French Fried: one man's move to France with too many animals and an identity thief Read online

  French Fried

  One man’s move to France with his wife, too many animals and an identity thief

  by Chris Dolley

  Copyright © 2010 Chris Dolley

  http://www.chris-dolley.com

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book in any form.

  Cover design by Pati Nagle and Chris Dolley

  Cover art: The Swineherd by Paul Gauguin

  Published by Book View Press

  http://www.bookviewcafe.com

  Table of Contents

  The Move: Hell and Horseboxes

  France: More Hell, a Different Horsebox

  The First Day, House Hunting and Toilets

  Cars, Cartes and Campagne

  Logs, Language, Fires and Flues

  Pipes and Plombiers

  Animals Behaving Typically (i.e. Badly)

  Three Fêtes and a Football Match

  Crime and Poetry

  Pergonini MD

  Fraud and Warp Coils

  Passports and Wandering Irish Con Men

  Mincemeat Men

  Headers and Handwriting

  Sherlock Holmes and The Case of the Missing Toilet

  Sherlock Holmes’ Darker Brother-in-Law

  The Day of the Gendarmes

  Supermarkets, Faxes and the Irish Connection

  Women and Passports

  The Screaming Detective of Castlenau

  Three Slim Blond Men

  A Switch of Fate

  A Plausible Epilogue

  Glossary

  Other Books by Chris Dolley

  The Move: Hell and Horseboxes

  “Investment? What investment? You cancelled it in April.”

  It was now September. September 22nd 1995.

  I froze. I’d only called Simon, our financial adviser, to ask a few routine questions. I hadn’t expected this. He was talking about our investment bond – the bulk of the proceeds from our house sale, our life savings, the money that was going to fund our new life in France.

  “No, I didn’t,” I replied, hoping that there’d been some kind of mistake.

  I could hear a riffling of papers, pages being turned, a note of panic in Simon’s voice.

  “I ... er ... have the correspondence here. Yes ... April. You wanted the bond encashed and the money sent to your business account in Spain.”

  What business account in Spain? I didn’t have any accounts in Spain. I didn’t have any business accounts anywhere!

  I couldn’t believe it. This could not be happening. Not to me. Things like this happened to other people!

  And then I thought about the chaos that marked our first seven months in France – the move from Hell, the neurotic car, the police roadblock, the fire, the ten foot long caterpillar, the day I accidentally signed for the local football team ... and realised ... I’m just the kind of person this does happen to.

  It was a shock. That sudden shift in my internal picture. I was no longer the person who sat safe and warm watching events unfold upon the television screen. I was the person in front of the camera. The man standing in the doorway as the getaway car mounts the pavement. The man eating his sandwiches in the park when the sniper opens the attic window.

  They’re all me.

  oOo

  Seven months earlier…

  It was the day before our move and doubt was sitting on my shoulder, whispering. Was moving to France a terrible mistake or just the result of unpardonable crimes in a previous life? Even the weather was against us. The latest forecast for Wednesday – the day of our ferry crossing – had the English Channel buried in isobars and lashed by gale force winds. What if the ferry was cancelled? The Channel Tunnel wasn’t finished yet. We couldn’t take a plane – unless British Airways considered two horses, one dog and three cats acceptable cabin luggage. And we’d have nowhere to stay either – the new owner would be moving into our farm tomorrow morning.

  All we’d have were a single change of clothes and a collection of dog and cat bowls – our clothes and furniture having gone ahead of us. They were being loaded into the removal van today.

  But moving to France had to be the right thing to do. We’d spent three years with more money going out than was coming in. Which gave rise to The Plan – sell our farm, free up the capital and move to rural France where we could buy a similar property for a third of the price and use the balance to live off of. Simple and brilliant. All problems solved and a better climate thrown in for good measure.

  Even though it was a nightmare to organise.

  We lived in Devon; the new house was in the foothills of the Pyrenees – an 800-mile drive and a six-hour ferry trip distant. We had a jeep and a thirty year-old tractor. Neither excelled at long journeys.

  And then there were the animals. Two horses, three cats and an enormous puppy.

  Even if we could fit the dog and cats into the Suzuki – which I doubted – could we all survive an eighteen-hour journey cooped up together and remain sane?

  This thought fuelled a recurring nightmare – me behind the wheel of our jeep with my face being licked by the dog on my lap and a cat fight filling the rear-view mirror.

  We had to find another way. Which led us to the horsebox. It was one of those rare moments in our move when everything suddenly came together. We knew we had to hire someone to transport the horses, could they take the dog and cats as well? They could? Excellent! Could they take us? Even better. And to prove there really was a deity they even reduced the price on the proviso that we doubled as grooms for the journey.

  I didn’t dream that night. A force field of contentment kept the demons at bay. I didn’t have to drive; I didn’t have to knock on hotel doors in the middle of the night covered in scratches and dog slobber. Bliss.

  A word that could not be used to describe the weather. The storm hadn’t arrived yet but the wind was picking up; playful gusts were turning meaner, clouds were looking busier. The one silver lining was that it hadn’t started to rain yet. At least our possessions were being loaded into the back of the removal lorry in the dry.

  We had thought our last day on the farm was going to be a quiet one – a day to say goodbye to our home of six years and walk the fields for the last time. But no, it’s a day of constant interruption and visits – electric and water meters being read, removal men walking in and out, boxes being packed, furniture loaded, inventories filled in, telephone calls, vet inspections. The latter taking two whole hours as every whorl and marking of the horses had to be scrutinised and faithfully recorded on their travel documents.

  Did I mention the cleaning?

  We’d thought our house reasonably clean – for a farm – for a farm in a muddy winter overrun by cats and a dog with big feet. But, as soon as the rooms were cleared, bright islands appeared on our carpets where the furniture had been. Were the carpets really that colour when we bought them?

  Which brings us to the dog, Gypsy, a four-month-old lurcher. For anyone unfamiliar with the breed, the lurcher is the one that fills the gap between the Irish Wolf Hound and the crocodile. She was immense. And her favourite game was dragging her favourite toy across the floor. Sad to say, her favourite toy was my leg. What can I say? I have highly desirable ankles.

  Which can be a problem when you’re rushing to clean a carpet ... and your dog decides it’s playtime. Note to all husbands: being dragged across the floor by one’s ankle is not a credible defence when your wife is under stress and expecting help with the carpet cleaning.

  “Stop p
laying with the dog!” shouted Shelagh, trying to make herself heard over the sound of the vacuum cleaner. “You’re supposed to be helping.”

  People who’ve never had their ankle between a canine’s canines cannot appreciate the pain. It’s a cross between having your funny bone tapped with a hammer and a tooth drilled. And it activates a nerve that has fast track access to the part of your brain (the Little-Girlie Thalamus) responsible for making your eyes water and raising your voice two whole octaves.

  As I said, no defence.

  Shelagh gave up Hoovering and resorted to bartering, trying to swap me for a biscuit – not the first time in our marriage she’d attempted this. Gypsy held out for two custard creams before unclamping her jaws. Which gave us time to lay a trail of biscuits leading to the lounge door, open the door, throw a biscuit through and ... goodbye hellhound. One point to the limping Homo sapiens team.

  It took a lot of scrubbing but eventually the bright islands receded and out came a passable example of the carpet we’d bought.

  On to the next room.

  This time we tricked Gypsy without having to resort to biscuits or displaying a provocative ankle. We opened the door, let her bound through, then slipped past her in the excitement, slamming the door shut behind us. An hour later, we’d shampooed, scrubbed and vacuumed the living room carpet back to acceptability.

  Then I returned to the lounge to fetch Gypsy.

  And stepped into an alternative universe – something that rarely happens in Devon. I was in the lounge. But the carpet wasn’t the same freshly cleaned carpet I’d left an hour earlier. It was a different carpet. A much darker, dirtier carpet.

  Teeth smiled at me from the centre of the room. Teeth pleased with themselves. Teeth wrapped around a small circle of carpet. My first thought was one of complete panic. Our dog had somehow managed to rip out a one-foot diameter circle of carpet which she was now devouring. My God, was anything safe!

  But I couldn’t see a hole in the carpet – one foot or any other diameter. I looked. I peered. Where the hell had it come from? And then came the realisation. Our log basket! We’d left it in the inglenook fireplace. Our wicker log basket with the one-foot diameter circle of carpet at the bottom to catch all the mess and bark and dirt and wet leaves and all manner of hideous things that clung to damp logs in the winter. Except now they were all clinging to our freshly cleaned carpet. Spread and ground-in from wall to wall. Gypsy was nothing if not thorough.

  I screamed.

  Twelve hours to go and I screamed.

  oOo

  Wednesday morning dawned to find us lying under a horse rug on our lounge floor. All our furniture was gone, a gale was rattling our windows and Gypsy’s feet were digging into my back.

  “Do you think Rhiannon will load OK?” asked Shelagh.

  I’d almost forgotten about that.

  Rhiannon, our six-year-old Arab mare, had a thing about horseboxes. Once inside the trailer, she was fine. Coming out, she was fine. But going in? She either dug in her heels and refused to move, or moved far too much, becoming the kind of wild horse that other wild horses couldn’t drag anywhere near a trailer ramp.

  We’d hired a horsebox a month earlier to wean her of her phobia and I’d almost been killed. Well, not exactly killed, but if you’ve ever been behind a horse when it suddenly leaps backwards and kicks out at you with both hooves flying either side of your ears, you get a distinct foretaste of the afterlife.

  And we were going to have to try again in about an hour.

  “At least we only have to do it once.”

  But how long would that take? Even with practice it still took anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour to load her. We’d warned the transporters but what if they didn’t believe us? If the box was late or she took more than an hour to load we’d miss the ferry.

  I went through the itinerary again. The horsebox was due to arrive at eight. So we had to be packed and ready by then, with the animals fed, watered, relieved and begged for their best behaviour – always a tricky negotiation.

  And I had to ring Jan, my sister, to make sure she was still available to sign the house purchase agreement for us and collect the keys to the new house. And remind her that Pickfords said they’d have our belongings at the house about nine o’clock, Thursday, not to forget to unload the electric fencing first and we’d ring again when we had a firm time for our arrival.

  It was fortuitous that my sister and brother-in-law had moved to France a month earlier. It meant they could sign the Acte for us and we could transport their animals – one of the horses and one of the cats were theirs.

  Eight o’clock arrived with every animal present, correct and stuffed full of bribes.

  But no horsebox.

  By 8:25 we were in danger of wearing out the extraordinarily clean carpet between the window and the telephone. Is that a lorry? No it isn’t. Was that the phone? No it’s not.

  Then we heard it.

  A rumble down the drive and there was the lorry. At last!

  Our joy lasted barely a minute. According to Sue, our driver, there might be a problem at Portsmouth. She was waiting for a phone call from the ferry company. In the meantime we’d have to wait.

  We used the time to inspect the horsebox, which was much bigger than we’d expected – more like a removal lorry with extra doors. There was room for six horses inside. It even had a groom’s compartment with a bed and a stove. And there was a pony already on board – a part-load on its way to Gaillac, two hours north-east of our destination. Which left plenty of room for us, the cats and our own luggage. This was another big advantage of travelling in the horsebox – plenty of space for any forgotten extras which had evaded the removal men – or had had to be rescued, like the Hoover for last-minute cleaning detail.

  Then came the bad news. Portsmouth would not take the horses. It would be too rough to carry them. And all the Channel ports to the west were closing. Our only hope was Dover but that raised another problem – the new guidelines for the transportation of animals.

  It would take six hours to drive to Dover and that would put the new journey time over the limit. Which meant putting the horses into lairage at Dover. Which meant a statutory eight hours rest before they could be loaded again.

  Which meant we’d have to load Rhiannon twice.

  “Oh,” said Sue. “And maybe we’ll have to stop at Bordeaux as well.”

  Three times.

  oOo

  The loading started well despite the wind whipping across the yard and rattling the metal cladding of our big barn. Jan’s horse, Rain, went up the ramp at the second attempt and Sue closed the stall behind her. One horse loaded. One to go.

  Shelagh clipped the lead rein onto Rhiannon’s head-collar and walked her towards the ramp. Three strides later Rhiannon put on her stubborn face and dug in her front hooves. Shelagh turned her around and tried again. Same result.

  We tried picking up Rhiannon’s front feet and slowly walking her forwards. That worked for a while. We managed to place one hoof on the ramp but that was it. Rhiannon started sniffing the ramp suspiciously and snorting.

  Then we tried apples. Letting her take a bite then drawing it away from her. We managed to get both front feet on the ramp – perhaps a push from behind might be enough to....

  It wasn’t. But it was enough to send her squirming backwards, off the ramp.

  We tried another apple.

  We tried Polo mints.

  We tried a trail of Polo mints leading up the ramp into the box.

  Nothing worked.

  We walked her around for a while to steady her.

  And then we tried speed. Perhaps if we approached at a fast walk, the momentum would carry Rhiannon up the ramp.

  It carried her off the ramp even quicker, as she leaped sideways at the last minute.

  Time ticked on. Rhiannon ditched her Miss Stubborn persona and alternated between Miss Spooked – the ears pricked, wild-eyed, ‘what are you doing to me?’ neurotic horse �
�� and Miss Evil – the ears back, Second Horse of the Apocalypse who, having unseated War on the grounds that he was too much of a wimp, was eager for some serious retribution.

  We tried to calm her down, keeping a close eye on the end that kicked as we walked her around the lawn a few times and plied her with mints and soothing words. Then back to the horsebox. We’d use lunge ropes this time.

  We pushed. We pulled. We cajoled. At one stage we had all her feet on the ramp, but just when it looked like she was going in, she bounced back out. Apparently, the tread boards on the ramp were now the problem. Instead of picking her feet up and stepping over them – they were only half an inch proud of the ramp – she decided she had to drag her feet through them. And if they didn’t move then neither was she.

  More foot-lifting, horse-shuffling minutes ticked by. I’d given up worrying about ferries. I’d even started to look upon Gypsy in a more favourable light – puppies weren’t that bad, really. Not compared to some animals.

  And then it happened. Rhiannon trotted up the ramp, a couple of bounces, a head toss or two ... and disappeared inside. No back-breaking foot-lifting required. No pushing, shoving or mints with a hole. It was almost as though she’d said to herself – I’ll give them forty minutes of hell first, just to show them who’s boss.

  The cats were next. They had their own deluxe travelling crates with separate areas for litter tray, food, water and sleeping. The only complication was the fact that we had to arrange them in a particular order. Our cat, Guinny, a five-year-old silver tabby, didn’t like Minnie, the kitten. Put them within sight of each other and spit would fly all the way from Devon to Dover. Luckily we had plenty of room in the box with its feed passages and spare stalls.

  Then came the blankets and rugs for the horses, the hay and the hay nets, the dog and cat food, their bowls and water containers.

  And then our luggage – in by far the smallest bag – a change of clothing, some food, our money and all the papers we were going to need for the journey.

  Finally, we collected Gypsy from the back garden, checked to make sure she hadn’t uprooted any trees or buried a postman, and then we all climbed into the groom’s compartment behind the cab.