A letter to Jack - from the past

Dear Jack,

    

You probably will not remember your friend Gaston when you grow up because you are only three, as you may gather from this picture with Leonie;  he is sixty. We only knew him for a fortnight, as his neighbours, when we were on holiday in France. 

We had a family holiday in two adjoining ‘gites’, deep in the French countryside. Gites are restored derelict cottages, once inhabited by French farm workers. They kept warm and comfortable because they lived and slept ten to a room. Gaston told me that.

It is cheaper and more comfortable to stay in French hotels, but the English have a penchant for taking holidays in places where the bathroom smells, the ceiling leaks because there is no shower curtain in the bathroom above, the furniture collapses when you sit on it, the sewerage system is inadequate and pumps water back up through one lavatory when you are using the other, where we all incur ‘Gyppy Tummy’, ‘Delhi Belly’, or ‘French Farts’, because we insist on eating food that is burnt on the outside and uncooked on the inside as a result of a belief that we are all barbecue experts.

It could be it wasn’t the food that made us all unwell; perhaps it was the lake of wine  bought from the French supermarket Shopi which we drank while waiting for the barbecue to heat up! Your Grandma speaks fluent French when it applies to names like: Shopi, Ecomarche, Intermarche, Rallye, Auchan, Mammoth (pronounced Mamoot), Carrefour and many others.

“There's your man Grandad”: you would tell me when Gaston appeared - as though I had invented him.

“Bonjou' M’sieu Gaston”, you would greet him.

You and he were great pals, even though he did not speak a word of English and your French was limited to your greeting.

Your Mum got on well with him too. But, she can speak French; albeit dangerously when she has been ‘sipping’ the wine while awaiting the heating of the barbecue!  She believes the French are mostly deaf and understand much better if you imitate a windmill with your arms.

Strangely enough, it works; your Mum can often make French people understand some things more quickly than I.  It may bem they are frightened not to understand!

We all went to a Fete, where your Dad and a friend he collected from the gite next door, ‘Rollo’ from the north of England, discovered holiday bliss in the form of three bars and all-day opening. 

Your Dad and Rollo didn’t come with us to the ‘Grand Bal’ in the evening!

The Fete was not dissimilar to our village Church Fetes. But the French have a style of their own.

Carried in procession was a figure of St. Nicodeme, who was carried up to the church tower, from where he descended at a rate of knots on a pulley attached to a rope, to pardon the assembled’s sins. That this is repeated many times is probably necessary to counteract the build-up of sins as a consequence of all-day opening at three bars!

There were team sports, including one where each member ran up a plank, hurled himself into the air and then into a water tank while attempting to throw an egg to his left through goalposts defended by a member of the opposing team armed with a large frying pan. 
We don't seem to have interesting sports like that.

Breton dancing, in the evening, consists of shuffling round in circles whilst holding little fingers with your neighbour and throwing linked arms into the air every four steps. It is designed to ruin a good pair of shoes.

All this time, people, unceasingly, eat crepes and galletes (pancakes with fillings), made by ladies of the Breton equivalent of the Women’s Institute. That is, in between drinking vast quantities of red wine in small thick glasses and eating ‘traditional Breton food’ in the form of mutton stew, which is boiled in great cauldrons by chain smoking French chefs .This takes place in the open air, to the great enjoyment of all present, in conditions which illustrate French contempt for the E.E.C. 

Emil                                              Gaston

At the Fete we met Gaston and his friends, one of whom, Emil, insisted on showing us his operation. French surgery is truly remarkable!

Your Dad and I went, with Gaston, to Emil's house, the purpose of the visit being to consume a variety of French wines. 

Then we went to Gaston’s house where we drank red wine from an unlabelled bottle which Gaston fills from his bulk supplies, together with ten-year old cider. Brittany is renowned for its cider. Gaston and Emil drank coffee or orange juice and chain-smoked hand-rolled cigarettes made from Caporel tobacco. They no longer drink alcohol but obviously believe the English do little else and so take steps to ensure their hospitality cannot be faulted

Gaston and Emil, who have been life-long friends, are bachelors who believe the best wives go back to their own homes at night. That is what they said.

Gaston was a cowherd at your age. For this reason, did not go to school until he was nine years old. He lives with his ‘companions’ - two small dogs - in medieval style in a two-hundred year old semi-derelict cottage in one heavily beamed room which contains, his huge bed, a wardrobe built in the eighteen hundreds, a grandfather clock made locally in the year of his birth, 1932, a kitchen table and four chairs, a sink, a cooker and a huge stone fireplace which he uses only in the winter. The outside well is still in use, but only for watering the garden.

Like almost everyone else in France, it seems, he drives a Peugeot 205 which he keeps spotless - like himself.

Your great grandfather, Tom, never liked the French. But then, he had never been to France. I think it must have had something to do with Napoleon! Most of us have likes and dislikes when it comes to people, usually about people we know least about.

It would be better if we were all like you and Gaston. You could not converse, so there was nothing you could say that would offend. What you did do, was what people who can’t talk do, you smiled at each other. And so, with nothing, you found a friend - as did Gaston.

On the day we left France, Gaston came round early in the morning and brought you a lollipop. 

A Frenchman would do this only for a very close friend.          

“Vive l’Entente Cordiale” Jack.
                                                                Grandad
                                                                                         Sorry about your photo. We all have pictures like that: here's mine. 
Someone once entitled it: "The boy with the lead balloon"