Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog (24 page)

  Hopefully the relevant company would still exist and hopefully their records would stretch back far enough to confirm the depth of my well.

  With each company I explained the location of our house and the problem.

  The response was always the same. '
Tout à fait
, one has to know the depth.' Then there was a shuffling of papers, perhaps a smoker's cough, followed by confirmation that they couldn't provide the missing details. After ten companies I was dispirited. We'd just have to pull up the pump and risk paying double. Whatever happened, the concrete mixers had to get going again.

  I dialled one of the remaining entries for
forage
in the book. It was an advert rather than a listing and I didn't take the time to look at the address. Mechanically, I explained the problem.

  
'Oui, oui, alors, on arrive vers seize heures.'

  I put the phone down astonished. Somebody was actually going to come out and try to help. No call-out charge, just an attempt to find a solution. I looked at the address: Marseille. I almost phoned back immediately and told them not to bother. The unofficial capital of the south of France had, in my experience, a well-earned bad reputation.

  Before my only visit, some two years ago, residents had warned me 'hold on to your wallet, hold on to your wife'. Given the order of the advice it sounded like a misogynist's charter; still, I'd been keen not to prejudge the city.

  First impressions hadn't been favourable. On the slip road from the
autoroute
, high on an electricity wire, I'd noticed a pair of trainers swinging from their laces and into my mind had come a vision of some unfortunate tourist, stripped of all his possessions, walking barefoot to the nearest gendarmerie to ask whether anyone had seen his wife. After all, this being Marseille, there would be no point enquiring about his wallet.

  I'd also been warned about the driving. 'Remember that famous French film
Taxi
, where Marseille resembles a Formula One circuit? It's not fiction, it's fact.' Sure enough, at the first set of red traffic lights I'd encountered, the driver of a Renault Laguna decided to convert his car into an impromptu moped. David Blaine might struggle with this particular trick, but not, apparently, the locals. The secret is to hit the curb at the right pace and
voilà
, four wheels become two. Pedestrians, bins, cafe tables were all acceptable collateral damage for the Marseillais driver determined to jump the lights.

  That day, virtuoso driving was apparently quite necessary because stretching the length of the visible
corniche
(coastal road) was a
bouchon
(traffic jam) capable of punching its own personal hole in the ozone layer. Exhaust fumes churned into the still air, obscuring the horizon and suffocating anyone unfortunate enough to be in a convertible. Rather than hitting the curb at pace and flipping my car onto two wheels, à la Renault Laguna, I decided to stop and have lunch.

  The setting was beautiful, overlooking the old port. The Mediterranean gently rocked a flotilla of sailing ships, the bells on top of the masts clinked pleasingly and fishing boats chugged into port and unloaded their slithering cargo.

  While I sipped on a glass of warm wine and took in the view, a waiter wearing a grease-stained shirt shoved various ill-conceived dishes under my nose, the lowlight of which was an entrecôte steak covered in a
sauce aux poivres
with the consistency of school custard. I paid in cash and waited for my change. After ten minutes, I was finally presented with a saucer filled with nearly fifty bronze five-cent pieces. It was the Marseillais way of thanking me for my custom. I collected every coin and left.

  The city and I had had nothing to do with each other since, but right now, haring up the
autoroute
, was a truckload of
forage
experts, ready, once again, to treat me to the Marseillais version of service. Still, the well needed to be fixed and no one else appeared capable or willing and so I waited for four o'clock and headed to the
chantier
, taking Elodie with me for the ride.

  Up until this point, day on day, I'd been able to watch progress. As far as I could tell the builders were on schedule and I'd been able to confidently tick off the days until delivery of the completed house. With no workmen, though, the place had a distinctly different feel. The
chantier
felt abandoned. It had – if only temporarily – joined the many derelict building sites across Provence. A loophole in the planning law meant that, provided some work took place every year, planning permission could be extended indefinitely. As a result, on some
chantiers
, only a single brick was added every year.

  Rather like a thunderstorm, the Marseillaises could be heard approaching long before they came into sight. The sound of car horns followed their progress up the valley, through the village, towards the building site. Next I heard the engine and the creaking grind of metal on metal, quickly followed by blaring rap music. Finally, the truck swung into view. It was an old pick-up, with an oversized crane mounted on the back. The driver took the dirt track leading up to the
chantier
at a reckless pace. Bumps pitched the cabin to the left and the right, and the crane rocked this way and that. An iron cable with a hook on the end looped lethally through the air. A jobseeker would rightly think joining the army a safer bet than climbing aboard such a truck.

  Abruptly the engine clicked off and the noise stopped. Dust fell to the ground, revealing two young men in battered jeans and faded T-shirts. They wore aviator sunglasses and pulled heavy industrial gloves from the rear of the truck.

  'Where's the baby, then?' Their demeanour was rushed.

  I presumed they meant the well rather than Elodie, who could not have escaped their notice. My daughter had started to choose her own clothes and, like her mother, she had something of a shoe obsession. Given that she only had two pairs to chose from this didn't usually present too much of a problem. However, recently she'd discovered Tanya's collection, which is how she came to greet the Marseillaises wearing a pair of furry boots/slippers that rose the length of her legs and engulfed her midriff. I'd tried to take them off her but in the end her tears had proved more durable than my perseverance, and she now greeted the
forage
experts with amused and determined eyes. Hesitantly she took small shuffling steps, as if to prove that her choice of footwear was not as ridiculous as we all thought.

  I directed the Marseillaises towards the well in the corner of the field. One of them hoisted himself onto the arm of the crane and the other swung back into the driving seat. With bangs on the roof replacing language they manoeuvred the truck into position.

  'Up she comes.' One of the men attached the hook to the cable within the well. There was a whirr and the truck winch, mounted on the crane, squeaked into life. Within minutes the pump was pulled into the light. Rusty and battered, it certainly looked defunct.

  The Marseillaises didn't waste time on a diagnosis, slinging the pump into the rear of the truck and rummaging in a pile of boxes for a replacement. The winch whirred again, the cable was played, with protest, back into the well and the new pump disappeared from sight to begin its subterranean life.

  'Give it a go.'

  I turned the tap. A trickling smudge of water emerged. This was followed by a vicious vomit of liquid, then hissing air, and finally a constant gush. The pump was working. The Marseillaises raised their shades, removed their gloves, wiped their foreheads and presented me with the bill: 2,000 euros for twenty minutes of work. Even so, it was better than the ten thousand or more that Madame Roland had predicted, and so I signed the cheque. Within moments they were gone, bouncing off down the track, heading off to some other emergency.

  Somehow Elodie had taken off one of Tanya's boots. She now wore it wedged on her head, the heel and sole dangling to one side like an oversized pompom on a Santa hat. Her expression was totally serious and all her attention was focused on filling the other boot with handfuls of mud. I tried not to laugh and I tried not to think what Tanya would say.

  Instead, I called Madame Roland.

  'It's fixed. You can start work again.'

  'Who did the work?'

  'A company from Marseille.'

  
'Oh là là.'
I could imagine her on the other end of the phone, using that peculiarly French gesture, a vigorous shake of the wrist, to indicate that somebody had just done something very stupid.

T
here is an etiquette to supermarket shopping the world over. Everybody enters, trolley empty, list in hand, hoping to whizz in and out as quickly as possible, praying they don't meet anyone they know. The bright lighting, the claustrophobic aisles, the chill of the freezer cabinets and the mind-numbing wait at the checkout combine to create an unpleasant experience. The shorter it has to be endured, the better.

  However, particularly in a small community, the interior of a local supermarket is always filled with casual acquaintances. The aisles hide a delaying minefield of banal greetings and pointless conversations. A quick reconnaissance trip, skidding the length of the shop without putting anything in the trolley, is often essential. That way, problem areas can be identified, and gossips avoided. It's possible just by glancing at other people's trolleys to chart where they'll go next – after dairy it's always the drinks aisle and after cereals it's usually the chilled cold meats. The crafty shopper who plots his course can, with a little luck, avoid all interruptions.

  The optimum moment for weekly groceries in France is lunchtime. The aisles are empty apart from expats scooting around sheepishly stocking up on Marmite and baked beans. It's my favourite time to shop. Even so, I'm forced to deploy a full array of conversation-halting body language. The vegetable section is the most likely place to spot a familiar face. If eye contact is made, a wave of acknowledgement is necessary, but then one can quickly become distracted by the urgent need to fill a plastic bag full of lemons. If there's no eye contact, then there's always a handy pile of melons or pumpkins to dive behind and wait until the aisle clears.

  Outside the vegetable section it's harder but still possible to avoid conversations without appearing rude. The secret is to adopt an air of being under overwhelming time pressure. A nuance of supermarket behaviour is that people don't actually have to believe your charade. The majority of shoppers don't want to talk either. They'll be grateful if you glance at your watch, run your fingers in a hassled way through your hair and indiscriminately chuck articles into your trolley. A pantomime performance is quite sufficient.

  Sometimes, though, even a skilled operator deploying all the right body language can get caught. In my case there's a fatal flaw in my nature that means for just one small moment I'm vulnerable, a sitting duck, prey to any sick, twisted blabbermouth who labours under the misapprehension that the supermarket is a meeting place, a chance to catch up on news and enquire after the family. My weakness?
La Provence
: I always flick to the back page to check out the weather.

  The newspaper rack in our supermarket is located right next to the quick 'ten items only' checkout. It's a zone fraught with danger. Shoppers in a queue are happy to stop and pass the time of day and the usual rules of etiquette do not apply. Yet it's always important to watch the weather. Among the joys of living in Provence are the glorious warm October days. Working for ourselves, it's possible to ditch the day job and head to the coast. At this time of year the French seaside is an absolute joy. The Mediterranean sparkles, it's still warm enough to swim, the restaurants are all open, and the ambiance is one of leisurely enjoyment. The harsh heat and the crowds of the summer have disappeared and the feel is of a bygone era. In other words, it's well worth the risk of checking
La Provence
for the forecast.

  It was just after one o'clock. The safest time to shop. The typical Frenchman would be at the table indulging in a glass of wine, having a
courgette farcie
starter, salivating over the smell of the
grillade
(grilled meat) to follow, with half an eye on the tarte Tatin for dessert. Expats would have just finished their sandwiches and be searching for the car keys. Normally the next half an hour would be clear. As was my habit, I picked up the paper. On Thursday the skies were clearing, the temperature rising and the only worry was the mistral, predicted to rise to 20 kilometres per hour by the afternoon. Could we risk a beach trip?

  I flicked the pages and my eye was caught by an article about an unusual festival. A local boutique owner was organising Provence's first, and in all probability the world's first,
fête du string.
Entrants were invited to customise their G-string with bangles and handicraft designs, and the results would be displayed on mannequins in the village hall.