by Sam Juneau
I returned to my ditch-digging duties shortly after lunch. Mocques came back and gently, though persistently, guided my meanderings. At one point, I grew a little tired of his input. Jesus, I could dig a hole. Stop bothering me, I complained, but more gently. The trench grew in length and I pulled even with Mocques.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I am an expert plumber and a very famous digger.’ He laughed and continued chipping away.
I repositioned the digger for a last few digs, just to clean things up and make the pipe laying easier. Feeling good about my accomplishment, I dramatically raised the large claw higher than needed be, with my tiny controls in hand, and swooped the thing down into the dirt. Mocques watched. A few seconds later, the dirt started to move and pulsate. This grew stronger until a pool started to form in my beloved trench. If only it were dark and I had struck oil! Instead, water poured out of what appeared to be a black pipe. Of course, how could I not puncture the water main! Mocques laughed heartily, certainly aware of my bravado. He calmly jumped down, surveyed the damage and trotted away to cut off the water supply. The water stopped just as he came back and patted me on the shoulder.
‘Ça va, ça va. It happens to the best of us,’ I think he said.
I spoke to Susan, our soon-to-arrive Guard’s House guest, for, I think, the thirteenth time just one week before she arrived, family in tow. Each time she called, there was panic in her voice. Inevitably, it was some minor question involving logistics and facilities. I wondered if all the clients we lured to our lair would be so high-maintenance. Never mind, I told myself, it was great to have this booking and I should be happy. Alongside her eight weeks, we picked up another five primarily from Brits and a few Irish. Not bad. The Guard’s house was now in better condition after a fresh coat of paint and a new carpet and the estate looked reasonably good. I had spent hundreds of hours mowing and preening the lawn. I had it down now to almost a fine science. Fifteen hours a week to mow just the bare minimum. Another two to three hours trimming and pruning. It wasn’t precisely how I had envisioned my life at the manor but it was satisfying to see the result at the end.
It was time to assess and take stock of our work. In the past year we and our artisans had installed nine bathrooms; painted 20 rooms and the main 40-metre great hall; sanded, rejoined and painted (three times) 156 windows; cleaned out most of the outbuildings; repainted and furnished the four-bedroom Guard’s House, furnished four double rooms and two suites, a dining room, library and salon; and we’d had our second child. Not a bad year’s work. We were ready. Now, where were the bookings? We had one night or two scattered in different weeks throughout the summer with the Germans and Spaniards making bookends in mid June and late August respectively. Luckily, I had made some decent money with my work during the war, but it was nowhere near enough.
Susan arrived with her husband and three children in early June. She told us she wanted her family to spend a few nights in the chateau before they implanted themselves in the Guard’s House, so this was arranged. I greeted them heartily, shaking hands all round. Susan was short, round and smiley with long blonde hair and adorned in a massive sheet that draped itself loosely across her body. Tim was a strapping guy, well over six feet, possibly 17, 18 stone. Shortly into the conversation, Tim asked me the best way to get around, the fastest route to Le Mans. He revealed they only had one car for the entire summer and that Susan would be stuck at the house for eight long weeks. I hinted that this might be a bad idea. Sure, it was beautiful, but kids needed to be entertained and taken away to see the sights. There were things to do: climb trees, walk in the woods, fish in the pond. In the end, though, today’s children always need a bit more stimulation than country life has to offer. But he insisted it would all be fine. I then gave them a quick tour of the house and showed them their suite. They seemed delighted. I told them breakfast would be served between eight and ten. There didn’t seem to be any problems and they headed off to have dinner in our nearby village.
The next morning I got up at seven so I could head off to the boulangerie and collect pastries and bread for breakfast. Bud and I had decided to stick with the French continental breakfast: croissants, pain au chocolat, baguettes, freshly squeezed orange juice, fruit, yogurt and cheese. A choice of coffee in a French press or an assortment of teas, hot chocolate for the younger ones. And we decided to be generous about the portions. We had always detested a stingy breakfast. We still remembered, six years on, the bed and breakfast in Vermont where the owner measured out cups of coffee to guests while eyeing every portion taken.
I dressed quickly, excited at the prospect of serving our first guests of the season. It was late May, the sun streamed through our oversized windows, Bud and the babies slept soundly. I used the back servants’ stairs to reach our oversized, industrial kitchen. As I walked through the door, I was met by a round, puffy-eyed creature rooting around in our refrigerator. It was horrifying.
‘Susan!’ I stammered.
‘Oh, hi Sam. I was just putting some bottles in your fridge for the youngest. I hope that’s OK.’
‘Uh… sure. Let me help you.’ I couldn’t believe there was someone in my kitchen. Would all our guests come and go into our private area so blithely?
After our shocking encounter, breakfast went very well. Everyone was pleased and our guests ate hungrily and abundantly. Thank goodness we had decided to be generous.
Later that day, the German couple arrived, neatly dressed with fashionable glasses in a sporty new Audi. They seemed reserved and a bit hesitant. I showed them in and tried to give them space and time to take in the house. They were astounded by the size and generosity of their suite and loved the bathroom. Over the next week, they came and went quietly, eating long breakfasts in the dining room and reading in the library. It was precisely this type of person we longed to court. Professional with disposable income, quiet and smart and interested in relaxation and nature. Really, that was all we had to offer. And our Germans were perfect.
Susan, Tim and their kids were well installed in the outbuildings, safely restrained from early morning encounters with a befuddled owner. Several times each day, Susan would wander down to the chateau looking for this and that. It appeared what she really wanted was companionship. We tend to be fairly generous people but are very, very guarded, stingy even, about our personal time and space. Susan would come in and out of the kitchen at will. It was our first dilemma with a guest, and I honestly did not know what to do. How could I possibly tell her, without being too blunt, not to come into our space? I failed miserably and we simply endured her visits. Soon, they became less frequent as we greeted her with tight-lipped responses.
The summer was long and hot. For weeks on end, the temperature soared to over 40 degrees as we, and our poor guests, suffered in silence. All over France, the country was gripped in a devastating heatwave as thousands of the elderly died, neglected and abandoned by holidaying French families. Poor Susan was stuck in the Guard’s House with three young children, no car, no air conditioning, no pool and a husband working long hours far away. We took pity and opened ourselves to her a bit more but remained guarded after the previous invasions. With the duties of the house, the occasional guest and our own two children, we simply did not have the energy to nurture this tortured woman.
Things cooled down by late August. The next day, Susan and her family would finally depart, and be relieved of the heat and solitude. Spirits were high as we all shared a bottle of wine at the front of the chateau, overlooking the pond as the sun set. At around 10.30, we turned in for the night. It was cool and the sky was illuminated by a billion points of light and a bright moon that shone like a spotlight on the back of the chateau casting long shadows to the front of the house, showering towers and weathervanes and the deep valleys and peaks of the roof.
‘Sam, I think I hear a voice. Wake up!’
Groggily, I roused from a deep sleep. I could hear it too. It was coming from outside.
‘Sam, come quick,’ t
he voice came again. ‘We need help. Susan’s having an attack!’ I stumbled over to the window and looked down. There was Tim, yelling for all he was worth.
‘Susan was stung by something and she’s having an attack.’
I looked at Bud.
‘I can’t fucking believe this. Their last night and she has an attack. We will never be rid of her! I’ll check it out.’
I put on my trousers and ran downstairs. Tim and I ran to the Guard’s House. All the lights were on. I looked through the window and saw Susan laid stiffly on a chair, panting, red and obviously in distress.
‘What happened?’
‘We were upstairs putting the kids to bed and something huge – a hornet I think – came out of the ceiling and stung Susan on the neck.’
The children were crying. Susan was in bad shape, hair dishevelled, large curtain cast over her quivering body, sweat pouring from her forehead. She looked like she was in labour except for the large welt where her neck met her shoulder.
‘Sam, I think you should call the emergency guys,’ Tim said, his voice full of panic.
Sounded like a good idea. I ran downstairs and called the emergency medics.
‘Bonjour, we are in Juvardeil and I have a guest here who is having an attack. She is shaking. Can you send someone?’
‘Oui, monsieur, où êtes-vous exactement?’
I gave directions and the operator asked more questions. Was she on medication? I asked Tim. Yes, Valium. Well, that explained a lot. Was she numb? Yes. Was she red? Yes.
Within minutes, the pompiers, or firefighters, along with emergency response units arrived at the front of the chateau.
‘Hold tight. I’m going to bring them here,’ I reassured Susan.
‘OK, but hurry!’
I covered the distance from the outbuildings to the main house quickly and waved two trucks and an ambulance in our direction. The paramedics swarmed like bees when they pulled up to the Guard’s House. They gave Susan a cold compress and measured her heartbeat and took her blood pressure.
I interpreted as best I could as they fired questions at an ailing patient. In the flurry of diagnosis she admitted she was taking Prozac, an antidepressant. Roughly ten guys stood in the small dining room of the guest house and examined Susan. I could see out of the corner of my eye two fellas chuckling quietly in the corner.
A woman doctor made her way in and examined Susan.
‘Tell her she just has a bite. Possibly a hornet. It will go away,’ the doctor said, calmly with barely concealed contempt. My heart was pounding but I settled down when I could see the team found Susan’s predicament humorous. The doctor asked if Susan was normally allergic to bee and hornet stings. If she was, this could in fact be deadly without an Adrenalin injection. No, Susan replied as she settled down, content, it seemed, with all the attention.
‘It’s more than a bite. And why are they laughing? This is serious!’ Tim almost yelled.
‘I think it will be OK. She says that hornets are very nasty and it was good to call for help.’
I lied. I didn’t want them to feel like complete idiots. The emergency team was thorough. They injected Susan with a small jab, Adrenalin from what I could gather, and then after ten minutes started to load up. I sat with our beloved guests for about half an hour more to make sure all was fine.
I trudged back to the main house and explained to Bud what had happened. A better man would have been compassionate but I was actually quite angry at all the hysterics. I felt that Susan, ignored and rebuffed for most of the summer, was making one last desperate cry for help, for attention she so longed for. You denied me all summer, I will make you pay attention to me!
‘Bud, will all of our guests be so difficult? I don’t know if I can take the intrusion, the constant little crises that might arise. And now this.’
‘It’s OK. It’s been a long year, but things have run smoothly generally. I know we talked about making friends and acquaintances with our guests, like Frank and Rosemarie at Roundwood. But we don’t serve dinner and we aren’t them. We like our peace and quiet. We don’t want to engage too much. That’s just the way we are. If we accept that, and the guests don’t expect too much more, we will be fine.’
Bud was right. How could we have misread ourselves so? Hoteliers were a true breed; running a hotel was a real métier, a vocation to provide service and attentiveness. We were, quite possibly, the opposite of this. What had we gotten ourselves into? I was overreacting. It was just one guest, one family out of a couple of dozen. Time to get some sleep.
A couple of days later, our last guests of the season arrived. These were the Spaniards, from Madrid: two couples with six children between them. They would have the B&B part of the chateau to themselves and we could wind down from a long, overheated summer. They arrived with jamón de serrano, Manchego cheese, olives and delicacies from Spain and asked us to join them for dinner. I found half a dozen or so bottles of Loire Valley wine, mostly red, and we all sat out the back of the chateau. We laughed and talked and joked and shared good food. They were delightful people.
Over their two-week stay, they came and went and occasionally dropped in, discreetly and non-invasively, to say hello and ask for advice on places to visit. Their children filled the halls of Bonchamps with yells and joy and running and laughter. Blue played with the older and the younger of the Spanish gang. It was much as we had envisioned our life in the chateau, in France. It was what we wanted and hoped it would be. They were perfectly self-sufficient yet open and interesting. They were delighted to have the run of the house (except for our private wing which they never violated).
On the afternoon of their departure, I sat in my office and reviewed the summer. We’d filled 13 weeks in the Guard’s House (eight of those painful) and 83 nights B&B, making a grand total of 16,000 euros (£11,000). Needless to say, this was a far cry from what we needed. I reviewed our bank account online… 4,500 euros. That was it. No credit, not in France and no other resources. Our property tax bill, the taxe foncière and taxe d’habitation had arrived: 2,400 euros. We had burned through the bank loan, eaten up my healthy income from the Iraq war and used our meagre earnings from the summer just to maintain the house, in fact just part of the house.
I looked ahead to a long winter. As I discovered from talking to other B&B owners in the area, the season was painfully short running from late May to early September. That meant we had three or four months each year to make 70,000 euros. Seemingly impossible. It was clear I would have to go to New York to work. I would tell Bud later. For now, I sat back in my wooden chair, smoked my pipe and gazed out the window at our trees, standing like silent sentries, and whispered, ‘What have we done?’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Lords and Lordlets
At last, a night out. As with all parents and people who work for a living, there had been precious little time for ourselves. Just as the summer wound down, we received a call from Helene de Richelieu, who was putting together a dinner at her chateau. It had been some time since we visited her husband, François. That jaw-dropping encounter those many months ago had set the tone for our tenure at Bonchamps. No matter how much denial or perseverance we were able to muster, sometimes in equal parts, there always lay just beneath the surface doubt about our venture, thanks to Monsieur le Comte François de Richelieu.
We always these days referred to de Richelieu as ‘Fontaines’, the name of his chateau. Unlike us, arrivistes, Fontaines inherited his pile from a long line of aristocrats in Anjou. He took over the house in the early 1980s and had since polished and renovated and moulded the thing into one of the finest private chateaux in France. But there was a catch: the count and his baroness wife operated a B&B just like we commoners did. It was painful, I’m sure.
We had been in sporadic contact with the Fontaines, mainly by phone. They, and their circle, seemed very curious to know how we were faring. Our purchase of the chateau had provided a short-term, revocable ticket to the inner sanctum of An
jou’s aristocracy. We saw this as a perk of our adventure, and were happy to accept the dinner invitation.
We arranged a babysitter, dressed casually so as not to show how truly impressed we actually were, selected a nice bottle of champagne from our vast wine cave of three bottles and headed off for dinner.
We arrived at the entrance of Fontaines’ grand parc anglais and turned cautiously in. The lawn spread out like a vast green savannah, perfectly manicured, dotted with small benches and arrangements of hedges. We pulled up to the front the house. Unlike the crumbling cornices and dilapidated facade of our monster, Fontaines was without fault. Wisteria clung to simple wood trellises, windows were painted bone white, tuffeau and cornices sculpted as if new.
On the front lawn, we could see a group of people sitting, chatting and gesturing, enjoying a quiet preprandial cocktail in front of the ornamental pond while the sun drifted down behind the nearby hill. We parked our 1987 Mercedes to the side of the chateau. We had finally replaced the old red van with this modest and mostly reliable purchase. Not exactly luxurious, but sufficient for our needs.
We approached François and offered our gift. He greeted us warmly. We exchanged bises all round as Fontaines introduced us to the other guests. There were about six couples in all, comfortably wearing their well-used summer wardrobe, linens and whites and nicely fitting cotton shirts. The ladies were lovely and elegant and the men handsome and assured.
We met Jake and Eleanor, a polite and engaging English couple. Their story came quickly after the first introductions. They had left England some years ago for a worldwide voyage on the high seas with two young sons. Somehow, they landed at Fontaines and installed themselves in the orangerie. They ended up living there for five or six years, at a reduced rent while François renovated the place. Recently, they had bought a fourteenth-century manor house with a moat not far from us. They both had wonderfully posh accents that rolled out of their mouths as if they were constantly making important and interesting points. I can take or leave a fancy accent but it can add to the sophistication of a late summer meal.