About a week before Christmas Dick called me to let me know that his purchase in Agde had completed, and that he and a decorator friend would be driving down to southern France the day before Christmas eve, and would I like to go with them? They planned to stay for a week and paint the interior of his house top to bottom.
Whereas Frasquenet is in the Aude department, Agde is in the Herault department. These two departments are adjacent in the Languedoc Roussillon region and the distance between our holiday homes could be covered in less than an hour in a car.
Just how Dick had managed to convince his wife Sybil, that he could abandon her and their three sons over the Christmas holiday I had no idea. I knew that Jane would be very upset if I tried to emulate his example, but probably not as much as Sarah would be. Apart from that I really enjoy Christmas day at home, watching Sarah unwrap her presents, while I get inebriated and eat too much.
I declined, but arranged to fly down the day after Boxing day. As arranged, in the late morning of the appointed day, I caught a flight from Heathrow to Montpellier, where I hired a small Citroen rental car.
It was around 4pm on December 27th, when I first stood forlornly before the back door of our purchase, wondering how a mere four months could have brought about such a transformation. This was first time since our September house hunting trip, that I had returned to Frasquenet.
The summer had been a good one, even by Languedoc standards. “A good year for wine” all of the property agents had told us. Well, I was now praying that the summer had not been too exceptional. I had noticed something was not quite right, as soon as I had driven out of the parking lot at Montpellier airport. Admittedly it was now the middle of winter and it wasn’t actually snowing, but it was cold, the sky was no longer a crystal clear blue, but overcast grey and it was drizzling. Now the lush green vineyards, dangling generous bunches of purple grapes, that had stretched as far as the eye could see, had become a series of brown muddy fields, sprouting thousands of evenly spaced, gnarled dead looking, woody stumps.
Our holiday home, which had been lavishly endowed with a leafy green outer layer, now lay bare before me, stripped of its colourful summer cloak, revealing a spindly twig like structure, clinging to grey cement rendering, which was peppered with a generous helping of damp patches and cracks. Also revealed were a couple of large iron crosses, apparently bolted to the back wall. These crosses I realised were to prevent the wall from moving, which it must have presumably started to do at some time in the past.
Summer versus Winter
I reluctantly moved toward the door, half hoping the key would not fit, and that I’d made a mistake and come to the wrong house.
Alas, the key fitted perfectly. I turned it and with a small push, the door swung open. I was nearly knocked out by the stench. I staggered backward gasping for breath, “What on earth …”. I stood there feeling utterly alone, and realising that darkness would soon replace the failing grey daylight, I convinced myself that someone had left behind a rotting corpse to welcome me. Apart from the psychological effect, it would have made little real difference if the house had been bathed in brilliant sunlight, because all the shutters were closed so the interior would have been pitch black anyway. I cursed myself for not having brought a torch with me.
It took a while, but eventually boldness prevailed. I took a deep breath, raced into the house, found the electric meter, turned on the power and raced out again, for another lung full of breathable air. Back inside, I ran to the kitchen, turned on the light and then the taps serving the sink. Then interspersed with more exits for fresh air, I found the bathroom where I opened the washbasin taps and ran the shower.
I then toured the house opening every window and shutter I could find. It was during this part of the operation that I observed the typically French habit, which Mr. Puffin had warned me about, of removing everything not specifically listed in the sale contract. In this case it was not just the light bulbs but the fittings also. This included the light switches and the mains wall sockets. In the whole house only one electrical facility remained operational, the light in the kitchen. I wondered how in my hasty forays through the dark house, I had managed to avoid electrocuting myself on one of the many, live electric wires, which protruded from the plasterwork in each room.
My next observation was that the ghastly wallpaper in the sitting room, had absorbed so much moisture, that it was hanging in limp folds from the damp walls on to which it had been pasted.
An hour later, as I drove toward my brother Dick’s house at Agde, I reflected with satisfaction on the fact that at least my theory about one of the waste traps in the house having dried out, was probably correct, since the awful smell had abated with the running of the taps. Apart from that, most of my thoughts were rather depressing, not helped by the desolate looking vineyards which lined both sides of the road.
Languedoc Vineyards in Winter
To cheer myself up, I imagined that Dick would not have got much decorating done and that it had all been a ruse to have a few boozy debauched days away from home. At least I could look forward to joining in with the debauchery.
Having parked my car, I walked towards where the map told me his house should be. As I approached, I began to suspect I’d made a big mistake with regard to Dick’s intentions.
It was after 7pm on a cold late December night, the shutters and windows were wide open and the lights inside were blazing. I could hear a power drill and the smell of fresh paint wafted down the rue de Fraternite in Agde.
On making my presence known, I was met with the customary greeting “Hello squire”, followed by “Put the kettle on. That’s Mike he takes two sugars in his tea”. So I filled the kettle and put it on the gas ring, made Dick and myself some coffee and Mike a cup of tea. I wondered why builders, plasterers and decorators always drink tea and why they always have at least two spoons full of sugar in it.
“I’m surprised you’ve got all your lights working. Mine even had the fittings taken”, I said. “So did mine. That was our first job”, came the reply, “it was really depressing when we got here. The walls were damp and the smell was something else”.
I started to feel more positive. Tea making duty done, I took a tour of the house. I was very impressed with the amount of work they had obviously done, though slightly concerned at the serious way the job was being tackled. Clearly this could impact some of the more relaxing pursuits I had been anticipating, during the three days that our respective visits were due to overlap.
I became aware of a slightly tacky feeling under my feet as I walked across the bedroom on the first floor, having already explored the floor above. I looked round and to my dismay noticed a line of grey footprints across the recently painted and dried red floor.
Having removed my shoes and as I started to retrace my steps in search of the source of “grey”, I heard a voice shout “Don’t go up to the second floor I’ve just painted the stair treads grey”. Several apologies later and a promise to buy the first round or two, I enquired as to when the days work normally ceased, and the debauchery commenced. “We normally stop at 8 o’clock, have a shower and go out at about 8:30, but we’ll be later tonight because we’ve got to paint the stairs again”.
“So what’s the nightlife like then!” I enquired as innocently as I could. “Great, we went to a night club on Christmas eve and were the only customers all night. We usually go out for a meal and then hang out in a local bar for a couple of hours”.
Later while Dick and Mike picked their way through the 50 franc menu, I hungrily devoured the 150 franc one, being flushed with the cash I had changed just that morning. “Money doesn’t last long here, Squire!”, Dick informed me. I generously offered to foot the bill for the bottle of wine we were sharing. This rapidly became two bottles and after dinner liqueurs, after a reminder about the grey paint footprints.
Later in the local bar, it quickly became apparent that any debauchery would be confined to eating and drinking and that I would be paying for most of it.
I clutched my head, and wondered why despite many years of experience in suffering from hangovers, this was the first time I had come across the orange flashing light version, the pastis aperitif perhaps…. “Dick you forgot to close the shutters” grunted Mike from an insubstantial, torn, paint spattered sleeping bag in the far corner of the room.
“Your the nearest, Squire” came the unenthusiastic response. Some inbuilt instinct told me that “Squire”, referred to me and not Mike. I reluctantly dragged myself out of the cosy warmth, of my own brand new, double down quilted, arctic explorers sleeping bag, across to the window and looked outside.
“Is it the sprayer, or the poop scoop”, Dick enquired sounding mildly more interested. “How do you tell the difference”, I asked hoping that the shutters were going to be easy to close. “The poop scoop has a man walking in front of it with a dry ice machine that freezes the poops”. I confirmed that it was the scoop. “Must be five o’clock then, the sprayer comes at half past. After that there will be lots of barking, because that’s when everybody lets their dogs out for their daily exercise. By the time we get out, you’ll wonder why they bothered with the scoop”.
I didn’t get any further sleep that morning, but with the new day came a wave of optimism on my part. “I’m going to Frasquenet to strip the wallpaper from the walls in the living room”. After all nature had already done half the job for me, there would be no point in repapering, unless I wanted to make an annual event of it. I would give the walls a couple of coats of white emulsion and add another coat each year if necessary.
Somehow in my drunken sleep I had come to the convenient conclusion that retaining the patterned wallpaper on the ceiling, which incidentally had not been damaged by the damp, would preserve some of the French atmosphere of the room. Totally coincidentally it would also mean a lot less redecorating work for me to do.
“Do you want to come and see my house?” I enquired. “Not today Squire, we’ve got a lot to do here still. If we’ve finished by tonight we’ll come tomorrow, but I want to make sure we are finished first, since we need to leave early the day after”.
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