For EILEEN BATTERSBY, an unexpectedly solo trip to France turned into much more than she was expecting – and then some
FRIENDS HAD been left a small chateau in Normandy and had invited me to go along. The day before leaving they were involved in a minor car crash but urged me to go, I would be the scout.
This appealed to my sense of adventure – and I could try out my French without them sniggering on the sidelines. The flight to Rouen was followed by a two-hour bus trip. It was still quite early in the morning and there were only three other passengers, all travelling in silence except for the static from the driver’s radio.
I knew all I had to do was walk about a mile out of the village up to a shrine in which the headless statue of a saint lurched at an angle. It was an easy landmark. Then an avenue of trees – found that too, although most of the dusty aged lindens had long since stopped growing.
As for the “chateau” well, it looked more like a farmhouse that had seen better days. A tree was growing out of the roof. Never mind, I was not moving in, only staying for five days – well four and a half.
The front door did not so much open as yield with a sigh. It got worse. The previous occupant must have either died or left home in a hurry. The hall was dark but daylight was coming from a room further down a narrow passage, I followed it and was soon standing in a vast, unwelcoming kitchen.
The faucet was stuck. Then I noticed a pump, indicating a well – no mains water. The pump handle was stiff so I put my weight against it and a thin trickle of brown water appeared.
“Victory,” I smirked, but the handle broke off and the pipes spluttered briefly. I opened the larder and on cue two rats abandoned the decaying cheese they had been eating. This adventure took place in the days before mobile phones, so I began to mutter The Star Spangled Banner for comfort.
Rural electrification had not yet hit this place judging from the amount of lamps. The fireplace in the sitting was so big, it was possible to sit in it. How charming I thought, before realising that it must be a very cold house in winter. The smell of bird droppings, no make that bat, competed with the damp mustiness and the slimy mattresses in each of the three bedrooms throbbed with various infestations. I decided to camp on the kitchen table and make use of my big coat.
But first, I investigated the various sheds and old stables outside. Back out into the dry air. A low moaning was coming from the barn; two emaciated cows stood staring at me, while a third lay on the ground, in the early stages of labour. Then I heard a car skid to a halt. A man hurried to the open hall. I walked over to him. He grabbed me and began screaming.
I couldn’t understand a word and was struck by the futility of being able to read a language and then being helpless when a native spoke it.
Later I realised that he was Sardinian, but only after the police told me. He gestured towards the car and pulled a woman from it, she was barely conscious. Between the wild-eyed sweating man and me, we half-dragged her – she was quite fat – into the house. He ignored my gestures intended to convey the dirt of the place, its unsuitability. Both of them had eaten a great deal of garlic and the smell made me queasy. He kept punching me on the shoulder, while she dug her long nails into my left arm which began bleeding. I heard more cars and loud shouting to come out, just like in the movies, only in French.
The policemen were armed. I ran out with my hands up. The man, they told me, was dangerous, “Tres dangereux; un homme dangereux.”
I felt cold, the terminal floor was hard and having waited so long, I had fallen asleep and missed my delayed flight. Not such a bad thing to happen, considering what might have been.
