2006 - A Piano in The Pyrenees (21 page)

Instead of going in the house, like any normal person, I did something that I guess I must have learned from my father. He was a great one for urinating outside. He saw no reason in flushing water down the pan when a viable alternative was available. French men, I had noted, shared a comparable insouciant attitude to al fresco relief. Over the years I had taken a similar approach and periodically I felt the need for an occasional wee in my own garden, even though a perfectly good toilet was within easy range. It was almost as if I was marking out my territory in some kind of atavistic ritual.

So it was that I opened my zip, popped out my huge and unwieldy member↓ and made use of a suitable tree which afforded me the requisite privacy from the road.

≡ I wonder if this sentence means that the book will find its way into the ‘fiction’ section in bookshops.

Just as I had released the sluices to what was turning out to be a larger pee than expected, a car came over the brow of the hill and began to decelerate as it neared Kevin’s wooden exhibits. I panicked, and desperately tried to curtail the flow of urine that was now making an impressive rainbow-like arc to the foot of the tree trunk. The car slowed still further and began to pull into the drive. I recognised Fabrice as the driver but was horrified to note that he wasn’t alone. A young woman was in the passenger seat and an older man was in the back. Shit. And I had my tadger out.

This piss just had to be stopped. Emergency bladder muscles were called upon and somehow, drawing more on instinct than anything else, I managed to stem the flow and slowly haul my penis back into my trousers.↓

≡ As previous footnote.

A price had to be paid, however, because the conclusion to proceedings had meant that there was considerable leakage once everything was back inside. I looked down to see a large dark blotch on my beige trousers, and then raised my eye-line again to see Fabrice emerging from his car. It didn’t appear that I was about to make the best of impressions. Fortunately I was wearing a fairly large T-shirt that I was able to untuck and just about pull down over most of the offending blemish. No one would suspect that I was not properly toilet-trained as long as I remained ever so slightly hunched and didn’t straighten my torso fully.

Fabrice greeted me warmly and introduced me to his girlfriend Marie-Laure, a beautiful girl with almost child-like rosy cheeks and a lovely smile. For some reason, the older man remained in the car.

“This is my farver,” said Marie-Laure, bravely addressing me in my mother tongue and pointing to the car. “Can you help him? He is in a wheelchair.”

“Of course.”

Fabrice opened the car’s rear door and I shook hands with the man before reaching down and helping to lift the wheelchair out. An easy enough task for me since my unnatural stooping position was leading my body in that direction anyway.

“You are my neighbour!” said Marie-Laure’s father. “My plot of land is exactly opposite your house.”

“It is an amazing coincidence,” I said. “Of course, I never would have bought the house if I’d known about the neighbours.”

“You must know, Tony,” said Fabrice, “that we have the planning permission to put a discotheque here. It will be open every night till 4am!”

This kind of playful banter continued over the next hour during which we drank tea (me), coffee (the French men) and cordials (Marie-Laure). We talked about the area and my proposed swimming pool, and we teased each other about our cultural differences. Then Fabrice took the conversation in a new direction.

“Tony, you must come to dinner with me and Marie-Laure soon.”

“That would be lovely,” I replied.

It now occurred to me that something extraordinary had just happened. I’d made my first French friends. Yes, I already had people in the village who I might have begun to describe thus, but that just wasn’t the same. I hadn’t gone out there and made them myself—they were neighbours. My new churns Fabrice and Marie-Laure had only turned out to be neighbours by default. And provided I could stoop sufficiently well until they left, then the invitation would stand and I would be well on the way to cementing this new friendship.

“I think I saw something move in there,” said Marie-Laure, pointing down to the woodshed.

I hesitated. Oh yes, I hadn’t explained about Ron. Oh well, I would have to do it now. So, in my best French, I explained that I had brought a British builder out to France with me and that he was living in the woodshed. There was no reaction from my French friends. They just looked at me silently. It was as if they were waiting for me to have another go at this sentence, this time finding the right words to convey my intended meaning. I repeated my sentence. They smiled. Not without a hint of nervousness. Ron then emerged from the woodshed, post-siesta and in his underpants, blowing his nose indelicately.

“What do you want for dinner tonight?” he called up to me without seeing my visitors, who were gently observing all from behind me. “I’ve made some lovely soup.”

“Er…right. Yes, soup would be nice,” I called back, somewhat awkwardly, trying to avoid the eye contact of my guests.

“Brill,” said Ron before disappearing through the side gate, the place where I knew he liked to take his own al fresco pees.

I felt an urgent need to get everyone out of the house in order to save them the uncomfortable experience of having to see the almost naked Ron when he returned from relieving himself.

Even at the time I think I knew that I was panicking, probably unreasonably.

“Well,” I said, moving round to Marie-Laure’s father, grabbing his wheelchair and starting to lead him off to Fabrice’s car. “It’s been lovely seeing you. So, until the next time.
A bientot!
”

“
Au revoir
,” said my guests as they quickly gathered their things, slightly surprised at the speed with which proceedings had been called to a halt.

“Yes,
au revoir
,” I said, just beginning to realise how badly I’d handled the situation.

Well, it was too late to take a different approach now. I hurried them out of the door and off to their car, keeping up the mood of urgency until I was able to watch them drive off, bemusedly waving goodbye as they went.

I would have to get better at this entertaining thing.

Trees, Holes and Pilgrims

I awoke to the sound of cowbells. Not a bad way to start the day, especially for a city boy. When I looked out of the window I could see that the shy farmer’s cows were not far from the boundaries of my land.

“They’ll be in my garden soon!” I said, even though there was nobody else with me.↓

≡ Talking to yourself is said to be the first sign of madness. I’m sorry, but I have to question this. What if, before you’ve done any talking to yourself, you start foaming at the mouth, shouting at passing cars and hopping round Sainsbury’s? Do these not count as preliminary signs?

Ron was toiling in the garage and Kevin and Nic were having a lie-in when Mary, the widowed Irish lady I’d met at the village dinner, called round. I’d seen her several times since then, but usually just for a brief neighbourly exchange. Now she had some interesting news.

“You’ll probably hear Miles playing the piano at my place in the next few days,” she said. “He’s over for the music night. The other boys will be over soon, too.”

“Mary,” I replied, “why don’t you have a cup of coffee and tell me what on earth you’re talking about?”

Mary soon had me up to speed. Miles and the ‘boys’ were her sons, and they were all musicians. They combined coming over to see their mum with visits to the Marciac jazz festival, and last year Malcolm and Anne had seized on the opportunity to exploit their talents by putting on a music night in the village. Local French musicians had joined forces with these Irish guests to create ‘
une soiree musicale Franco-Irlandaise
. By all accounts it had been a great success.

“The boys are looking forward to it this year,” said Mary. “You play piano—will you do a little turn yourself? I know that Malcolm and Anne want you to. They’re organising it.”

“Well, I could do,” I replied, “but I don’t want to muscle in on someone else’s gig.”

“Heavens, you won’t be doing that,” said Mary, sipping on her coffee, sitting back on the settee and relaxing into full ‘chatty’ mode. “I’ll tell Malcolm and Anne that you’ll do it, then. They got me to play last year and no doubt they will this year, too. I don’t like doing it because I’m best when I’m just playing to accompany others. That’s what I do up at the hotel in Lourdes. Actually you must come up and listen one night very soon—there’s a priest who is with the present party of pilgrims who says he wants to meet you. He’s read your fridge book, you see.”↓

≡
Round Ireland With A Fridge
. Available from all good bookshops.

“I’d love to come, Mary,” I said. “We haven’t made any plans for tonight actually. I’ll suggest it to the others when they get up.”

“Well, it would be lovely to see you up there, and you must come round for a beer when the boys arrive.”

“Thanks. I will.”

Just as Mary was saying her goodbyes another caller arrived. It was Malcolm—just too late to be the first to give me the news of the impending music night. He did, however, have some other interesting information.

“I’ve just been talking to Serges,” he said.

“Moustachioed Serges?”

“No, the other Serges.”

“Ah, Serges II? Brother of Roger the mechanic—the one with the mechanical digger?”

“Yes, him. Well, you know you said you might want him to dig the hole for your pool?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he’s just had a job cancelled and he can do it this morning. He says if he doesn’t do it now, he won’t have any more time for a month.”

“Blimey, this is all a bit sudden. I haven’t even had breakfast yet.” Suddenly my hand was forced. Although I’d purchased the polystyrene blocks and all the additional pool equipment, I still hadn’t yet quite come to terms with the concept of digging out a massive great hole in my back garden. I was in denial. Part of me wanted a pool. I loved the idea of improving my fitness by doing lengths before hoisting myself out and lounging poolside, basking in the sun with a cool drink in hand. However, I was also afraid of creating a millstone around my neck—a monster that would constantly need attention, with its nitration systems, pumps and complicated prescription of chemicals. I was worried that every time I left it for a few weeks I would return to find something resembling a stagnant cesspit. Yes, I’d made the purchase but somehow I still hadn’t fully committed.

“What shall I tell him?” asked Malcolm.

Damn. I had to make a decision right now. I hated that.

“Er…well, can you tell him to pop down and we’ll talk the job through and agree a price?”

“Sure.”

I’d bought myself another ten minutes.

§

Ron was just emerging from the woodshed as Serges pulled up in his van and got out. It was strange, but the two men seemed to like each other instantly. I watched from the balcony as they shook hands and engaged for the first time. They had no language in common (Ron had not been spending his ample downtime with his head buried in
Teach Yourself French
) and yet there was much communication taking place. There seemed to be a kind of instant male bonding going on. Perhaps they saw themselves in each other. Serges was younger and slimmer than Ron, but he shared the same characteristics. A durable face with a no-nonsense expression, grubby overalls which are the builder’s battle fatigues, and a muscular upper body cultivated by years of heavy lifting rather than gym membership at a poncy sports club. A lot of pointing and gesturing was going on by the time I made it down to join them.

Serges wanted to know who was going to build the pool. I hesitated. I had a feeling that he was going to be surprised by my answer. And he was.

He raised an eyebrow and cocked an ear. He wanted to hear this from me again. I confirmed the facts. We were going to build it ourselves. There now followed an extraordinary display of face-pulling dexterity. I had thought that Roger, his brother, had excelled himself with his performance after I had asked him to find me a nice ten-year-old estate car, but it was nothing compared to what now followed. Serges grimaced, winced, shook his head, closed his eyes, scowled, laughed, threw his head back and nervously ran his fingers through his hair. He simply couldn’t believe that we were going to take the job on ourselves, and in the following few minutes he did everything in his power to persuade me to do otherwise. Did we know how difficult these kinds of jobs were? Did we not realise that if we built it ourselves then we wouldn’t be covered by the manufacturer’s insurance if anything went wrong? (No, I hadn’t realised, but I wasn’t going to tell Serges that.)

“Ce
n’est pas de probleme
,” I said.

Serges threw his head back again, aghast. I told him that I was an eccentric and that I liked adventures. Ron looked on, bemused. Meanwhile, Kevin and Nic slept on upstairs, unaware of the momentous events now unfolding. Serges looked around him, shrugged, and then marched off to inspect the small tree that had afforded us valuable shade from the summer sun. He paced out just how far it was from the edge of the proposed pool, the dimensions of which Ron and I had hastily marked out in the ten frantic minutes before his arrival.

Serges stopped, looked at the tree, stared down at the ground and then turned to me, somehow managing to form yet another new expression. He sighed, shrugged again, and then ran his finger quickly along his throat. The tree, it seemed, would have to go. I tried to defend it, but Serges was adamant that it would be a huge problem if allowed to remain.

“He’s right,” said Ron. “Those roots will eventually destroy the pool’s walls.”

This was a blow. It was a nice tree and there was no doubt that it added to the garden. But we were in one of those spaces in time where everything was in fast motion. The kind of decision that needed days of mulling over was required to be taken instantly. I felt some sympathy for world leaders who must be forced into this kind of position on a regular basis, particularly during wartime. I’m not sure it would have suited me.