work on controlling the wobble.
And the wobble gets a whole lot worse.
Mon Dieu. Seconds divide themselves into tenths, and then the tenths subdivide into hundredths.
Now I’m swerving left, right, left … oh, my giddy aunt … and the world is flying sideways as the car takes me on my most expensive fairground ride ever.
> Somehow I manage to miss the lorry, largely because the car is now spinning backwards up the hill at sixty miles per hour on the wrong side of the road, yet somehow in slow motion.
This is going to hurt.
In the split-second before the impact, I feel more embarrassed than afraid.
Considering that I hit the ditch/bank combo side-on at about fifty, the crash is almost disappointing. I open my eyes to find that I am not playing a harp on a cloud after all, and – apart from the poor old Pug – the only thing I’ve broken is the baguette de campagne that was on the dashboard before me. My shoulder’s sore, too, and the engine is making horrible gurgling noises, so I switch it off and push what’s left of the car off the road and into the ditch. There’s no hiding that English number-plate.
I pull out my mobile. But I can’t think of anyone to phone.
What happens next is deeply touching and, I suspect, deeply French. Every driver who passes slows down, not to gawp, but to ask if I need help. Weather-beaten dudes sucking on Gitanes; stately women with plum-coloured hair; even a couple of very pretty young things whose offers of assistance tempt me to reply that, bien sûr, I am at death’s door, but that if they would just come and gently stroke my forehead, it might perhaps ease my passing into the hereafter.
Then a Merc swishes up, closely followed by the rattle of a battered 2CV. A wiry businessman and a swarthy paysan approach me: Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, right on cue.
‘Are you all right?’ they enquire, as we all gaze at my ex-voiture and discuss the scale of the damage to my ego.
‘You’re the third person who’s done that here this month,’ says Don Quixote gravely. ‘We must phone the police.’
‘Un moment, s’il vous plaît,’ I entreat. My hands appear to be shaking. Do I really want to get the gendarmes involved?
‘You haven’t been drinking?’ hiccups Sancho. No, I haven’t been drinking. But a month ago I was fined forty euros for not carrying a spare brake-light bulb. And I still don’t have a red emergency triangle in my car. So the guillotine beckons. Obviously I can’t tell this to the Don or Sancho, in case they decide to make a citizen’s arrest.
C'est La Folie Page 18