Pardon My French

Of particular interest to Anglophiles and expatriate Brit's, but should be well received by all who have a sense of humor. At 4,352 words it's longer than a usual posting but it reads better as a complete "short story." Will.

Pardon My French

“Look out! Oh my God, we’re going to be killed,” my wife Phyllis screamed in my ear. She had my right arm in a death grip and was frantically pulling me toward her side of the car. I presumed that by hanging on to me she was trying to prevent herself from being launched through the windshield in the event we actually collided with the demented drivers around us - or was she merely hinting that she too would like to share the fun of driving on the left-hand side of the road.

There was no sound from the back seat where Jill, our fourteen year old daughter was supposed to be; and not having the time or inclination to look back I took for granted that she had fainted, when all of a sudden she flung both arms around my neck cutting off my wind and started to wail like a banshee. The combination of these two physical restraints and Jill’s hot, panicky breath on my neck - plus my face blowing up like a red balloon from strangulation would seem to be a perfect menu for disaster - but it was only the beginning of a thrilling holiday excursion which we had meticulously planned.

At this, the onset of our European leg of the journey, it became rapidly obvious that there were many details about which we were woefully ignorant.

Phyllis and I had immigrated to Canada from England in 1951, and eight years later we arrived in Los Angeles with two children and a new dream after the dismantling of an aircraft industry which had been painstakingly created through the partnership of a giant British company and the Canadian government. But that is another story!

Like most new young immigrants we were long on enthusiasm and short of funds. So ensued eighteen  years of climbing the ladder of success while trying to avoid the broken rungs, until we agreed that we could plan for this wonderful vacation which would incorporate purchasing a car in England, visiting Phyllis’s family, and a couple of weeks touring Europe - and we were going as American citizens.

We touched down at Gatwick and caught a train to Victoria station in the heart of London, from where we made our way by taxi to the Austin headquarters in Holland Park to take delivery of our new car - a primrose yellow Austin America which was modeled after the most popular car in England at the time but built specifically for the American market. It was lavishly outfitted with leather interior, automatic transmission, independent four wheel liquid suspension, and air-conditioning. Pragmatic Brits would never shell out for such folderol, being fanatical about stick shifts (the more gears the merrier), and obstinately loyal in the matter of hard rides and powerless steering. Something to do with British reserve - which is not an army battalion in waiting, but rather a stiff upper lip.

We entered the august establishment through massive glass doors with highly polished brass handles, which were opened by a doorman wearing impeccable white gloves and who was obviously a retired general in the Grenadier Guards augmenting his pension. His rows (and rows - and rows) of medal ribbons evidence of a lifetime of meritorious service to king and country - and perhaps a queen or two.  He saluted us in the military fashion and escorted us into the hushed halls of British Industry, to be greeted by a lady of indeterminate age who reminded me vaguely of a former schoolteacher - and perhaps several other former schoolteachers I had known.  She could easily have been Celia Johnson from the movie “Brief Encounter,” and who’s to say it wasn’t? She inquired as to the pleasantness of our flight from Los Angeles and “…would we like a cup of tea?” - to which we replied, in very proper London fashion,  “Ooh, ta ever so!” Breeding never really leaves one, does it?

Seated in a tasteful lounge sipping tea and munching  biscuits we were beginning to feel like humans again after twenty four hours without sleep - our charter flight had been delayed three hours in LA to replace a defective part - but then, a cup of English tea can do wonders.

A moment later we were approached by three men wearing spotless knee length white coats and all manner of writing instruments in their top pockets. They looked for all the world like doctors and we wondered if we might have been deposited in a hospital by mistake. The chappie in the middle resembled Trevor Howard (Celia’s inamorata in the movie) and was obviously in charge. The other two, who maintained a deferential step or three behind Trevor could have been twin Noel Coward’s, or rather solemn dentists because they had a small dental mirror in their top pockets among the pens and pencils.

“Welcome to Austin of England, Mr. and Mrs. Wilmott,” Trevor said, in a plummy voice. “Our engineers are just giving your car a final inspection - it will be ready quite soon. If you will come with me we can finalize the documents.”

Our meticulous planning, which I previously mentioned, contained an assurance that the car would be ‘driveaway ready’ because we had a ferry to catch in Newhaven and very little time to spare. This I mentioned, and Noel responded that we were “Not to worry. We will have you on your way quite soon.” From this I gathered that, despite their languid appearance, they really were in overdrive because (a) they would like to see the back of us - and (b) there was also the matter of the final payment in good old Yankee dollars which they were more than eager to get their hands on.

Now, when Trevor invited us to complete the ‘documents’ it was not his intention to handle the matter personally. From his lofty position, attained through the public school system (only in England would private schools be designated public schools) it was expected that his most strenuous activity in life would be to lift a cup and saucer or a sherry glass several times a day.  No, the ‘documents’ would require a woman’s touch, and smarts - and right on cue Celia Johnson appeared  - but Trevor addressed her as Miss. Babbage. In confusion, we glanced at the torpid trio only to find they had discreetly disappeared.

We sat quietly while Miss. Babbage reverently perused the ‘documents’ making small notations in blue ink which she blotted with a hemispherical roller. At one point she left the room, returning a half hour later, without explanation, to continue the painstaking task. We later learned that the whole company, responding to some primeval instinct, ceased all activity once in the morning  (elevense's), and once in the afternoon (cuppa), for a half hour to partake of tea and “bikkie’s.” Eventually, satisfied that all was in order she stepped across the hall to the glassed-in office of an elder statesman type who wore a black jacket and striped trousers (his bowler hat and umbrella on the clothes tree behind him). She stood facing him, as if penitent, in front of the desk with hands lightly clasped behind her back, while he studied the pile of documents with the gravity of an anthropologist deciphering the Dead Sea Scrolls.

An unseen signal must have passed from the top of his almost hairless head because Miss. Babbage gathered the neat stack and returned to our office. She extracted a blue ribbon, a parchment like receipt and a one shilling and threepenny postage stamp from a cardboard file. The stamp was affixed to the receipt upon which she entered the financial detail, being careful to cancel the stamp by writing across it. The documents were then rolled into a tube, tied with the blue ribbon and handed to us. We were now the proud owners of a motor car we had yet to see other than in a brochure.

Escorted to the shop behind the offices, we were handed over to a white coated engineer, one of several in the area who had gathered, apparently, to obtain a glimpse of these strange Americans who actually wanted to purchase a British automobile. All had a dental mirror in their top pocket which we assumed was a badge of office - or that Brits were singularly paranoid about their teeth and assisted each other in examinations during the tea breaks.

  After a ten minute discourse designed to acquaint us with the salient features of the car, followed by another ten minutes of questions about California and the San Fernando Valley, their interest waned and we suspected a tea break was imminent - or the BBC was about to rerun a Winston Churchill WWII speech - so we drove out into a maelstrom of careening vehicles which the English seem to accept with such aplomb. We were swept up in the fast moving river of traffic from which there seemed to be no escape. The Chinese proverb  - “Who rides a tiger cannot dismount,” could not have been more appropriate.

Hurtling along at breakneck speed with wife and daughter clinging and crying - luxuries which I could not afford for myself - and totally surrounded by a sea of cars surging within inches of each other like a living thing - I concentrated on staying alive. There were no painted lines for me to stay within and jockeying for position was a matter of desperation and skill - not regulation. While professing disdain for things American, I detected just a wee bit of hypocrisy among Brit drivers because it was soon obvious that they had adopted Admiral Farragut’s dictum: “Damn the torpedoes - full speed ahead.”

Miles later, having survived several roundabouts, we established that we were heading for Somerset which is in the opposite direction to our intended destination of Newhaven. Time running out, and with no stops for food or convenience (but plenty of close shaves) we finally arrived at the ferry terminal where everything proceeded smoothly (due to superior planning and pre-purchased tickets), and we were quickly aboard. Soon we were sailing across the English Channel to La Belle France to do battle with our ancient adversaries. There was some trepidation on our part because the French prefer to parlez vous only in their own language when communicating with the anglais.  Thomas Hood, the poet, once said:

Never go to France

Unless you know the lingo

If you do, like me

You will repent, by jingo

The Newhaven/Dieppe ferry was the least traveled of the England/France routes and whose schedule is somewhat inconvenient for tourists - which is exactly why we chose it. Arriving in Dieppe at midnight after a calm voyage we were surprised to find a solitary light in the utter blackness at the foot of the car ramp without which it would be impossible to determine if concrete or water was our destination. There was no sign of a town or even a building and the “aggravating attitude” (a polite expression meaning bloodymindedness ) of the French was perhaps exhibiting itself.

Sheep-like, we followed the lead car down a dockside illuminated only by our feeble headlights with water on our right and God knew what else on our left. Several hundred yards we traversed when brilliant arc lights suddenly snapped on blinding everyone.  As our eyes adjusted we were able to make out a shed with a single lane passing beneath an extended tin roof under which we were directed to stop. A sign said douane which we understood to mean customs.

A single agent in a blue shirt and dark trousers with a cigarette between his lips grunted something and we proferred our documents, while trying to avoid eye contact. After a quick glance he thrust them back at me already turning his gaze on the next car in line. I opened my mouth to ask the way to Paris but thought better of it and took off smartly indeed. Beyond the cone of light we were enveloped by inky darkness once again and literally crept along the dock - the car in front having disappeared.

If the Bosch had attempted to invade France at midnight it would have been a dismal failure. I have never encountered such complete blackness before or since. It was as if the country was disconnected from a power supply. Perhaps the electric utilities were on strike? Even the car headlights were ineffectual - as if they were afraid to be seen. We crept forward in hopes of finding something resembling civilization - and finally we did. A small cobble-stoned square with ancient buildings on each side and a plinth-like memorial in the center. Four roads, one at each corner, led somewhere but not a sign-post or a human in sight.

By deduction we chose the exit on the right - which proved to be the right exit.  Paris, our destination, should be 200 kilometers to the south and so we headed inland along a two-lane undivided road reflecting on that awful day in August, 1942 when the biggest loss of life in one action occurred in World War II. Somewhere very close to us were the cemeteries containing the one thousand bodies of the brave commando’s who died in the nine hour raid.

Dressed in summer clothes, we noticed a chill in the air. Searching for the heater controls was an exercise in futility because the tiny symbols all over the instrument panel meant nothing to me - except that the gas gauge was reminding us that, although this car was not a gas guzzler, it would not run on fumes.

The headlights cast a feeble glow on the unlit country road. The road was straight and occasionally headlights would appear in the extreme distance as pinpricks and minutes later blossom into reality. We began to notice that, without exception, the approaching cars would sound their horns in a long flat signal to us. They could not know we were anglais so it must be more than a rude gesture. It suddenly dawned on me that this vehicle was built for the American market, and here was I driving on the left. My lights were configured for right lane driving and though the Austin people knew we were to catch a ferry they hadn’t thought about my driving at night in Europe.

New English cars are usually delivered with an emergency kit of flares, reflective triangles, and a small tool kit. I looked in the boot (not to be confused with footwear) and found the items - and voila, a couple of yellow clear plastic saucers with elastic ribbons at the ends of which were metal clips. Their meaning was obvious and after affixing one to each headlight the result was dazzling.

Resuming our journey into the night, we could now see the road quite well and approaching cars no longer sounded off at us. The seats were exceptionally comfortable and the long hours without sleep was taking its toll. Jill was semiconscious in the back, but as long as a car is moving Phyllis will not close her eyes - but we all knew we needed some rest - and soon.

The three of us were crouching in the deep shadows behind a pew. Someone was coming from the nave and we were scared. Why?- we didn’t know. We were cold, clammy, and shivering - and not thinking straight. Why were we hiding? What were we doing here?

A grunting sound and labored breathing: coming nearer. Two figures, and they were almost upon us. They shuffled past, a hunchback dwarf with a deformed leg pulling a young woman along and looking back fearfully. They soon disappeared from sight along with the sound of their flight.

Other sounds permeated the cavernous interior and quickly became identifiable as hoarse whispering and the clanking of steel. Armed men in chain mail were making their way stealthily along the same course as the fleeing couple. They didn’t see us, but their grim features boded ill for anyone who crossed their path. The sound of their passage faded and we remained huddled, cramped, cold and restless.

A tintinnabulation tore the night apart. The noise was deafening and we were disoriented and almost in shock. It seemed as though the heavens had opened up with a metallic clangor of pealing bells. Sudden silence, followed by two separate, single bongs. We were parked at the base of a church tower and the clock had just struck two in the morning. What a nightmare. What next?

This was no place to get a little sleep. We were in the center of a very small, and very dark, village. Are there no lights in France? We had pulled over next to a high wall in what appeared to be a parking lot and the wall was the side of a church tower, and even if we had known about the clock we would not have expected it to chime during the night.

It was quite chilly in the car, and we had wrapped our plastic raincoats around us in a futile attempt to keep warm. Cold and miserable, stomachs rumbling, we knew we had to press on. Several miles later it became imperative that we pull over onto a grassy verge and soon succumbed to fitful slumber.

My consciousness was being penetrated by a ghostly presence. Not yet awake, in the pre-dawn luminescence I became aware that a large shape was peering over my left shoulder. Apprehension coursed through me and I gingerly turned my head while peeking out of my left eye. I recoiled in horror at a gargoyle face only inches from mine - and then sighed in relief as I realized it was a cow. We were parked in the entrance to a pasture wherein a herd of white and brown cows were grazing and several of them had surrounded the car out of curiosity. Why they did not wander into the road I was never able to fathom.

Phyllis and Jill, by now awake and miserable with fatigue and stiffness, declared a pressing need to relieve themselves - a function I was also desperate to perform and which I did with alacrity behind a convenient hedge. With more than half the journey to Paris ahead of us and insufficient gas in the tank, we headed off in search of a more sophisticated environment - which our map indicated to be just over the horizon, so to speak.

The day promised to be clear, and although the chill of night had not yet dissipated, the temperature was climbing. In daylight, all problems are solvable, and in little less than an hour we espied a small town and our spirits rose exponentially.

A gas pump at last. We pulled into the courtyard of a small grocery store which displayed a sign for essence. Civilization, finally. We could accomplish all of our requirements in one fell swoop. Alighting from the car we encountered a stillness so profound as to be unreal. We’re talking utter hush!  Modern day urbanites we; nothing could have prepared us for this bucolic tranquility. Had we fallen down the rabbit hole? At five o’clock in the morning one could almost hear the snores emanating from the townsfolk still abed behind their stone walls. The world...their world, was at slumber.

Absolutely no sign of a public convenience anywhere. We quickly canvassed the limited real estate with no success. Extreme measures were called for - relief within minutes was now crucial for Phyllis and Jill. They would have given “…their kingdom for a commode.”  What to do? What to do?

Some people put their trust in faith, others in fate. Some believe in the supernatural. What happened next would have made me a believer in any doctrine. A gentle cough sounded behind us. We swung around to find a wizened man in carpet slippers, wearing a dark blue smock, shapeless black cotton pants and a black beret - leaning on a walking stick and sucking on a curly black pipe. He seemed timeless, a rock of ages, a Moses from the mount, bearing not tablets, but a promise of aid for the needy.

We approached him with a “Bon jour, monsieur,” it being practically our entire French lexicon. He replied in a guttural patois, which we accepted as a polite reply - his manner did not appear to be offensive. Therein, began a comedic attempt at communication which, from our point of view, was driven by a sense of urgency - and for him a mild sense of amusement as of a meeting with aliens from outer space.

Referring back to the meticulous planning that preceded this voyage from the new world - I pulled out the phrase book and was relieved (unintentional pun) to find that “toilette” was the key to this situation. Alas, there was not a glimmer of recognition from our new ami. Anyone observing my ladies faces would have been puzzled indeed. Much rolling of the eyes and puffing of cheeks. A slightly bent over posture, knees together, and waist hugging. I knew a humiliating end was near. This called for desperate measures so I mimed the act for him and gestured toward my companions. His face lit up as if he had won a lottery and exclaimed…”ah, pee, pee!”

He beckoned for us to accompany him and we walked the gently inclined path toward a cottage - at the side of which was an outhouse (sans door) to which he directed Madam and Mademoiselle. He was beaming with pleasure at being able to offer such a regal solution to the problem. Jill rushed to the appointed place intent on the mission only to discover that Monsieur obviously expected to be a rapt observer. Almost crying with frustration she flapped her hands to shoo him away. Phyllis joined in the charade, and it was left to me to grasp his arm and “gently” lead him away.

I explained our need for essence for the car and he conveyed that the shop was not open and we would go there in a few moments to awaken Emile - but first a café, oui? The ladies joined us inside the flagstone kitchen and Monsieur busied himself preparing the coffee. Phyllis and Jill had utilized the pump in the yard to rinse their hands and were looking askance at Monsieur whose hands appeared to contain a years worth of grime in the folds of the skin and under the fingernails. His clothes were grubby, while his abundant mustache contained enough morsels of food to sustain whatever minute critters were harboring there. The mugs which he set out for the coffee were coated with brown, shellac like stains.   Producing a baguette, he grasped it firmly with his left hand while slicing it with his right. He gestured for us to help ourselves and stood aside for us to partake of the repast.

Amazingly, we were actually conversing in a rudimentary fashion.  A recognizable word here and there - exaggerated facial expressions and some body language and we were communicating. There was no doubt on our part that Monsieur was pulling out all the stops to be a good host and we were somewhat ashamed of our revulsion at the primitive nature of the facilities and the offerings.

From above, a peremptory voice called out something which we could not decipher. Monsieur excused himself and slippered off to the stairway. As soon as he was out of sight we dumped our coffee into the garden outside the front door and stuffed a few pieces of bread into Phyllis’s hand bag. With much rolling of eyes heavenward, I think we all said a little prayer of thanks for the intervention.

Monsieur returned and apologized because his Madam could not join us. He explained that she had undergone the same operation as DeGaulle and was a trifle indisposed. “Never mind, more café and bread?” he enquired. We declined, and asked if perhaps essence might now be available?

He escorted us to the shop, which was still closed. The perfect stillness of the morning was undisturbed. Monsieur gestured to the upper windows with disdain at Emile’s lethargy. Gathering a handful of gravel he tossed it at the window and continued to do so until the window flew open and an angry Emile’s tousled head appeared. There followed a rapid exchange in the local dialect in which I heard anglais something or other from Monsieur, and what sounded suspiciously like cussing from Emile. The window closed and we were left to savor the ethereal quality of the morning once again. The store would open at Emile’s convenience, of that we were quite certain.

Eventually, with the gas tank filled and our good-byes and thank-you’s to Monsieur, we headed south once more to Gay Paree!  A nap, a shower, and some food, and we would be ‘as right as ninepence’ - as the cockney saying goes.

Where the night had been a visual vacuum; a cold, lifeless confining milieu - the day couldn’t have been more promising if Hollywood had painted the backdrop for effect. Warm and clear; in pastels the countryside was achingly beautiful. Grazing cows and sheep in the meadows - the tiny villages with miniscule bridges over graceful streams. Occasionally, a farmer leading a shire horse - a collie scampering from hedgerow to ditch; sniffing a way through a world of its own. Gaggles of geese in the farmyards with their progeny in line astern. Fat hogs and pecking hens, apple trees and waving wheat - descriptively banal perhaps, but perceivably flawless.

As we sailed merrily along admiring the scenic beauty of this pastoral paradise, and laughing about our adventures, it transpired that we were all curious as to the operation that DeGaulle and Madam had in common. We never came close to a satisfactory answer - but it would prove to be the least of our problems, this being only the first day of our European vacation. ©