Chapter Three
May 1978.
Gary and I stood outside Morlaix station. Rucksacks on our backs and sweat pouring off us and we hadn’t even started walking yet. It was hot, the sky blue and we didn’t really know where we were going. After five years I was back in France again. This time I was no longer a naive fourteen year old, I was nineteen and had been writing to Helene on and off for the last five years. She was my penfriend, my confidente, I told her my secrets and now she was seventeen.
I’d been planning this for Months, ever since that night in "The hole in the Wall", Waterloo, when Gary and I had started planning our trip round Europe. I’d written to Helene asking if she’d like me to visit her. She replied immediately saying she’d love it, and her parents would too.
Stepping outside the station was like going back in time, everything strangely familiar yet new. not exactly the same but mostly the same. I looked up and down the row of shops where five years earlier I had allegedly asked an old man if he had fallen on the ground. I said the words over in my mind "Etes vous tombez par terre Monsieur?" I’d said that phrase so often in my mind over the years that it had now become my own. I might as well really have said it myself. I mused a moment on who could have been the real culprit. Dave, Bob, Smithy, Stevey, Dan or me. Well it wasn’t me.
"Where exactly is Helene’s farm?" Gary woke me from my reverie
"I don’t know exactly. But she said it’s near the village."
You know which village don’t you?" sarcasm entered his tone a little.
"Of course I do." Do you think I’m stupid or what?
"So when you say near, is that north of the village south or what?"
"I don’t know. We’ll have to ask." I admitted to myself I didn’t really know, but then planning this trip was not a priority. We’d especially decided against any real plans, it made it more of an adventure.
"You’ve really planned this in detail haven’t you?" the sarcasm continued, "How far is it do you think?"
"It’s about an inch on the map." I countered, two can play at this game.
"Idiot!" Funnily enough we never fell out. Gary and I were best friends. We argued but it was never vindictive just verbal jousting with each other. We made a point of insulting each other regularly.
After consulting the Michelline guide, we started walking. Past the boats on the river that runs through the centre of Morlaix, their wire rigging clicking on the masts in the breeze, past the Boulangerie, Pattisserie, Electrodémanager and all the other shops, up the hill past high walled gardens and houses with shutters closed. Then out into the country.
After miles of walking down endless country lanes we came to a village and we’d only walked half and inch according to the map. We needed to fill up with water. We went into a small village store.
"Bonjour." said the shop owner. A man in his late fifties, rubbing his hands together at the expectation of a sale.
"Bonjour. Un grand bouteille de l’eau s’il vous plait."
"Vous etes en vacance?" he enquired.
"Oui. Nous visitons ma amie Helene Le Cam."
"Ah Le Cam!" his friendliness turned to interest.
"Oui."
"C’est Louis Le Cam non?"
"Je crois." I said. I think so.
"C’est mon Frere."
I turned to Gary "This is Helenes Fathers brother for Chrissakes. That’s a bit of luck."
"Ask him how far it is to her farm." Gary pushed me forward a bit more.
I asked.
"Mais non." he said "Je vous conduirai la dans ma voiture."
"Shit! he’s going to take us there in his car."
"Great it’s too hot to walk much further."
"Merci bien." I said enthusiastically "Vous etes tres gentile."
He called his wife to look after the shop for a while and took us outside to his car, and we squeezed ourselves and our rucksacks into his "deux cheveaux" a Citroen 2CV.
He took us down more roads the further he drove the more grateful we became, it would have been a very very long walk. One inch on the map? Hell! That would have been a life time of walking, especially in that heat.
As we pulled into the farm yard there was a large stone built house on the right and an abandoned 2CV by the side, this I later discovered was the hen house. In front was a ramshackle barn and and on the left another barn and fields.
Helenes uncle, Henri, tooted the horn and Madame le Cam appeared in the doorway, wearing a 1950’s floral dress that was almost completely covered by a pinafore. Helenes father came out behind her wearing an old jacket and brown corduroy trousers tied up at the waist with string. He strode over to meet us as we got out of the car, and shook our hands. He turned and called Helene. Then went to greet his brother kissing him on both cheeks. They hugged.
Helene came skipping out of the house to meet us, tall, thin, with long brown hair and big brown eyes. She kissed us on both cheeks, smiling, her eyes sparkling with happiness. At once I felt that same feeling of peace and happiness as I had felt all those years before. Helene was older now 17 years old and a young woman. She was beautiful.
Her little sister Nelly and her little brother Christophe stood in the doorway peering out at us shyly.
Nelly was gypsy like, six years old with a mass of long curly brown hair, with bits of straw stuck in it. Christophe was slim and wore a grubby orange base ball cap with Massey Ferguson embroidered on the front. They were both wearing hand me downs that were obviously either too big or small.
Monsieur Le Cam went into the farm house and came out carrying bottles of beer we were presented with the bottles and shown where we could pitch our tent. Just the other side of the gate, behind a log pile, opposite the farmhouse, barely twenty yards.
I looked at Helene. She didn’t move. She just stood there smiling. I smiled back at her. We didn’t have to say anything. It was just like all those years before. I was so happy to just be in her presence. She didn’t belong on a farm. She was not a farmers daughter, she was a Princess. A Princess who had been abducted as a child and sent to live with poor farmers. She was special. I couldn’t stop looking at her.
We busied ourselves putting up the tent, under the watching eyes of Helenes brother and sister. Helene was wearing an Elvis sweatshirt and jeans.
"Do you like Elvis?" I asked.
"Non."
There was a shout from the farmhouse. Dinnertime. Bread and cheese, some cold meat and of course vin rouge. Simple but more than adequate. Conversation round the table was very simple as neither of Helene’s parents or her brother or sister spoke a word of English. By the time we had finished eating it was late. We were tired. Gary and I said "goodnight" , "Bonsoir" and went to our tent.
The next morning we were up early and exploring the farm. Monsieur Le cam came out of the farmhouse completely dressed. He took off his flat cap and jacket and hung them up on a the pump handle of the horse trough in the farm yard. rolled up his sleeves and plunged his arms into the cold water splashing it over his head and neck.
With wet hands he smoothed his thinning dark hair back over his head put on his cap then his jacket, waved at us and walked to The barn where he pitch forked hay into wooden racks on the far wall of each of the stalls. Then he went to our gate to let the cattle through for milking. They had been waiting patiently. It was the same routine every day of the year. He didn’t have to call them they just knew. He opened the gate and they followed him to the barn. We heard a motor start up and watched as one by one he placed the four suction cups on each of the four nipples of each cow. He moved quickly and methodically from one cow to the next. The cows just stood there eating the hay. Each of the cups pulsated gently and the white milk flowed through the glass portion of the cups.
"Mikel! Gary!" Helenes voice was calling us.We came out of the barn to meet her.
We said our hellos but then we had a question, a delicate question.
"Ou est la toilette?"
"La bas." she said waving her arms in the direction of the fields.
"No you don’t understand. Toilet. La toilette. Where is it?"
"La bas. C’est vrai!" That’s right there was no toilet. Not even squares of newspaper hanging on a string. We improvised. Years later Helene explained that her father didn’t own the farm, he rented it, he wasn’t going to spend money on improvements for the benefit of his landlord. he was of the opinion that the landlord should pay for it. The landlord would have none of it and argued that if they wanted proper indoor toilet facilities they would have to pay for it themselves. so it was stalemate.
It may have been primitive, but it was for those few days, paradise. I couldn’t have been happier. Perfect weather. Lovely countryside. And my Helene.
Gary and I stood outside Morlaix station. Rucksacks on our backs and sweat pouring off us and we hadn’t even started walking yet. It was hot, the sky blue and we didn’t really know where we were going. After five years I was back in France again. This time I was no longer a naive fourteen year old, I was nineteen and had been writing to Helene on and off for the last five years. She was my penfriend, my confidente, I told her my secrets and now she was seventeen.
I’d been planning this for Months, ever since that night in "The hole in the Wall", Waterloo, when Gary and I had started planning our trip round Europe. I’d written to Helene asking if she’d like me to visit her. She replied immediately saying she’d love it, and her parents would too.
Stepping outside the station was like going back in time, everything strangely familiar yet new. not exactly the same but mostly the same. I looked up and down the row of shops where five years earlier I had allegedly asked an old man if he had fallen on the ground. I said the words over in my mind "Etes vous tombez par terre Monsieur?" I’d said that phrase so often in my mind over the years that it had now become my own. I might as well really have said it myself. I mused a moment on who could have been the real culprit. Dave, Bob, Smithy, Stevey, Dan or me. Well it wasn’t me.
"Where exactly is Helene’s farm?" Gary woke me from my reverie
"I don’t know exactly. But she said it’s near the village."
You know which village don’t you?" sarcasm entered his tone a little.
"Of course I do." Do you think I’m stupid or what?
"So when you say near, is that north of the village south or what?"
"I don’t know. We’ll have to ask." I admitted to myself I didn’t really know, but then planning this trip was not a priority. We’d especially decided against any real plans, it made it more of an adventure.
"You’ve really planned this in detail haven’t you?" the sarcasm continued, "How far is it do you think?"
"It’s about an inch on the map." I countered, two can play at this game.
"Idiot!" Funnily enough we never fell out. Gary and I were best friends. We argued but it was never vindictive just verbal jousting with each other. We made a point of insulting each other regularly.
After consulting the Michelline guide, we started walking. Past the boats on the river that runs through the centre of Morlaix, their wire rigging clicking on the masts in the breeze, past the Boulangerie, Pattisserie, Electrodémanager and all the other shops, up the hill past high walled gardens and houses with shutters closed. Then out into the country.
After miles of walking down endless country lanes we came to a village and we’d only walked half and inch according to the map. We needed to fill up with water. We went into a small village store.
"Bonjour." said the shop owner. A man in his late fifties, rubbing his hands together at the expectation of a sale.
"Bonjour. Un grand bouteille de l’eau s’il vous plait."
"Vous etes en vacance?" he enquired.
"Oui. Nous visitons ma amie Helene Le Cam."
"Ah Le Cam!" his friendliness turned to interest.
"Oui."
"C’est Louis Le Cam non?"
"Je crois." I said. I think so.
"C’est mon Frere."
I turned to Gary "This is Helenes Fathers brother for Chrissakes. That’s a bit of luck."
"Ask him how far it is to her farm." Gary pushed me forward a bit more.
I asked.
"Mais non." he said "Je vous conduirai la dans ma voiture."
"Shit! he’s going to take us there in his car."
"Great it’s too hot to walk much further."
"Merci bien." I said enthusiastically "Vous etes tres gentile."
He called his wife to look after the shop for a while and took us outside to his car, and we squeezed ourselves and our rucksacks into his "deux cheveaux" a Citroen 2CV.
He took us down more roads the further he drove the more grateful we became, it would have been a very very long walk. One inch on the map? Hell! That would have been a life time of walking, especially in that heat.
As we pulled into the farm yard there was a large stone built house on the right and an abandoned 2CV by the side, this I later discovered was the hen house. In front was a ramshackle barn and and on the left another barn and fields.
Helenes uncle, Henri, tooted the horn and Madame le Cam appeared in the doorway, wearing a 1950’s floral dress that was almost completely covered by a pinafore. Helenes father came out behind her wearing an old jacket and brown corduroy trousers tied up at the waist with string. He strode over to meet us as we got out of the car, and shook our hands. He turned and called Helene. Then went to greet his brother kissing him on both cheeks. They hugged.
Helene came skipping out of the house to meet us, tall, thin, with long brown hair and big brown eyes. She kissed us on both cheeks, smiling, her eyes sparkling with happiness. At once I felt that same feeling of peace and happiness as I had felt all those years before. Helene was older now 17 years old and a young woman. She was beautiful.
Her little sister Nelly and her little brother Christophe stood in the doorway peering out at us shyly.
Nelly was gypsy like, six years old with a mass of long curly brown hair, with bits of straw stuck in it. Christophe was slim and wore a grubby orange base ball cap with Massey Ferguson embroidered on the front. They were both wearing hand me downs that were obviously either too big or small.
Monsieur Le Cam went into the farm house and came out carrying bottles of beer we were presented with the bottles and shown where we could pitch our tent. Just the other side of the gate, behind a log pile, opposite the farmhouse, barely twenty yards.
I looked at Helene. She didn’t move. She just stood there smiling. I smiled back at her. We didn’t have to say anything. It was just like all those years before. I was so happy to just be in her presence. She didn’t belong on a farm. She was not a farmers daughter, she was a Princess. A Princess who had been abducted as a child and sent to live with poor farmers. She was special. I couldn’t stop looking at her.
We busied ourselves putting up the tent, under the watching eyes of Helenes brother and sister. Helene was wearing an Elvis sweatshirt and jeans.
"Do you like Elvis?" I asked.
"Non."
There was a shout from the farmhouse. Dinnertime. Bread and cheese, some cold meat and of course vin rouge. Simple but more than adequate. Conversation round the table was very simple as neither of Helene’s parents or her brother or sister spoke a word of English. By the time we had finished eating it was late. We were tired. Gary and I said "goodnight" , "Bonsoir" and went to our tent.
The next morning we were up early and exploring the farm. Monsieur Le cam came out of the farmhouse completely dressed. He took off his flat cap and jacket and hung them up on a the pump handle of the horse trough in the farm yard. rolled up his sleeves and plunged his arms into the cold water splashing it over his head and neck.
With wet hands he smoothed his thinning dark hair back over his head put on his cap then his jacket, waved at us and walked to The barn where he pitch forked hay into wooden racks on the far wall of each of the stalls. Then he went to our gate to let the cattle through for milking. They had been waiting patiently. It was the same routine every day of the year. He didn’t have to call them they just knew. He opened the gate and they followed him to the barn. We heard a motor start up and watched as one by one he placed the four suction cups on each of the four nipples of each cow. He moved quickly and methodically from one cow to the next. The cows just stood there eating the hay. Each of the cups pulsated gently and the white milk flowed through the glass portion of the cups.
"Mikel! Gary!" Helenes voice was calling us.We came out of the barn to meet her.
We said our hellos but then we had a question, a delicate question.
"Ou est la toilette?"
"La bas." she said waving her arms in the direction of the fields.
"No you don’t understand. Toilet. La toilette. Where is it?"
"La bas. C’est vrai!" That’s right there was no toilet. Not even squares of newspaper hanging on a string. We improvised. Years later Helene explained that her father didn’t own the farm, he rented it, he wasn’t going to spend money on improvements for the benefit of his landlord. he was of the opinion that the landlord should pay for it. The landlord would have none of it and argued that if they wanted proper indoor toilet facilities they would have to pay for it themselves. so it was stalemate.
It may have been primitive, but it was for those few days, paradise. I couldn’t have been happier. Perfect weather. Lovely countryside. And my Helene.
1 Comments:
Hey have a great day, I'll be back to see yours again too. :)
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