French Fried: one man's move to France with too many animals and an identity thief

by Chris Dolley

  A defender sprinted back towards the goal. It was a race. The ball and him. No one else was close enough to intervene. The ball growing in size as it hurtled earthwards, the defender positioning himself on the goal line, his neck craned skyward.

  Surely it couldn’t go in? Not from there? The ball was almost directly over the goal, falling from an impossible angle.

  Thud. The dull sound of leather on a cranium rapidly losing consciousness. And goal. The ball found the only gap possible to find and still score. The gap between the defenders head and the crossbar. True, he managed to get his head to the ball but that only served to flatten him and catapult the ball into the roof of the net. So creating a win double – goal scored and one of their best players removed from the game all in one stroke.

  Which just goes to show the power of the miss-kick. If I’d connected cleanly the wind would have taken the ball sailing across the pitch and over for a throw-in. But I hadn’t. And I’d scored.

  oOo

  Unfortunately, there were no strong winds in Cassagne that afternoon.

  But I didn’t care, I was revelling in my newfound speed and youth. Flicking balls off the back foot, dribbling past attackers in my own penalty area, being substituted soon after ... it was just like old times.

  I’d set myself two goals for the match – one, not to throw up in public, and two, to leave the pitch without the aid of medical intervention. I’d succeeded admirably on both counts.

  All I had to do now was survive the after-match meal.

  oOo

  Both teams were invited to drinks and a meal in the old square and, being France, the invitation was extended to all supporters and all villagers as well.

  It was a superb location: an ancient church flanked one side, the Mairie and Village Hall another, a row of old stone houses formed the third side and a low wall completed the square. And beyond that wall, a grassy bank led down to a tree-lined river.

  We arrived just before eight, Shelagh having insisted we go home first – not to change, but to keep me away from the bar. Thirst and restraint never sit well together and she wanted to make sure I was fully hydrated before being allowed anywhere near a bar.

  A restraint not shown by any of the other footballers’ wives.

  As we walked into the square, it soon became obvious that, as the Irish so aptly put it, drink had been taken. A corner of the square was awash with celebrating joueurs and assorted hangers on. The Ricard was flowing, the conversation bouncing and somewhere hidden behind the pack of bodies was a bar dispensing drinks. What more could a person want?

  How about a barbecue?

  That was there too, over by the Mairie, a selection of steaks and chops laid out on a large grill propped up on stones over an open fire. Remy stood in attendance, a spatula in one hand and a Ricard in the other. Resplendent in T-shirt, shorts and apron, he flitted between the barbecue and the kitchen of one of the small medieval stone houses opposite – which I later found out was the team’s clubhouse. Was there any end to the advantages of playing for Racing Club?

  Before I could find out, I was spotted and a glass was thrust in my hand from one direction as a bottle of Ricard appeared from another. I was still trying to find the words for “I’m not sure if I like Ricard,” when I discovered I had a glassful.

  And so did Shelagh.

  In fact, as I scanned the square, the only people who didn’t have a glass of Ricard in their hands were those who had two. There was Ricard naturelle, Ricard with green menthe and Ricard with grenadine – clear, green and red – undoubtedly some country’s flag, one of the more aniseed-loving Caribbean nations perhaps.

  And it kept coming, from all directions – even Shelagh couldn’t block them all and as for me, well, I didn’t try. Around us, the conversation rose and fell with the bottles of Ricard. Great feats from the match were analysed and exaggerated. It had been a classic game, one of the best, two teams of heroes, everyone agreed.

  Above us, the clouds had pushed away and the early stars were twinkling through the fading sunset pinks and blues. The smell of wood smoke and grilled meat filled the square, and laughter echoed from every wall.

  When the food was ready, we adjourned to the lines of benches and trestle tables that had been set up next to the church. And on came the floodlights. The whole square illuminated: two huge artificial suns in a deep black sky, and all around us the yellow, stone walls of antiquity – the high-walled knave, the church tower, the gargoyles.

  I couldn’t think of a better backdrop for a meal.

  The Ricard was finally put away and out came the wine, litre after litre. The football stories grew in both telling and volume, everyone had a story to tell, an amazing feat of skill to eulogise. A passer-by would have been incredulous to learn the score had only been 3-1. How was that possible with so many shots on goal, so many great players, so many action-packed incidents?

  By the time the last steak had disappeared, we were not so much heroes as lions. Two teams of lions pitched in monumental combat, the like of which hadn’t been seen since the last time we’d played.

  Ah, alcohol, coach to the Gods.

  It was about this time that the eldest lion tried to get up from the table and found the exertions of the afternoon had finally caught up with him. His legs had seized. I’d been a little stiff walking from the car to the square but, plied with Ricard and given a bench to sit on, I’d forgotten all about it. But now, as I tried to stand up, the pain hit me – from the back of my thighs all the way down to the large number of pain receptors I’d suddenly discovered in my calves.

  And my back didn’t feel that good either.

  Leaning on his lioness, the eldest lion left the table and limped homeward, his mane threadbare but head held high. Above him, moths flitted like dark shadows against the floodlights and cicadas harmonised to a chorus of “Wimaway.”

  This lion would definitely sleep tonight.

  Crime and Poetry

  It was supposed to be a routine call to Simon Gardiner, our financial adviser: a few suggestions about possible changes to our unit trusts and a couple of questions about what had happened to the promised quarterly reports. Instead it turned into one of the worst moments of my life.

  Our investment bond – the bulk of the proceeds from our house sale, our life savings, the money that was going to fund our new life in France – had just disappeared.

  “You cancelled it in April,” came the voice down the line.

  It was now September. September 22nd. Friday. Three o’clock.

  I froze. This was a piece of financial advice I had not been expecting.

  “No, I didn’t,” I replied, hoping that there’d been some kind of mistake.

  I could hear a riffling of papers, pages being turned, a note of panic in Simon’s voice.

  “I ... er ... have the correspondence here. Yes ... April.”

  I couldn’t believe it. This could not be happening. Not to me. Things like this happened to other people!

  And then I thought about horseboxes and flying roofs, vignettes and roadblocks, football and flues ... and realised ... I’m just the kind of person this does happen to.

  It was a shock. That sudden shift in my internal picture. I was no longer the person who sat safe and warm watching events unfold upon the television screen. I was the person in front of the camera. The man standing in the doorway as the getaway car mounts the pavement. The man eating his sandwiches in the park when the sniper opens the attic window.

  They’re all me.

  A voice on the line called me back. There was a chance the money hadn’t been paid over.

  “There was a dispute with the insurer about the valuation of the bond and I think – yes, here it is – it’s still outstanding. And we still have the originals of the bond. I don’t think it could have been encashed without them.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  “No. It’s up to the insurer whether they require the originals or not. It’s unusual but..
.”

  He didn’t have to continue. Unusual but not unknown. And with my luck...

  “And even if the money hasn’t been paid out,” he continued, “all the investments would have been liquidated.”

  “In April?” I asked.

  “In April,” he confirmed.

  Just before the stock markets took off. Just before our investment bond began the 17% rise I’d so eagerly tracked for the last six months. It had been our one success story since leaving England. My trump card whenever cars broke down, fires smoked, dogs keeled over and horses succumbed to ten-foot long caterpillars. At least our finances were booming. If we hadn’t sold the farm and come to France, we wouldn’t have benefited from the surge in the stock markets.

  I should have known it was too good to be true. The only other time we’d dabbled in the stock market was a week before the 1987 crash. Would I never learn?

  But how could someone get their hands on our money without us knowing about it? Why didn’t someone write to us for confirmation? Or give us a call?

  There was more shuffling of papers and then the voice came back.

  Simon had a photocopy of a cancellation letter we’d supposedly written to Mutual Friendly, the life insurance company that held our money. He read it out.

  I listened in growing amazement.

  “Thank you for your letter, received here on 7th April. For domestic reasons we will not proceed with this investment at this time and therefore ask for repayment of the monies paid. Please pay this, by transfer and at our expense, to our business account in Spain, this being the wish of us both.

  “As our house is in the process of restoration, please address any further correspondence to our hotel, being as above.

  “We particularly request that you and your agents respect our privacy in this matter. We do not wish to discuss our change of mind and will contact our agent at a later date to talk over further investment possibilities.”

  It was very clever. Plausible even. And in three paragraphs it had severed all links between us and our money.

  “Where was the hotel?”

  “Er, let’s see ... Boulogne.”

  “And the Spanish bank?”

  “It doesn’t say.”

  Probably somewhere on the Costas. It had that ring about it. A ferry to Boulogne to set up an address in France, a cheap flight to the Costas to open a bank account.

  I still couldn’t believe it. Even after everything that had happened to us, this was just beyond belief. I was numbed. Mentally and physically.

  Simon said he’d contact Mutual Friendly, inform them and find out the exact status of the bond. He’d ring back as soon as he had any news.

  “You’re taking this very calmly,” he said before ringing off.

  “Yes, I am,” I said. But I knew someone who wouldn’t.

  I opened the window and shouted down to the figure bringing in the washing. “You’re not going to believe this.”

  She didn’t.

  oOo

  We hung around the phone for the next hour in shock. How and who and why hadn’t someone told us? The same questions repeated over and over again.

  Then the phone rang. It was Simon. Mutual Friendly had been informed; they were starting an investigation. He’d had their verbal assurance that no money had been paid out but we’d have to write to them for the written confirmation. And we’d also have to make an official request for compensation as the bond had been encashed. All the unit trusts had been liquidated and Mutual Friendly were holding the proceeds.

  “How much?”

  “They wouldn’t say. That’s another thing you’ll have to ask in your letter.”

  We were given the name and address of the manager to write to. And could Simon have a copy for his files. And what about the gendarmes? Would we be contacting them?

  I didn’t particularly want to. With our track record of making ourselves understood in French police stations, we’d probably be arrested on the spot as accomplices.

  But there was that hotel in Boulogne. They could always check that out.

  “Have you got the full address of the hotel in Boulogne?”

  “Yes, it’s...” He paused for a while, “I’d better spell it.” Which he did – the Hôtel du Midi, Boulogne sur Save.

  Boulogne sur Save? I couldn’t believe it. I was there last month playing football!

  This was no longer a quick ferry trip from England to set up an address for correspondence – this was someone coming to within fifteen miles of our home.

  “Is the letter from the hotel dated?” I asked. If we knew the dates, the gendarmes could check the hotel register. Maybe there’d be a forwarding address or a car registration number.

  More riffling of paper and then, “I have a copy of a fax here. Let me see ... it’s addressed from the hotel on the 29th May and ... sent at 14:37.”

  But was the fax sent from the hotel? Just because someone writes Boulogne sur Save at the top of a fax, it doesn’t mean that’s where it came from.

  “Was there a fax number for the hotel?”

  There was. And that was something else for the gendarmes to check.

  oOo

  The rest of the day swept by in a daze. Stunned silences followed by animated discussions of who, what, why and how. Our lives had rarely been touched by crime. We’d had a car stolen and that was it. But now I’d been impersonated. Someone was out there – pretending to be me – staying at hotels, setting up bank accounts, cancelling bonds and doing God knows what else.

  The end of Shelagh’s tether, never particularly distant since our arrival in France, was now in plain sight. We should never have come to France, it had been a huge mistake, let’s put the house on the market and take the next flight home.

  Which brought us back to quarantine, horse transport and a picture of hell that we were only too well acquainted with.

  Which brought on another cycle of stunned silence and subsequent who, what, why and hows.

  The night didn’t get any better. I couldn’t sleep. I found myself going over and over everything that had happened and all the things that should have happened.

  Why had I felt compelled to entrust all our money to the stock market? Why hadn’t I left it in the building society or buried it in the back garden?

  Or listened to Gally when he’d suggested we invest it all in mouse futures?

  The answer was, of course, the dream.

  oOo

  Although some might call it a vision. It was July 1994 and I suddenly awoke one morning with the certain knowledge that the London Stock Market had reached its bottom. From now on, my dream informed me, it could only rise. Whether this came from God or His financial adviser, the dream didn’t say. But what I did know was that after years of non-profit dreaming, I was, at last, given something I could use.

  Well, that’s not exactly true. I’d had a vaguely similar dream when I was seventeen. That time I dreamt that a horse called Hatherop was about to win a race. Which was a pretty strange thing for a seventeen year-old to dream about, as Hatherop was neither a famous horse nor a name that readily tripped off the tongue. I awoke in a sweat and ran to find the morning paper, almost tearing the pages in my anxiety to find the racing pages.

  Incredibly Hatherop was running that day and priced at 16-1. That afternoon I stopped off on the way to school and placed everything I had – four shillings – on Hatherop to win.

  He didn’t.

  My faith was destroyed. What was the point of a shoulder tap from the celestial racing correspondent if the information was duff? And I’d lost half my paper round money in the process!

  My mood was not helped when Hatherop went on to win his next race – at even longer odds. Shouldn’t prophecies be more specific? Have a date stamp or something?

  But this Footsie dream was different. I was sure of it.

  Shelagh reminded me of the £1,000 we’d invested a week before the 1987 crash. And what about the pound? Three days after we left England
on our first house-hunting expedition to France, the pound crashed out of the ERM and nose-dived towards parity with the Franc.

  But I couldn’t be shaken, after all, I was the person with the vision. So we diverted some of our savings into an index-linked unit trust ... and the stock market began to climb – exactly as my dream said it would.

  A month later we bought shares for the first time. I dowsed the Financial Times and decided Southern Electric had a distinct aura surrounding its name. Three months later Southern Electric almost doubles in price and I have the golden touch.

  After that, where else could I invest the money from the house sale but the stock market? Which is when I contacted Simon Gardiner at Eastleigh and Howard and asked him for suggestions. He came back with a proposal for a portfolio of unit trusts held in an off-shore investment bond. I’d have the flexibility of selecting the unit trusts whenever I had a suitable dream and the whole would be held under the tax efficient umbrella of an insurance bond issued by Mutual Friendly in Dublin.

  That is, until it was even more efficiently cancelled a few weeks later.

  I’m not sure which is worse: never having a prophetic dream or having one and then finding your winnings are void – the bookie having legged it before the first bend.

  oOo

  There are eight stages to being robbed, I’m told. Denial, shock, guilt and despair are all in there and I was cycling through them all. Was it my fault? Guilt. Why hadn’t I rung up in July and asked what had happened to the second quarterly report? Or queried the non-arrival of Simon’s promised six-monthly portfolio evaluation? I’d said I was going to. Many times. But the stock markets were doing brilliantly and I didn’t want to bother anyone.

  Could that be construed as culpability?

  Would Mutual Friendly refuse to pay out as I’d been negligent?

  Then came anger. Why should the insurer blame me for negligence? It was their fault, wasn’t it? There must have been a signature – two signatures – didn’t they check them? And weren’t they suspicious? Why on earth would anyone take out a bond and then cancel it within a month? Didn’t they think it strange? There’d be cancellation fees!