by Alan Holmes
That morning I went out searching for Ploof was the turning point in what had been, until then, a rather unexciting summer. From that day on, I went to the Baichant farm almost daily to feed the ducks and the rest of the menagerie of barnyard creatures, and Michelle and I soon became fast friends. I think she craved the company of other children as much as I did.
Brenda joined me only on the first two visits of the many I made to the farm. I think Brenda felt nervous around Michelle, who had an obstreperous streak, and Brenda may have been squeamish about the crudeness of life on a farm. I, on the other hand, was at the peak of my “piglet” phase—this being the same year I had been expelled from l’École Sugerre for painting myself all over with ink—and I was totally fascinated, if not smitten, by the rough and dirty farm life.
Mother’s old injunction against associating with pauvres gens (poor folk or “lower class people”) may have been on Brenda’s mind. I never discussed the status of Madame Baichant with Mother so I can’t say with certainty that she thought of the Baichant family as pauvres gens. But the possibility that she viewed them this way was in the back of my mind.
My own rough idea of pauvres gens were people who led a wretched life and worked at wretched jobs. I couldn’t see how the term applied to Madame Baichant. She had a magnificent and productive farm, ran it extremely well, and it seemed to me that hers was a noble and worthy way to work and live.
In fact, I had by now switched my future career goal from locomotive driver to farmer—a prosperous one to be sure—owning a large, model farm. I even spent time on rainy days making elaborate drawings and plans for this ideal farm, allocating acreage to various crops and laying out the designs of farmhouses, barns, and barnyards.
It’s possible Mother had a more complicated explanation of the term pauvres gens than the one I had. But as far as I was concerned, explanations didn’t matter. The subject of my playing with Michelle never came up. What’s more, I don’t think Mother had the slightest notion of how much time I spent at the Baichant farm that summer. Having some doubts about her approval, I scrupulously avoided mentioning the subject.
Helping my cause in this matter was Mother’s sudden passion for golf, which she had played previously without much enthusiasm. Her interest started to grow after she no longer had the beach close by to entertain her. That summer, she became what the French called “enragée du golf” (“mad about golf”), spending mornings and afternoons at the golf course taking lessons and playing with a new group of friends.
She must have assumed that Raimond and Françoise were keeping an eye on Brenda and me, which was not really the case. Raimond certainly knew I was at the farm for I discussed with him in great detail almost everything I did there, and I suppose he could see no harm in it. Brenda stayed home, playing with her dolls and the little stove, and never expressed any curiosity about my activities at the farm, although she, too, was well aware of them.
Six days a week, Mother left the house with Brenda and me at eight thirty in the morning to drop us off at our gymnastics class on the beach in Hardelot. Late in the morning, after a round of golf, Mother picked us up and drove us home, and we seldom went back to the beach after lunch. Occasionally, Mother took me to an afternoon sand castle contest, where she left me to my creations while she returned to her golf game. Thus, on most days, I was free to go over to the Baichant farm in mid-afternoon to play with Michelle who, because she was up before six most mornings to help her mother, took a long nap after lunch.
My duck-feeding privilege soon evolved into feeding all the animals and doing various other farm chores. I was grateful to have something to relieve the monotony of our isolated existence.
Michelle and I became inseparable. She and Madame Baichant always greeted my arrival with obvious pleasure. Madame Baichant lavished praise and profuse thanks for everything I did, though I suspect that my contribution to their work effort was minuscule and perhaps more of a nuisance than any real help. Michelle did a great deal to help her mother, and I usually pitched in at whatever Michelle was doing, whether it was feeding their five pigs or the other animals, picking vegetables for the next morning’s run to Hardelot, or planting seedlings for winter vegetables.
Madame Baichant was a real chatterbox while we worked, and she could be quite funny; I enjoyed listening to her and asked her questions whenever she stopped talking. It was while the three of us were planting winter vegetables that I asked Madame Baichant where she sold her vegetables in winter, for I knew that Hardelot was uninhabited at that time of year.
“I have to take them to Boulogne once a week,” she replied. “Fifteen kilometers is a long way to go just for a few turnips, sprouts, and cabbages. A wholesaler in Boulogne crates them for me and sends them to les Halles (the big produce market) in Paris. The worst part for me is the long cart ride, often in cold, rainy weather. It’s two hours each way, and I’m alone on these trips because Michelle is in school. I’m always so thankful when summer shows his face!”
Madame Baichant’s winter work sounded pretty wretched, and I wondered if one could be pauvres gens on a part time basis, or even on an hourly basis. After all, she came home every night to her warm, cozy house, which I viewed as the perfect dwelling. The farmhouse appeared to me as totally complete and self-contained; it had everything she needed and nothing superfluous or frivolous. No electricity or running water to be sure—but Madame Baichant seemed to manage fine without these things. I couldn’t think of her as living a wretched life once she was back in her home.
Michelle worked in spells of twenty minutes to half an hour in length and always asked her mother if it were all right to take a break. She was never refused and usually returned to her tasks within a quarter of an hour without being asked to do so.
With Madame Baichant’s blessing, Michelle and I ran off towards the adjacent pasture, where several haystacks provided endless fun. One of the haystacks, which was crumbling on one side, had a ladder propped against it, forming the ideal “playstack.” We climbed its twelve-foot height and then slid deliciously down into the loose, deep hay at its base.
All the haystacks were loosely stacked, and it was possible to bury ourselves completely within the vertical wall of hay in the lower part of the stack. I enjoyed the delicious excitement of wondering whether I would be discovered as Michelle repeatedly passed close to where I hid, and there was also the feeling of dismay when she gave up and walked to another haystack to search for me. I eventually solved this dilemma by instituting the rule that after the seeker had passed near the hiding place twice and missed it, the hider had to jump out, startling the seeker, earning a point, and ending the round.
Between periods of work, another place Michelle and I played was in the barn, where the hay was stacked almost to the roof. There, an assortment of beams and diagonal posts made it possible, though challenging, to climb this Everest of hay; playing in deep, soft hay was sheer joy.
It was during a hay romp in the seclusion of the barn, that Michelle once pulled my short pants off, declaring in no uncertain terms that she had no little brother and was curious. “I’ll let you look at mine if you like,” she added coyly. It seemed a fair enough bargain.
We took turns exploring, touching and examining each other and were both very intrigued and amused by my becoming aroused, not to mention mysteriously and pleasantly excited in a strange way by our activities. We were both ignorant of the facts of life, and our investigations, though close to the subject, resulted in no enlightenment.
One thing Michelle and I knew was that we would be in major trouble if we were caught doing this. I have no idea how we knew this, for I have no recollection of any adult ever discussing such matters with me or warning me against what we were doing. But know it we did. So, motivated by the fear of consequences, we soon returned to less prurient and safer games. But the mysterious and delicious tension we both felt when playing this way temp
ted us to repeat these clandestine games a few more times that summer. This was one aspect of my visits to the Baichant farm that I did not discuss with Raimond.
The last chore of every afternoon at the Baichant farm was one I grew to anticipate with utmost pleasure. It was when Michelle went to Lili’s pasture and brought the mare back to her stall in preparation for the next morning’s run to Hardelot. Michelle could do this task by herself but always invited me to join her.
Earlier in the day, when Lili returned from the long morning’s round of deliveries in Hardelot, she was unhitched and led to a pasture a mile from the Baichant farm. During her afternoon visit to the pasture, Lili grazed contentedly in the company of several horses belonging to other Condette farmers. All the farm horses in Condette were of the Boulonais breed. They resemble Clydesdales in stature and are huge, powerful and handsome workhorses, gentle and intelligent, usually a dappled grayish-white (as was Lili) but sometimes a very dark brown, almost black.
When Michelle and I reached the horse pasture, Michelle called Lili’s name in a singsong tone. The horses, unlike the cows, had different names. Lili stopped her grazing, looked up as if to verify that she had heard Michelle call and, in a slow, unhurried gait, came towards us.
The big challenge of this operation was for the two of us to mount the huge mare. Michelle used a willow branch to coax Lili through the gate, which she then closed and latched. With a little more coaxing, Lili was induced to stand beside and close to the gate, which consisted of a frame made with several widely spaced horizontal planks. The planks served as ladder rungs by which we climbed to a height level with the horse’s back.
Standing precariously on the narrow edge of a plank high up the gate and a good four feet from the center of Lili’s back, Michelle took a great sideways leap. She landed awkwardly on the center of Lili’s broad back and scooted herself forward so that I could use the same landing site. “Come on,” she said, “it’s easy!”
I clambered uncertainly up the gate and stood three boards down from the top board, as had Michelle, like a diver nervously hesitating to take the plunge.
“She won’t wait forever!” exclaimed Michelle, providing me with the best of all possible incentives. I jumped, but jumped too far and slid off headfirst on the far side of Lili, who continued to stand still, apparently indifferent and possibly oblivious to my debacle. Although my outstretched arms took the brunt of the fall, it was quite a drop. I picked myself up, dazed and not sure I was still in one piece. With Michelle insisting that it was essential that I try again right away if Lili were ever to tolerate my riding her, I climbed the gate once more.
On the second try, I landed flat across Lili’s back with my nose pressed hard against her smooth coat. I lay there for a moment noticing the distinct and not unpleasant odor that horses exude, knowing I hadn’t achieved my goal. Then, with much squirming, I finally succeeded in righting myself and assuming some semblance of a riding stance. I must explain that being astride Lili was almost like sitting on a flat floor. Her back was so broad and the curvature so slight that it would be stretching the truth to claim that my legs dangled on either side of her.
“Hold onto my waist,” said Michelle, who then let out two staccato yelps that sounded like, “Youpe! Youpe!” This was Lili’s cue to start moving.
Michelle’s yelps had been worthy of a command for a cavalry charge at full gallop, so I was pleasantly relieved when I discovered that Lili was in no hurry. Her coat was slippery and, as she swayed from side to side, I slid first left then right, teetering on the brink of falling off with each stride the horse took. My situation was precarious in the extreme, for all I could do was hold onto Michelle, who was sliding around as much as I was, even though she had the advantage of being able to clutch onto the horse’s mane. It was testimony to Lili’s generous and gentle nature that we completed the journey without falling off.
I was gloriously intoxicated by my position of great and majestic height and by the thrill of power that comes from being aboard a nearly unstoppable craft. I was sure that a maharajah felt this way when riding his elephant through the jungle in India. There were also the moments of acute suspense—when I wondered whether Lili would make the small course deviations needed to avoid the low branches looming across our path. The branches would have swept the two of us off her back as surely as Lili’s tail swept away the flies that alighted on her.
Once, when Michelle let me ride in front, I discovered to my surprise and dismay that there was in fact no way to steer our huge steed. Pulling one way or the other on her mane did not cause the slightest change in Lili’s inexorable course. She was self-directed by her own instincts and by an eventual reward consisting of a couple of carrots, delivered upon a safe return to her stall.
When we approached the farm, Lili automatically headed for a pile of hay in the Baichant farmyard. There, she came to a stop, and Michelle and I dismounted by sliding off her back into the soft hay. Lest anyone think that Lili was motivated by innate goodwill and intelligence in this last part of her journey, let me point out that she wasted no time in starting to munch noisily on the hay and that it took considerable effort to persuade her to continue on to her stall. The mare had no halter, so all we could do was to coax her in that direction by tantalizing her with two small carrots; Michelle had tucked these in the ample pockets of her smock for the purpose. Lili was a pushover for carrots, willing to forego a mound of hay for the two tiny succulent morsels.
Once Lili was safely in her stall, I dashed home and climbed into a warm bath which Françoise always had drawn and waiting for me. Mother never saw my soil-caked knees and hands or the sandbars of black sand in the bottom of the tub after the water had been drained. For all she knew, I had spent an angelic afternoon staying spotlessly clean, seeing to it that Brenda’s dolls had a gentle father and a good diet of carefully prepared doll meals.
The summer slipped by in this idyllic way until the day when Monsieur Baichant appeared for his annual visit, riding in a cart that was the twin of Madame Baichant’s. Unlike hers, which always gleamed, his was a mess, spattered with a year’s worth of mud and manure. Michelle had warned me of his arrival and the purpose of his visit. He had come to slaughter three of Madame Baichant’s five pigs. Michelle invited me to this ritual which, she said, “Te montrera bien des choses,” (“Will show you a thing or two.”)
Monsieur Baichant had brought along a helper, a furtive, sinister-looking man whom I shall refer to as “Beady-Eyes” because his eyes were set very close together and were, in fact, like two small black marbles in his triangular, rat-like face. He glowered at Michelle and me with those mean little eyes, as if he didn’t think we had any business being spectators at this pig slaughter.
Michelle greeted her father with “Bonjour Papa!” but her words elicited no reply. Monsieur Baichant acted as though he were angry with her and said not a thing to her the whole time we were present. Michelle and I stood in silence watching every move the two men made. Madame Baichant was nowhere around.
Aside from taking a few swigs from a bottle of red wine, the pair wasted no time. Entering the pigsty, the two men set about tackling one of the animals. The pigs, usually placid enough, were soon aware that something out of the usual was afoot and, panicking, led the two men on an unmerry chase around the sty.
Baichant and Beady-eyes eventually succeeded in holding one of the pigs down long enough to pass a small noose around its hind legs. Once the noose was drawn tight, they dragged the pig to the barn where they left it lying and squealing deafeningly while they went about rounding up various implements they needed for the next step. This included two large galvanized tubs, which they placed beside the pig, and a block and tackle that Monsieur Baichant carried up the hay ladder and hooked to one of the barn’s rafters. Then the men hooked the other end of the tackle to the rope around the pig’s hind legs.
After another swig of wine, bo
th men now pulled together on the tackle’s rope and slowly raised the two-hundred-pound pig until its snout hung slightly more than a foot off the ground. The animal’s loud squealing continued unabated while all this was in progress, but when it reached a full hanging position, the squealing turned into a series of long, mournful moans, as if the pig accepted the futility of further struggle. The men placed one of the tubs directly beneath the animal and the other tub off to one side of it and, while the pig continued to moan, took time for another swig of wine.
I didn’t actually see the act, only its result, for Beady-Eyes was standing between me and the pig. He had with him a small, sharp knife that he used to slash a short incision in the pig’s neck. When he stepped back, I saw a jet of wine-red blood spurt sideways into the tub beside the pig. The pig let out one short, sharp squeal at the stab but then fell silent, though it was still alive, for I saw its ears twitching steadily for quite some time. “Il ne sent rien!” (“He feels nothing!”) declared Beady-Eyes, as if trying to justify his deed.
The men took turns on the bottle of wine while they watched the slowly diminishing stream of blood in silence. The pig’s ears finally stopped twitching. “Voilà, il est mort!” (“That’s it, he’s dead!”) said Beady-Eyes definitively. A minute later, the jet of blood ceased and turned into a trickle that went down the pig’s snout and into the second tub beneath it. The slow bleeding continued for several minutes.
All this time, Michelle and I watched, transfixed in horror. I wanted to run from the scene, but, as if hypnotized, was unable to do so. Once it had been initiated, I had to know the outcome of this dreadful ritual.
Eventually, the dead pig was lowered, dragged along the ground, and then lifted into Monsieur Baichant’s filthy cart. Michelle told me the slaughtered pigs would be taken to a charcuterie (pork specialty shop) in Boulogne and that her mother would receive half the proceeds of the sale.