Le Sloth et Le Sapin (The Christmas tree)


The Sloth swept through the door, his face a brilliant crimson from the biting cold, grinning from ear to ear. Stepping out of his muddy boots and rubbing his hands he walked over to the wood burning stove. He held his numbed fingers near the flames shooting up into the chimney behind the glass.
‘I’ve just bought a Christmas tree from the farm shop down the road. A very good deal too, if I do say so myself. Had a bit of a chat with the mademoiselle and she agreed to deliver it toute suite, well in the next hour anyway.’ He slumped down in the chair next to the stove and stretched out his long legs. He wriggled the toe that poked out of the hole in his sock. This was a clear indication of pleasure at his purchase.
‘Ten euros, and that includes delivery. Nice looking little woman, dark hair and a proper figure. None of this size zero nonsense. I could see she was impressed with my French. Has the kettle boiled?’
‘So when are they bringing it over then?’ I asked innocently.

He glanced at his bare wrist. We had taken the decision not to wear our watches. We no longer wanted our lives to be dominated by time, staring us accusingly in the face: measuring our every move, ticking off our list of actions. We wanted to believe that we actually had some control over our lives. ‘They’ll probably bring it round about lunchtime’ he said vaguely, trying to thaw out his fingers on the steaming cup of coffee I thrust into his hands.

I busied myself with preparing the vegetables for our evening meal while the Sloth went outside to chop some firewood. At around 4.30pm.the winter darkness had draped its dripping cloak over the roofs of the houses and obscured the trees. There was still no sign of our Sapin. Sloth however, remained optimistic but being a born cynic I knew deep down that it wasn’t going to arrive that night or indeed any night if it came to that. I stared gloomily at the box of Christmas decorations we’d bought from Carrefour on the previous morning. It sat there on the pine table looking forlorn. I got up and put the lid back on the box. I just couldn’t bear to look at it a moment longer. It’s a strange thing about disappointment. You think that by the time you’ve become an adult you can handle the sinking feeling that follows that plummeting euphoria when something you’ve been looking forward to, doesn’t happen. It just doesn’t work like that though.

The fire had died down and the room had become chilly in spite of the central heating. The Sloth got up wearily and went outside. For a moment the ice laden air entered the room by stealth through the open door. Sloth staggered back into the room hidden behind a pile of logs. He threw a couple of them on the fire and a shower of sparks produced a mini firework display.

I had made one of my Pot-au-Feu things. I throw everything into a large pot with some stock cubes, chicken, leeks, carrots, shallots, parsnips, potatoes, courgettes, lentils and at least three glasses of red wine. A couple of bay leaves and a scattering of herbs then leave it to simmer on the stove until the chicken slides from the bones. The Sloth’s favourite. We ate it with large pieces of bread from the boulangerie in the village.

The Sloth fell on it like a hungry wolf. Sheer blighted hope had taken the edge off my appetite. ‘How do you know they’re going to bring that tree here? Did you get a receipt?’ I said grumpily.
He shook his head, mouth bulging with chicken and dumplings.
‘Did you write the address down for them?’ Again, an emphatic shake of the head.
‘Well how on earth are they going to find it? The husband probably came home late and his wife told him to deliver the tree. He just told her where to get off and went out to the bar for a game of billiards and a brandy!’ The head continued shaking like the proverbial nodding dog.’ Or they probably thought you were another English incomer with more money than sense. We’ll never see that tree you know!’ I was rock bottom by now.
‘Of course we will. Don’t be so negative. I told her the address twice and she said she knew where it was.' Resigned to our first Christmas in France without a Christmas tree I cleared away the dishes. As the night drew on the wind got up and moaned around the house rattling the wooden shutters and sneaking through the gaps under the door. Without a television to mesmerise and hold sway over our senses we bickered some more before finally falling asleep in front of the fire.

* * * *

The bedroom seemed unnaturally bright when I woke up. The ceiling had a newly white-washed look to it. A thick, deafening silence had pulled me into consciousness and I turned to the Sloth only to find an empty, hollow space. The little red clock on the chest of drawers said 8 O’clock. I got out of bed and went to the window. The sky was a greenish grey with a mauve tint to it. The air was thick with snowflakes, whirling crazily around the telephone wires. The little houses were camouflaged under a snowy blanket and the cars slumbered on the drives, cosy under their goose feather quilts. All sounds seemed to have been absorbed by the density of snow. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the metal scraping of a shovel on someone’s drive as they cleared away the snow. I suddenly noticed the cold tiles striking up through the soles of my feet and went to get dressed.

There was no sign of Sloth in the Kitchen but there was a blazing log fire in the wood burner. He couldn’t be far away. Especially when he hadn’t had his breakfast. I put the kettle on the kitchen range and then as I was looking in the fridge for the makings of a cooked breakfast I heard a commotion outside in the yard. I opened the back door and was treated to the sight of the Sloth manhandling an enormous Christmas tree while trying to engage an attractive dark haired girl in conversation. She was standing very close to him. He was leaning down towards her and she was smiling up at him. I could see from where I was standing that he thought his luck had changed. I have to own up to being very territorial and that includes Sloth so I called over to them. Jolie Madame looked up immediately and sensing trouble, shot me a look then jumped into her Land rover and shot off down the road in a flurry of muddy snow and gravel. The Sloth frowned for a few seconds then, seeing the game was up, staggered over to me clutching the tree triumphantly. Snow covered every part of his anatomy. Icicles clung to his eyebrows and lashes. ‘See! I told you didn’t I? What’s it like being married to a genius?’ he grinned.
‘ I don’t know! You tell me’ I grimaced. He dumped the tree and came into the warm kitchen and began melting like the abominable snowman caught in a heat wave. The kitchen floor began to stream with water. Then suddenly he began sneezing…. Poor old Sloth!
‘It was good of her to give you a lift’ I said sniffily.
‘She didn’t,’ he paused to take a breath. I passed her on the way to the shop. She had the tree on the front seat. She stopped and asked me the address again and drove off. I had to walk back. We arrived at the same time because she went past the house.’
‘What! She let you walk back in a snowstorm!!! The heartless cow! You’ll catch your death!’
He smiled his little boy smile that has charmed hundreds of women. I wonder why it hadn't worked on the French femme fatale!!

Rusty Gladdish wishes to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents 1988.

All characters in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Description*
The Sloth in France:Train journey from Paris

After a somewhat bewildering safari through the jungle of panic stricken passengers and scouring the labrythine halls of Charles De Gaulle airport, the Sloth and I find ourselves seated on the TGV flying towards the ancient city of Arras. Steeped in history and whose soil is soaked with blood of those lost in the many wars. Thanks to the Sloth’s ingenious linguistic abilities and his rather dubious brand of charm with the doe-eyed African princess dispensing the ‘Billets.’ We settled back into our seats and watched the French landscape slip past the window. A flat expanse of arable land dotted with occasional cows and pricked with leafless poplar trees, stretched away to where a sodden earth met the pearl grey sky.

In Britain we have heard a great deal about Le Train a Grande Vitesse in comparison to our own ailing railway system. Great emphasis is placed on speed and comfort and as the countryside flashed by in a blur of greens and browns we had to agree that it was very fast indeed. Sloth’s wandering eye slyly followed the progress of a chic ‘Jolie Madame’ as she squeezed past, exposing a great deal of slender calf. He breathed a sigh of contentment. Soon our reverie was disturbed by the arrival of Le Controleur smartly attired in a grey jacket, snowy white shirt and blood red tie. ’Billets, s’il vous plait’ The Sloth handed over the tickets with a certain Anglo-Saxon nonchalance. Le controleur scrutinised the tickets, his black moustache bristled with importance and disapproval. He fixed us with his snapping brown eyes and said in perfect English, ‘What nationality are you?’ A puzzled Sloth answered, ’British, Monsieur’.
‘Passports!’ he snapped
‘Passports?’ squeaked the Sloth
‘Oui Monsieur, Passports’, he grimaced, showing small, pointed teeth. Clearly, a close relative of the weasel family.
Sloth patted his pockets frantically. A film of sweat gave his face an unhealthy shine. The minutes ticked by, eating into an embarrassed silence as he searched in the many pockets of his leather jacket. Finally he produced the passports and handed them over. They were closely examined then snapped shut and handed back. ‘You did not put your tickets into the machine on the platform. This proves at which station you boarded the train’, he said with an air of triumph.
We both looked mystified at these Gestapo tactics. He leaned down towards us and put his face next to the Sloth’s.
‘I could fine you 30 euros’ he said nastily
‘We didn’t know’, pleaded the Sloth. ‘No one told us!’
For an answer Monsieur Controleur gave a Gallic shrug and turned away. We watched in relief as he shouldered his way up the aisle, bent on terrorising other innocent passengers.

The Sloth and I were on our way to Hesdin in the Pas de Calais region, to look after his brother-in-law’s house while he was in America on business. I was already wondering if we had done the right thing agreeing to it. It was too late now. After waiting on icy, unsheltered platforms and riding on some rather less than luxurious trains, we arrived at Hesdin. The Sloth lugged our heavy trolley bag wearily from the train. It seemed unusually dark or was it just that the Conseil de Hesdin had decided to save on street lighting. A sort of economy and ecology drive combined. A shape loomed up out of the darkness and came forward with an outstretched hand. He smiled up into the Sloth’s face, displaying perfect white teeth. ‘Vous etes Monsieur Simon? Je m’appelle Michel. Votre voisin.’ The Sloth smiled weakly at this unlikely guardian angel. Michel took the trolley bag as if it weighed nothing at all. ‘Suivez moi’. We all piled in to a battered little white Renault that had seen better days. Michel gunned the engine and we roared off into the thick, black night.

After a hair raising drive through winding lanes with only the scared white faces of the cows peering over the hedges to bear witness to our folly, Michel yanked the little car over and we pulled into a large gravel drive. ‘Voila! Nous sommes ici!’, he murmured. The house was large and brightly lit. As we entered we were enveloped in warmth and the smell of something delicious cooking in the oven. The long table near the window was laid with gleaming cutlery and crystal and a chandelier hung down impressively. The Sloth and I looked at Michel. He beamed. The smile reached his shining black eyes. ’Ma soeur’, he said simply, with outstretched hands, palms up, indicating the elegant spread before us.
The ornately carved drinks cabinet in the corner was stacked with bottles of alcohol of every description. Michel took a bottle of Pastis and poured himself a large measure into a glass. He then despatched the entire contents in one swallow. ’C’est bon’ he gasped and wiped his mouth. He ran his long fingered hand through his unruly brown hair. ‘ Voila! Je vais, Simon’. The Sloth came out of his trance, ‘Aren’t you going to eat with us, Michel?’ He took the Sloth’s hand and shook it up and down vigorously, and in his halting English said ’Another day my friend’. Then he was gone out of the door into his little car and disappeared into the unlit lanes of this corner of northern France.

After a hot shower we fell on the Coq au Vin we found in the oven and finished off with a tart aux pommes and fresh cream. We drank copious amounts of the deep burgundy wine until we were both totally incoherent. Then we finally collapsed into bed and sank under the blanket of oblivion.


The Sloth and I slept the sleep of the just and awoke refreshed. He was finishing his coffee when a timid knock came at the door. Through the glass I could see what looked like the shape of a child. When I opened it I was surprised to find a tiny old lady smiling up at me. At that moment a strong gust of wind tugged at a pile of dead leaves in the corner of the drive. It hurled them up into the air where they fluttered like birds before coming down and landing in her wispy, white hair. She seemed totally unfazed by the icy blast that blew through the shawl draped around her thin shoulders. ‘Bonjour Madame, Je suis Mathilde.’ she piped in a reedy voice.
‘Bonjour, Mathilde’ and I held the door open for her to step inside. As she came in she handed me a plate covered with a spotless, red checked cloth. Beneath the cloth nestled a moist tart aux pommes glistening with traces of sugar. She glanced round the house proprietarily and breathed a sigh of satisfaction. We each bent down in turn for our kisses. We pulled out the rocking chair for her and she sat down. Her feet didn’t touch the floor and she looked more than ever like a visiting child.
Mathilde began explaining immediately in clear, well spoken French, that this house once belonged to her brother until he sold it to the Anglais. This was a subject that was dear to her heart and she soon became very animated. She prattled along while the Sloth punctuated her sentences with an occasional ‘oui!’ and ‘non!’ and ‘alors!’, whenever she took a breath, which wasn’t often.
‘The whole village is selling their houses to Les Rosbifs’. She said. ‘ Laurent Martin next door got 190,000 euros. Vous imaginez! Une fortune! Alors! He inherited the house from his mother. He’s never had a proper job in his life because everyone knows he’s a bit simple. Now he’s a rich man and he’s gone to live with his sister in St Pol and he’s banked the money.’ Not a complete idiot, then. ‘As for Virginie Rambert who used to live in the big scruffy old house opposite, well she got a whopping 250,000 euros. Yes! She’s another one! She lived with her mother until she died aged 98. Then two years ago nice a English couple came looking at the houses in the village. They took one look at that dirty old house of Virginie’s with those big rusty gates and all that ivy covering the windows and said ‘How much?’ Margot Rene was standing there and over heard Virginie say, quick as a flash, ‘250,000 euros’. Les Rosbifs shook her hand and cried a bit and then they wrote out the cheque there and then.!!! ’ Mathilde shook her head in disbelief at the utter foolishness of human beings. She gave a little shiver in her chair. The Sloth, ever sensitive to the needs of others, noticed her bright, bird's eyes slyly wander over to the drinks cabinet. He jumped up solicitously and took up a tiny, thimble sized glass. ‘A little Pastis to keep the cold out Mathilde?’
‘Oh Oui! Oui, Monsieur. Tres gentil’ She cried and drank it down in one. Two red spots appeared on each cheek. She leaned forward to continue while Sloth jumped up to get her a refill.

‘Last month two young men came round to ask me if I wanted to sell up. I think they were….well, you know, together’ the words tumbled out in a rush. She leaned even further out of her chair and whispered ‘omosexual’. Lovely boys though. They were very handsome and clean. In fact, if I had been going to sell it I would have let them have it. I know they would have taken care of it, but I couldn’t sell it you know. It was my mother’s house and her mother’s before her. I was born in that house and I will die in it.’ She sighed and sipped at her Pastis reflectively. ‘Jean-Claude the funeral director has put my name and my date of birth on our tombstone. I’ll be buried with Etienne. He’s been gone 10 years now. There’s not a day goes by without I think of him. It’s very beautiful. It’s white marble with my name in gold lettering. It’s already in the cemetery you know. I go and look at it sometimes. I find it such a comfort. Jean Claude has left a space for the date of when Jesus and I will meet for the first time’ The Sloth and I looked at each other. We felt humbled by this brave, fiery little person and her pragmatic attitude to life and death.
‘Another little Pastis Mathilde?’ asked the Sloth.
‘Oh no! Merci Monsieur! I must get back home. The priest is visiting this afternoon. I came to ask if there’s anything I can do for you and all I’ve done is talk about myself. Excusez-moi!’ She got up from her chair and moved towards the door. We exchanged goodbye kisses and watched her little figure being propelled up the road by a buffeting wind.

Rusty Gladdish wishes to be identified as the author of this work as asserted by the Copyright, Designs and Patents 1988.

All characters in this story are fictitious and any similarity to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.