Written by Gordon Aspey
20 October 2020
Our extended stay in France would soon be coming to an end. The countryside was changing color to wonderful shades of bronze green and gold. The sunflowers had lost their smile with downcast heads a dishevelled dusty brown. The Sweet Corn no longer rustled in the breeze as the green foliage turned to parchment.
I will miss the regular forays into the local market, coffee mornings and chit-chat with local expats. The early morning walks and the neighbourly visits from the beef tomato lady. I will especially miss the daily dip in the swimming pool. The French way of life is fast growing upon me. I am reminded of Shipbourne, a small parish in Kent often referred to as ‘The garden of England.’
I remember as a child roaming through farmer Jenner’s buttercup meadow. The wild life here is more cautious; nothing wanders around during daylight. Predators are quick to grasp any opportunity for a quick meal. The French have an amusing reputation; ‘If it moves cook it’. ‘Except for slugs!’
We were at the point of packing our suitcases when the telephone rang. ‘Hello Babs’—it was the owner. ‘We are in a bit of a pickle – can you possibly stay on for another two weeks? We have a problem with one of our tenants we need to get sorted. Babs hesitated and looked at me. ‘What about our fli…?’ I started to say. The owner butted in . ‘We’ll cover your cost and cancelled flights – we’d be so grateful.’
’No problem – of course, we’d love to’ said Babs. I had been looking forward to returning home to my easy going more familiar lifestyle. It seems to be a regular feature with holidays when you reach the final couple of days you can’t wait to get home. Still, another two weeks of French living would be no hardship, my daily dips in the pool could continue.
‘Perhaps we could sort out the vegetable patch and tidy it up a bit’ said Babs ‘I feel bad about breaking that vase too.’
‘That’s a lot of work, you can’t call it a vegetable patch, with one row of decimated tomato’s, it’s overgrown with weeds.’ The beef tomato lady dropped in to say goodbye and gave us a large jar of homemade strawberry jam. She seemed pleased to learn we would be staying a further two weeks. We never met her husband who spent all his time on their small holding working the land. ‘What a nice lady she is’ sighed Babs as we watched her leave. ‘Yeah they don’t make them like that anymore, I agreed.
Kas entrusted us to pick up the grandchildren from the local school. The memories came flooding back to see parents waiting at the entrance for their children. I loved all the hustle, bustle and noisy laughter from boisterous children. Kas always said she would like lots of children but we were amazed when she had four – two boys and two girls in the space of five years.
On the way back to the villa I went into the hire shop to organize a cultivator to tidy up the vegetable plot. I wasn’t keen on the idea but Babs felt it was the least we could do, we had enjoyed a cheap holiday and we now had plenty of time. The assistant showed me some fancy sit on machines. ‘No-no ‘I said, and told him I wanted a small one you push like a lawnmower. He seemed surprised and wiped his hand across his forehead to show it would be hard work.
A young man delivered the cultivator the next day. I noticed it was a much older machine almost to the point of being an antique. I explained my lack of expertise with such things and could he give me a demonstration on how it worked. He looked hesitant and it soon became clear he had even less idea about how it worked than I did. ‘Me in office most of time ‘he said, cranking the handle. After several swings it spluttered into life making a lot more noise than I would have expected. I decided to leave it until late afternoon when the temperature would be cooler.
I wasn’t exactly sure where the vegetable plot started or where it finished. There were no markings it joined up with the orchard and out buildings. The more I thought about it the less I liked the idea. I had concerns about whether the owners would be happy with us digging up their land. I settled on a compromise and created my own idea of a suitable size kitchen garden. The cultivator had a starting handle like the pre-war cars. It gave out clouds of choking black smoke, I let out the clutch and squeezed the throttle, the machine moved forward at a steady walking pace.
I was beginning to think this is a doddle almost effortless, when the machine increased speed with no input from me. I was running at a wild canter trying to keep up. I was on the point of releasing the machine to do its own thing when it reverted back to walking speed. This slow-quick-slow process continued until the job was finished. I wasn’t going to hire the machine for a second day if I could help it. ‘That’s a good job you’ve done there’ said Babs ‘but what’s with the roundabout at the end?’ ‘Err well I lost control there, I’ll sort that out tomorrow, I’m too knackered now.’ ‘ Well the exercise will have done you good ‘she said grinning all over. I’m not convinced such energy sapping exercise is a good thing when it leaves you spread eagled on your back gasping for breath.
The beef tomato lady’s homemade jam proved to be disappointing. It was a touch too thin. Babs had a good reputation in the jam making arena and she wasn’t impressed. ‘ I don’t think she has much experience in making jam but I’ll make some nice tarts with it when we get home. The next few days I spent much of my time in the pool, it was too hot to do anything and we didn’t bother cooking we snacked on nuts, biscuits and fruit.
One morning I stood by the pool drying myself when out of the corner of my eye I noticed the beef tomato lady coming down the grassy slope. I quickly wrapped the towel around me and gave her a cheery wave. She paused then started swearing and shouting. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, the names she was calling me and her language. Jesus! What have I done, am I imagining all this? Babs won’t believe this. She threw the tomato’s and the other contents of her basket onto the grass and marched back up the slope. As expected Babs didn’t believe me. ‘She wouldn’t swear like that you’ve made a mistake. She’s incapable of such awful behavior; you must have done something bad to upset her.’
‘BABS ! this woman called me an effing idiot. She called me a tosspot-and worse, she’s having a nervous breakdown or something. We ought to ring somebody-she needs help.’
‘You didn’t waggle your willy at her?’
‘Huh! I can’t believe you said that. No I did not – although maybe she became so excited at the sight of my naked torso it overwhelmed her.’
‘I think not.’
Our last week passed without further drama and we did a final shopping trip in town. Babs spent crazy money on a pair of calf leather shoes and an odd looking hat. She rarely wears a hat!. We didn’t see the tomato lady again, but she figured prominently in our thoughts when we were back in the UK.