AND THEREBY HANGS A TALE (Continued)

The Odd Job Man (Continued)

The season was coming to an end and he contemplated his options. That first winter he had gone to Perigore to find work but this time he had some money and he would be looking for a change, a break. He remembered Perigore it was when he had come nearest to desperation. He had run completely out of funds and with an empty petrol tank and no jobs in the offing he was well and truly stuck. He had gone for a solitary walk in the woods and there a one ear up one ear down black and white mongrel had befriended him. They had walked Ross had thrown a stick the mongrel knew the game and had brought it back eager for it to be thrown again. So they had progressed. But the dog knew a different game and had dug earnestly at the base of an oak tree among the roots. Ross had been drawn by the dog’s excitement and enthusiasm and that was how Ross’s financial problem was solved. One truffle who would have thought that this nondescript black lump could provide him with four months worth of funds. The dog and Ross had parted on the best of terms. Ross had again had proof, if any were needed, that his preference for the company of animals was not misplaced.

The problem of his end of season holiday continued to occupy his mind as he set out for his favourite bistro. Set in the sort of little alleyway that a stranger would walk passed without noticing Les deux cygnes catered for the locals and the workers. It did a steady trade because it gave the workers a break from the holidaymakers. He turned into the alleyway and headed for the art noveau sign with the intertwined swans’ necks. Ross was greeted by the regulars and having ordered a croque monsieur and a pastis he joined a group who were seated at a large scrubbed deal table. From the table in the far corner he gazed round the room. The ceiling was yellowed with years of smoke stain. The bar was of beaten, dimpled copper with high black bentwood stools. The lamps hanging in two rows the length of the room were gas lamps converted to electricity the only concession to safety. The low wattage bulbs giving no more light than a warm glow. On the wood panelled walls were stuck posters advising of forthcoming football and rugby matches involving local teams. And on the wall behind the bar between the bottles were pictures of French Tour de France riders of the past. Bernard Hinault, Jacque Anquetil, Andre Darrigarde and Loiusan Bobet and many others all heroes of bygone days.

They were joined at the table by the patron, Henri, who brought a jug of red wine with him. The talk was of the season seemingly a good one, Small town politics. The scandal involving the mayor’s son and the librarians daughter was far more interesting than the Americans and “roast biffs” making fools of themselves. Ross brought the conversation round to his problem. Suggestions came at him from all directions. Handymen were needed for the skiing season in Cortina and Grenoble. Crew for yachts in the West Indies and many more ideas were lost in the general outburst of advice. “Or”, said Henri in a lull in the conversation, “if your heart is here why go anywhere? Felix would certainly miss you.” Marcel who ran cookery classes for the tourists chipped in “or I could demonstrate to you more cooking skills to add to your repertoire. No charge just for the pleasure of your company and your help to improve my English.”

Problem solved and another lesson learned “if you are where you want to be why go somewhere else.”

As he made his way back to his caravan his thoughts turned to Felix. Felix had belonged to, Anton, the chef at the camp restaurant. A brilliant chef in Ross’s opinion but violent when the brandy had him in it’s grasp. Finally after many minor skirmishes he had chased a particularly obnoxious German holidaymaker from the restaurant. An incident which could possibly have been forgiven had he not been brandishing a cleaver at the time. It had been the talk of the camp staff for weeks. Felix had been nowhere to be seen when Anton had left and when he emerged hungry and bedraggled several days later no one knew where Anton had gone. It wasn’t so much he mused that he had adopted Felix far more the other way round.