Return to the Olive Farm (The Olive Series Book 4)

by Carol Drinkwater

  ‘I am not talking about that certificate. I am referring to the other one required by law to begin the work.’

  This was new information. ‘I am going to call the notaire,’ I retorted.

  ‘Madame, we need to prove beyond doubt that you have asbestos here. If this roof has not been fabricated from a dangerous substance you can bury the sheets in the garden and say no more about it.’

  I considered for a moment, trying to read between the lines. Was he offering at a price to deny, nullify the official registration of asbestos, discreetly recommending that I deal with this toxic nuisance illegally?

  ‘My job is to verify one hundred per cent that this material has not been wrongly diagnosed because there has been no laboratory testing of it.’

  ‘Yes, there has,’ I insisted.

  ‘No, I would know it if there had been. You require a registered certificate and this might very well prove that there is no asbestos here. Then, the good news is that you are off the hook.’

  How could he know whether or not there had been a lab test?

  ‘Sir,’ I countered. ‘The reason we are in this extremely aggravating situation is because an expert, such as your good self, came here and after laboratory tests declared that this roof is one hundred per cent asbestos sheeting.’

  ‘Who was this expert?’

  I marched into my office, dug out the house files, riffled through a mountain of papers and furnished him with the woman’s name.

  ‘I knew her husband, a decent fellow. Poor woman has been down on her luck since his death. May I see her report, please?’

  I unclipped the twelve pages and handed them over to him. He took them with hands that were red and puffy, fingers like rhubarb sticks.

  ‘As I suspected, no laboratory test.’

  ‘Of course there was a test! Look, here.’

  He shook a big shaggy head that reminded me of a punctured football. ‘I need to verify this report. It has not followed the precise letters, codings of the law. We need to prove that a laboratory test really did take place.’

  ‘Monsieur, if you are offering to dig off another morsel of this unattractive and undesired corrugated covering, to “test” it again and furnish me with a negative report, thus clearing my liability, then please say so.’

  ‘Good Lord, Madame, I could never do such a thing! That would be a criminal act!’

  ‘In that case, sir, I am content to go along with this lady’s findings and follow the legislation. Can your company, please, give me a quote for the removal and destruction of this toxic material or not?’

  ‘Not without a report from me. It is my written certificate that counts.’

  ‘Then I am sorry that you have been troubled and that you have made this visit for nothing. I wish you a good day, sir.’ And with that I turned on my heel, throwing a daggers glance at the Portuguese mason.

  But this visit had fired my determination to find a solution once and for all to the dilemma. I returned to the Yellow Pages and spent the latter part of the morning ringing every listed builders’ yard. From there, I contacted construction engineers, demolition firms and one company who dealt in dangerous materials and, they, the penultimate call, led me to a building expert in Grasse whose operator put me through to their technician. I explained the crisis and its urgency.

  ‘Well, we certainly handle asbestos.’

  ‘Can you send someone to give me a quote, please?’

  ‘What for?’

  This stopped me in my tracks. ‘The asbestos. To know what it will cost us to have these sheets taken away, deconstructed, disposed of.’

  ‘The rates are standard. I’ll fax them through to you now.’

  And he actually did. The rate was priced by the weight of the sheets, wrapped and prepared for departure by the ton. Compared to the months of aggravation we had suffered, this seemed to be remarkably simple and very reasonable. Including VAT, it worked out at approximately five hundred euros a ton, which, compared to our quote of seven thousand, had to be a gift. Unless there was a catch somewhere. Might those few sheets exceed any poundage I could possibly imagine? Fourteen tons of asbestos equalled seven thousand euros. Impossible. I telephoned Michel, now back in Paris. How much do those corrugated sheets weigh? I begged.

  ‘Chérie, I’m in a production meeting.’

  ‘Yes, of course, sorry.’

  Quashia had no idea of their weight either. I called through to the technician in Grasse and accepted his offer.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘a cautionary word. The quote represents the cost of the removal and the legal destruction of the material.’

  ‘I see … What else is there then?’

  ‘Either you, your builders or someone from my team will have to remove the sheets from their current position and then stack them, and they must be stacked squarely one on top of another.’

  ‘Fine …’

  ‘And then, and this is absolutely an imperative, they must be wrapped in a specific, listed, plastic sheeting. It is of a designated density and protects against toxic leaks. If you cover the stack in anything less substantial, less impermeable, the driver will refuse to take it. And, by the way, he will under no circumstances touch the stack with any part of his person. All contact with the package will be achieved by machine. I will fax you the details of the plastic covering and its dimensions. Nothing else, and I mean nothing else, will be accepted. And we make no reimbursements. If the driver goes away empty-handed you are still liable for all charges.’

  I felt a rising sense of uncertainty.

  ‘Any chance that you could supply the plastic sheets for us?’

  ‘I’m sorry, we don’t offer that service.’

  ‘Well, where can we purchase them? At our local builders’ merchant?’

  ‘Possibly. Let me send you the details. Three other points: I will need a five hundred euro deposit and we will need to fix the pick-up rendezvous as soon as you have faxed back the signed copy of the contract, agreeing our terms. There is a small fee for changing it, once confirmed. Last point: when the driver has removed the sealed package, he will give you a paper. This must not be lost. On no account. It confirms his receipt of the material to be freighted and it is the copy of a form that will be given to the toxic waste disposal unit who will sign it and send it back to you once the material has been destroyed. Both will need to be forwarded to your notaire who will then file them at the public records office. Is all that understood?’

  The builders’ yard did not have the specified model of sheeting or rather they did, but the thickness and dimensions were marginally different and I was way too unnerved to take any risks. They knew me well at the yard, because I am there at least once a month buying sacks of cement and ordering deliveries of sand to repair our damaged walls. I explained my situation and I begged their help.

  ‘Oh, Madame Drinkwater, poor you. Let me put you through to the Hairless Goat. Just one moment.’

  The Hairless Goat?!

  ‘You’re through to Mark, how may I help you?’

  I was dying to ask Mark why he was known as the ‘Hairless Goat’, but refrained. I poured forth yet again my requirements and he calmed my anxieties by assuring me that ‘it would be a breeze’. I would have his response within the next couple of days.

  I faxed back the contract to the disposal firm, posted them a cheque for the deposit and felt thoroughly pleased with myself for having finally overcome what had threatened to be an insurmountable hurdle.

  Michel was equally delighted when I told him later.

  ‘How is the production going?’ I asked.

  Exhausting. He was taking the evening off to babysit for Vanessa.

  Invite them for Easter, I suggested.

  By the time Michel had returned to Europe, spent some days on business in Paris and flown down to the farm, Luke had niftily disappeared into thin air. His answering machine remained active, but he did not respond to any of my messages. I had no address for him, no other details.
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  ‘He must still be in Africa – that would explain his non-communication – organising the cargo,’ I argued to Michel who said nothing, clearly displeased by the action I had taken.

  But the days rolled over and the silence grew louder.

  I was beginning to feel perfectly stupid. I did not own up to what had happened to Monsieur Quashia. He would have laughed me off the face of the earth. Instead, I excused the delay, the lack of arrival of promised flies by fabricating a half-truth: further research, study was required …

  ‘A fly that eats a fly and solves our harvest problems. I knew it was ridiculous.’

  ‘But we would still like to steam ahead with our plans, Mr Quashia, to convert to an organic holding for this upcoming summer. If Psyttalia does not work out, I have been reading about a plant, a chrysanthemum. I am having difficulties finding information about it and I am not yet sure whether it is available in France—’

  ‘Don’t tell me, Carol, an African insect-eating plant!’ Quashia’s mocking words, but at least he had not quit. In fact, the removal of his teeth seemed to have been quietly set aside. However, if I was to keep faith with him, guard a semblance of respect, as well as maintaining his enthusiasm and commitment, I had to deliver an alternative solution, and swiftly. To defend my position, my fervent desire to live on a farm that produced only organic foods and protected us and the environment, I needed to understand the facts better and come up with a viable alternative to the sprays I was so adamantly condemning. If we lost yet another crop, our manager and loyal friend would withdraw all confidence in me. His threat of leaving would become a reality.

  There were no messages from Mark, the Hairless Goat, on my mobile so at the end of the afternoon I went through to my den to check what might have come through and I realised that I had overlooked the cheque. It was still in the photocopy machine along with their fax. I had posted the signed contract without the payment. I picked up the phone and tried to reach the société in Grasse who had agreed to dispose of the amiante, but they were closed for the day. It would have to wait. Tomorrow, when they received my envelope, I would explain.

  I called the builders’ yard and asked to be connected to Mark. ‘There’s no Mark working here!’ a girl at the other end of the line informed me.

  ‘But I was talking to him this morning …?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Well, could I speak to the, erm, Hairless Goat, please?’

  ‘Oh, him! He doesn’t work here. You would have been linked through to his mobile. He’s not here. He’s the Hairless Goat. Hang on.’

  Which I did. And, while doing so, I tried to picture this bald apparition who had earned himself such an extraordinary nickname.

  ‘His mobile’s not responding. I’ll send an email to him to call you straight back.’

  When Mark telephoned, the news was not good. He could provide the material, the sheeting, but the épaisseur, its concentration, was insufficient, less than had been instructed.

  ‘Oh, I cannot possibly take it then. They are exceedingly strict.’

  ‘Well, there’s one place that does supply that size, but they charge one thousand euros a sheet and it sounds as though you’ll be needing three or four sheets.’

  ‘What?!’

  He gave me their name. It was the company which had given us the quote for seven thousand euros. They seemed to have this particular market sewn up, I was thinking while pouring out my heart to the bald fellow at the other end of the line. ‘Mark, I’m running around in circles here. What can I do?’

  ‘That’s why you’re talking to me. That is what the Hairless Goat is here for. Why don’t you just double-wrap whatever the material is?’

  ‘I can’t. It’s asbestos!’ I spoke the word as though it were an atomic weapon.

  I could hear his grin. ‘Just double-wrap it. Or triple it, that’ll be perfectly fine. It’s the same difference!’

  ‘I’ll come back to you.’

  I left an urgent message on the personal mobile of the technician who was handling the removal, apologising at the same time for the fact that his accounts department was about to receive the original signed contract without the cheque, which was now in another envelope and would be on its way in the morning. I begged to know whether I could use a thinner version of the same sheeting and triple-wrap it. I was certain the response would be negative.

  He called back while I was cooking supper to confirm that he would not cancel the appointment. Fine for the delayed cheque and, of course, I could triple-wrap the plastic. It was no problem at all.

  So disappointed was Quashia in my lack of capability, my vision as to how this holding of ours should be run, including the lack of hives, that he took to hiding the garden tools. I would go in search of a pair of secateurs, to prune a branch, pick off the heads of some herbs in the greenhouse, cut a few daffodils for the table, no matter what, and they, along with my leather gloves, maddeningly, were nowhere to be found. Because I am always obsessed with owning an example of every variety of whatever it happened to be, we were the proprietors of seven pairs of secateurs, as well as, between the three of us, eleven pairs of gardening gloves including leather, cotton and rubber prototypes, plus a wide assortment of boots: wellingtons, sneakers, sandals, walkers, Tasmanian Blundstones (given to me on a work trip Down Under and treasured by me as about the most comfortable footwear on God’s earth). All went missing.

  ‘Monsieur Quashia!’ I would yell from one end of the property to the other. The onset of his deafness aided his stubborn refusal to pay me or my needs any attention. ‘Where is the …?’

  When I eventually unearthed him buried away in some corner or other, he would simply shrug as though he had no knowledge or interest in the matter. ‘But you must know where they are!’ I insisted, working myself up into a lather.

  ‘I do know. They have been put aside, concealed.’

  ‘But why, why have you hidden them? I need my boots and the pruning shears now, Monsieur Quashia. Where are they, please?’

  ‘I am not giving them to you.’

  ‘What do you mean you are not giving them to me? They are MINE, Monsieur Quashia, MINE,’ I would yell at him, exasperated, tears of perspiration jumping from my forehead.

  ‘You don’t know what you are doing and you will turn this entire property into unproductive dead wood, if you get your way. I see it as my duty to protect the farm.’

  ‘Protect? In what way protect?’

  ‘Against you.’

  This hurt and I could see from his steely expression that he was not fooling. ‘I am doing my best, Mr Q. You are unaware of the dangers.’

  ‘No, Carol, you are stubborn and you are listening to other people’s nonsense. I have been working the land since I was ten years old: building stone huts, pruning olive trees, herding sheep. I was born among olive trees. I know what I am talking about, and you are lost.’

  ‘But the world has changed,’ I reasoned.

  He shook his head, as if to say ‘I am closing my ears to you’.

  ‘Man is destroying the earth, putting it and us at risk and we must learn to respect it. Care for water, the soil … for example, no more burning plastic in the garden or throwing non-biodegradable substances over the fences on to ground that does not even belong to us …’ (Two other causes of dissension between us.)

  ‘It’s only rubbish. No one will find it.’

  ‘But that is not the point, Mr Q. It is not good for the earth.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Carol, farming our olives is what is good for this earth. And while I’ve got your attention, what are we going to do about the bees?’

  ‘I have explained to you what happened.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you find an alternative solution? Let’s have our own hives. I’ll take charge of them.’

  ‘It’s a skill, it has to be acquired and neither Michel nor I could—’

  ‘You find the bees and I’ll care for them. You know how I love honey. When I was a b
oy in the mountains, I used to go off with my brothers and friends, a whole troop of us scaling the mountain faces seeking out the nests of wild swarms. And when we found them, we’d steal the honey. It was risky, oh boy, but once we’d filched it, triumphantly we’d stuff ourselves with it there and then or we’d carry it home with us in goatskin satchels and then store the honey in clay jars. Those illicit hauls were the most delicious honey I have ever tasted. It’s why I’m always telling you that supermarket rubbish is not even the same product.’

  ‘Yes, but it involves more than just helping yourself to the honey,’ I cautiously suggested.

  ‘I know that. I’ve been here with François and watched him working with the hives and I want to be a beekeeper. Can we count on the return of a few hives? It would make me very happy.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Aside from olive oil, you can’t do better in life than have your own honey.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  And with that he would slope off, and still I would have to go in search of whatever had been sequestered.

  So, we had a firm who were willing at a reasonable cost to transport this infernal roof and relegate it to its final end, but we still had no one to achieve its removal. Michel suggested that we manage it ourselves. Lift off the sheets, package them and store them out of harm’s way until the pick-up truck arrived to cart them off to their last port of call.

  I scooted to the builders’ yard to buy the requisite plastic sheets and pick up some protection masks. At the counter, when I gave my name and order number, the female assistant said Mark wanted to explain precisely how the enfolding should happen.

  ‘I thought he didn’t work here?’

  ‘He’s here today.’

  I waited. Into the storeroom walked a young muscular man, mid-thirties, with a healthy mop of shiny brown hair.

  ‘Hi, I’m Mark. The protective film is out in the yard. Follow me. We’ll cut it to order for you. Quite a hoop you’ve been through, eh?’ He grinned. We grabbed a packet of masks and, puzzled, I followed him out into the goods yard. He cut me four generous sheets for good measure and we returned inside to the cash desk.