The Sloth in France: Scorched Earth

From April to September the rainfall over the Limousin is very sporadic. Day after day of cloudless skies and bright, relentless sunshine bring mixed blessings. It’s wonderful for the sun-worshippers but disastrous for the farmers, the gardeners and the wild life. The carefully tended gardens of the residents of Rochechouart, packed with colourful flowers and blossom laden fruit trees, testament to their love of gardening, were wilting in the unseasonal heat.

In June temperatures soared and the green fields became yellow and parched. Even the birds seemed to be suffering from heat exhaustion and sat, silent and unmoving on the shady branches of the ancient oak trees.
The Limousin cattle stood in groups under the chestnut trees, flies swarming over their eyes. They switched their tails and shook their heads irritably, trying to dislodge their tormentors. Waves of heat shimmered over the hills. Leaflets from the Mairie were pushed through the letterbox stating that there was now an official water shortage and outlining the conditions of a hose-pipe ban. Ours arrived one morning during breakfast. The Sloth read it carefully, moving his buttery finger under the sentences and mouthing the words soundlessly.
‘Oh well! That’s my giant marrows and tomatoes gone for a Burton’ he growled. ’It says here anyone disobeying the ban will be fined a thousand euros. The Swines!!’.
‘That’s a real shame!’ I ventured.
‘You do realise what this means, don’t you?’ Sloth spread his hands palms up, theatrically.
‘Er…in what sense exactly?’
‘Well, in the sense that if I can’t go on watering our vegetables they’ll just wither and die and what about the competition?’
‘Mmm! Yes. What indeed?’
‘There’s no need to be flippant!’
‘I’m not, honestly! I know what your veggies mean to you. I’ve seen the work you’ve put in.’
‘Yes! I should think so! It’s been a labour of love up until now but if we can’t water and feed our plants there’ll be no vegetables to show. This is an absolute disaster! All that work for nothing!’ he fumed.
I had to admit that it was hard. Poor old Sloth! He had recently discovered the joys of husbandry (and I don’t mean the marital kind), and had lovingly tended his tomatoes and marrows, watering them diligently night and morning. The tomatoes were now enormous and beginning to ripen. Glistening like jewels in the morning sun they peeked out of the glossy foliage. Green and yellow striped marrows lay swelling quietly on their beds of rotting manure. So he was quite justifiably proud. Of course, as all you gardeners know, marrows and tomatoes need plenty of water to encourage growth. So news of a hose-pipe ban was about as welcome as a wet dog in the living room.

Some of the expats in the surrounding villages had got together and organised a little agricultural show complete with horses for show jumping, fine Limousin cattle, a best flower garden and a best fruit and vegetables competition. The local French farmers, who had named the show, ‘La fete de la Courgette’, were already showing a keen interest. Entries for the best marrows and tomatoes were up too. Sloth crumpled the notice into a ball and threw it into the bin and pushed his fingers through his hair in frustration.
‘Well that’s it!! War has been declared! My marrows are at a very critical stage now and I have no intention of kowtowing to some faceless bureaucrat in the Mairie’s office.’
‘Yes, I can see that but we don’t want to antagonise anyone - we don’t want be fined do we?’
‘You don’t have to worry on that score. ‘I’ve got a plan.’
‘Oh right! So…..’
‘ So pass me the cafetiere, lovekin?’ He poured half a cup of black coffee into a large blue bowl, and filled it up with hot milk.
‘Well! What’s this amazing plan then?’
‘It’s simple! I just water the plants in the early hours!’
‘The early hours?’, I repeated stupidly.
‘Exactement! Pendant la nuit! That way the nosy voisins will be in bed snoring off their cognac and oblivious to my clandestine activities.’ To emphasise this point he took a loud slurp of his coffee and licked at the milk moustache on his upper lip.
‘I suppose that could work.’
‘Have faith, mon petit choux. It will work a treat. I’ll start tonight. Anyway, is that this morning’s journal?’
* * * *

July arrived with a fiery flourish of hot, sunny days and warm breezes. There had already been several small but fierce fires in the surrounding countryside. Blackened patches of burnt grass and charred, disfigured trees scarred the hillsides and the sound of the pompier’s alarm was becoming a regular feature in our otherwise hum-drum lives.

The marrows and tomatoes had tripled in size. Their luxuriant, dark green foliage was in stark contrast with the wilting flowers and bushes and the yellowing lawns in the rest of the garden. Tiny lizards darted across the meteorite stone wall safe in the knowledge that there would be no rain. The Limousin remained in the grip of a terrible drought. This morning, when I came into the living room it was filled with blinding light. Dust motes danced crazily in the beams of the sun’s rays and an itinerant blue bottle buzzed furiously against the windows. I flicked the light switch and the ceiling fan began whirling round. Then I went to the French windows and pressed the button to activate the green and white striped awning. It began its slow descent until it covered a large part of the terrace and gave it some much needed shade. I opened the French windows and stepped onto the terrace. I was immediately enveloped in what felt like an electric blanket on its highest setting! Ignoring the prickling of perspiration gathering at the base of my neck I bent down among the dry, crackling plants. Some had given up the ghost and just died, while others were hanging on hoping for a miracle. What with the tyranny of the water meter and the hose pipe ban most of the garden had been left to its own devices for its very survival. As I reached out to pull up a dead plant I suddenly felt as though someone was watching me. I turned and straightened up just in time to see the bedroom shutters next door being quietly closed. For a moment I squinted against the sun and stared up at the shuttered windows but there was no more movement. The house stood blind and silent in the heat. Then a tousled head appeared in our window. ‘What’s for breakfast, lovekin?’, called the Sloth, yawning hugely.
‘How do scrambled eggs on toast sound?’
‘It sounds very British ma Cherie, but it’s welcome just the same. I’ll be right down.’
The head popped out again. ‘Have I got any clean boxers?’
‘Have you tried your undies drawer?’
‘Er………right!
Pondering on the unfathomable mystery of men’s inability to look for anything successfully, I headed back to the kitchen.


The Sloth was seated at the kitchen table wearing a pair of beige shorts (not Bermuda, Grace a Dieu) and engrossed in reading a philosophy tome. For some reason his long shapely legs and finely turned ankles, clearly inherited from his mother, never seemed to get tanned. No matter how much exposure they got, they remained pale milk white. His face, however, was tanned an interesting pinky brown and his sun bleached hair flopped untidily down over his forehead. (He is very proud of his comb-over.) He began tucking into his scrambled eggs and smoked salmon with great gusto whilst continuing to read the book propped up against the salt and pepper cellars.
The doorbell rang. I opened the door and was greeted by the French Parcel Force man wearing a wide grin and a pair of very short shorts. He was clutching a large parcel containing my art materials. With a cheery ‘Bonjour Madame’ he proffered the clipboard for my signature, standing so close to me we were almost touching and I could smell his aftershave. I scribbled my name and then with a wave and an ‘Au revoir, Madame’ he leapt into his van and drove off.
Sloth looked up briefly from his book, ‘Hmm! I can see someone’s going to be busy’
‘Yes! I’m arranging an exhibition in the Hotel de Venezia. They’ve agreed to let me hang 20 paintings in the foyer.’
‘Well felicitations, mon petit choux. I suppose you want me to hang them for you.’
‘You usually do!’
‘ Exactement! So when is it then?’
‘ I thought sometime towards the end of August. I should be ready by then.’
‘Was that the door bell again?’
‘I didn’t hear anything; anyway, it’s your turn to answer it!’
The Sloth lumbered off down the hall and came back with Clothilde and Francois, our good friends who lived down the hill. They greeted us warmly with four kisses, a tradition of this area of the Limousin particularly appreciated by the Sloth when it came to the jolies Mademoiselles.
As usual they came bearing gifts. Francois bought some glass cloches for the Sloth’s tender veggies to protect them from famished field mice and hungry slugs. Clothilde pressed a little parcel of something wrapped in tissue paper into my hand. Two small pieces of beautifully painted Limoges ceramics nestled there. This merited another round of kissing much to the Sloth’s delight. They made themselves comfortable round the kitchen table. Francois was dressed for the heat in navy blue Bermuda shorts and a white string vest. He wore a small grubby white hat crushed down on his grizzled curls. His bare feet were encased in sweaty trainers. After some ice cold, homemade lemonade and a slice of my carrot cake we went into the garden to admire Sloth’s labours. When Clothilde saw the marrows she was duly impressed.
‘Mais ils sont enormes!’ gasped, Clothilde clapping her hands. Her newly high lighted hair set off her tan and her round blue eyes blinked rapidly behind her large spectacles.
‘Merci, Clothilde’, murmured the Sloth shyly. ‘Tu es tres gentille.’
‘Oui! Absolument mon ami. Felicitations!’ said Francois, clearly impressed with the array of healthy vegetables.
‘I think you will ‘ave much success with theez legumes, you can win with this, no?’
Sloth blushed prettily. ‘Do you really think so? You’re not just saying that?’
‘Mais oui, mon ami, I am saying that. I too ‘ave grow the Courge, er… ‘ow you say, the marrow, no?’ His coal black eyes twinkled and he smiled, showing his yellow, crooked teeth.
‘It ees very beeg’, enthused Clothilde and extended her hands to demonstrate the length.
‘Would you like to hold it Clothilde?’ the Sloth said helpfully.
‘Bah oui, bien sur,’
He lifted it very carefully it into her hands. She hefted it gently, ‘eets very ‘eavy’, she whispered.
‘If only you were going to be the judge at the competition, Clothilde’ said the Sloth longingly.
‘Bah oui! I would give you ze first prize. Voila!’
‘You are very kind. I think I’d better put it back in its bed’. He took it from her and placed it gently on the ground. He looked round for Francois and he saw him standing on the raised terrace. He was peering curiously over the wall at Antoine’s poly-tunnel. The flap was closed but tomato plants could be seen pressing their leaves against the plastic. At the side of the poly tunnel laid out in neat rows were some huge marrows basking in the heat of the morning sun. Francois craned his neck further.
‘ Mon Dieu! Regardez! You ‘ave seen thees?’
‘Seen what, Francois?’
‘Thees erm, ‘ow you say, monstres!!’
‘ Monsters! Where?’
Francois took Sloth’s hand and pointed his finger in the direction of the marrows.
‘Good Lord!! They’re as big as mine.’
‘They are for ze competition’ said Francois simply.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Antoine ‘e ‘as told me.’
This seemed rather a lot for the Sloth to take in.
‘Let me get this right Francois. You’re saying that Antoine is entering the competition for the biggest marrow?’
‘Bah oui, mon ami! Bien sur!!”
‘I’ve never seen him watering them. I wonder how he does it’.
‘At night peut-etre?’
‘Well I’ve started watering my marrows at night. Usually around 2am and I’ve never seen Antoine out there!’
‘He’s right!’ I said. ‘Our bedroom window looks out onto his garden, and yes, we have heard some strange noises but not the sound of water showering out of a hosepipe.’

‘Oui mon ami! I’m agree, it is one big mystere,’ nodded Francois sagely.
‘Or is it?’ said the Sloth, his face lighting up. ‘Maybe he’s got irrigation.’ Francois frowned for a moment. ‘Comment?’
‘You know, a pipe system running across the ground that waters the plants continuously’.
Francois looked puzzled, his agile brain grappling with the translation. Then his puckered forehead cleared and he grinned.
‘Bien sur! That ees it!’ He flashed a smile at me and nodded knowingly tapping his finger against the side of his nose.
‘It ees the little secret of Antoine, no?’
The Sloth shook his head slowly.
‘Well, well, well! The old Devil. You’ve got to hand it to him. Who’d have thought it?’
‘Comment?’ asked Francois
Sloth smiled down at his friend and clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Never take anything for granted’ muttered Sloth almost to himself.
Francois looked at the Sloth blankly.
‘Er……oui’
Clothilde tugged shyly at her husband’s arm. ‘ We must go now Cherie or Maman will be cross if we are late.’
‘You have reason, ma petite!’ said Francois. The Sloth saw them out and after much kissing and waving they drove off in their little silver car.

* * * * *

The days passed in a shimmering haze of suffocating heat and with no sign of rain. The sky remained a relentlessly, brassy blue. The nights were the worst. As everyone knows, heat rises so the bedrooms became as hot as a baker’s oven. We opted for sleeping on the sofas downstairs with the ceiling fan revolving slowly, the blades cleaving through the thick, stuffy atmosphere.
The Sloth continued to perform his midnight manoeuvres and went out into the garden to water his marrows and tomatoes in the moonlight. One night however, unable to sleep for the heat, I looked up from my book to see him stamping up the little path scattering gravel everywhere. Clearly all was not well.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’
‘You may well ask!’
‘I am asking. You look as though you’ve lost a pound and found a penny!’
‘Found what?’
‘Oh nothing! What’s the matter?’
’The rose has gone missing from the hose pipe. I’ve looked everywhere for it’.
‘It’s probably fallen under the sink in the shed.’
‘I’m telling you I’ve looked everywhere. It’s gone! It was there this morning because I coiled it up and put it back on its nail and it isn’t there now.’
‘It could have dropped off though couldn’t it? Anyway, you might as well come in now and I’ll make us a drink. We’ll have a good look in the morning.’

Next morning, we searched everywhere but to no avail. It seemed that the hose spray had disappeared into one of life’s black holes never to be seen again. It remains to this day one of life’s little mysteries. Nothing daunted, the Sloth went off to the garden centre in Biennac and came back with a brand new, mega-expensive, rose spray. The nocturnal watering resumed and everyone was happy. Everyone that is, except our enigmatic neighbour, Antoine.

The marrows gloried in the hot sunshine and showed their appreciation by putting on even more weight. The Sloth was ecstatic.
‘Will you just look at those little beauties?’ he said fondly. Sounding, for all the world like a proud parent.
‘Yes, they’re doing really well.’
‘All thanks to my nightly administrations’
‘Was that the bell?’ I asked
Mmm! It’ll probably be Francois. He’s bringing me some fertiliser’
Francois bustled in carrying a bulging Hessian sack over his shoulder. He sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
‘Il fait chaud!!!! C’est trop! C’est impossible!’
I poured cold lemonade over some cracked ice and handed it to him. He drained the glass in three grateful gulps then disappeared into the garden with Sloth to inspect the marrows. I followed them and busied myself dead-heading the roses clinging to the garden wall. I heard a click behind me and glanced instinctively up at Antoine’s bedroom window. His stern little wife stood on the balcony gazing down at us. I smiled up at her but her expression remained blank and inscrutable. Then she turned and was instantly swallowed up by the black shadows behind her.
That night was the hottest night we had yet to endure. We left the fans on and lay on the bed only covered by a sheet. A series of sleepless nights weighed heavily on our eyelids and pressed us into a deep dreamless sleep from which nothing could wake us.

We had closed the shutters so we both overslept next morning. The bedroom was dimly lit but the sun was trying to poke its fiery fingers through the cracks. I looked at the clock balanced on a pile of books on my bed side table. It was 8am. Leaving the Sloth to slumber on I showered, dressed and went downstairs. The air felt a little cooler in spite of the sun shining outside. I opened the French doors and stepped on to the terrace and startled two large doves taking their morning shower in the bird bath. A few tiny lizards scuttled about on the wall. I looked round the garden taking in the tomatoes fruiting heavily on their trusses. Then my eyes rested on the marrows. There was something different about them but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I moved in closer and bent down for a better look. Then I saw that some of them had huge holes in their sides. At first I thought some animal had been making free with the Sloth’s prize marrows but then I noticed some tiny metal fragments next to them. It looked like gunshot pellets. Surely not! I couldn’t believe that someone could take pot shots at some harmless vegetable (and no, I don’t mean the Sloth!!) Who on earth would do such a thing? More to the point, why?
Suddenly I sensed rather than heard something behind me. I looked up at the closed shutters next door. The house and garden were deserted. In that moment, crouching down among the wrecked vegetables, with the sun beating down on my bare shoulders, I realised that someone was desperate to win the veggie competition. It didn’t take Inspector Clouseau to work it out. Antoine!!! The Sloth would have to be told!
Poor old Sloth!! How was I going to break the bad news?

As I had feared, the Sloth was devastated when he saw his prize marrows lying wounded on their bed of straw. He let out a low whistle between his teeth. We agreed that this must have been the work of Antoine. He had used a pellet gun to cause the maximum amount of damage.
‘The rotten so and so’ said Sloth. ‘ He must have done this in the early hours. I never heard a thing!’
‘They say that 4am is the time when we’re in our deepest sleep. ‘
‘Well he’s a cunning old fox and that’s for sure’ Sloth stood up slowly, shaking his head. ‘Well there’s only one thing for it!’
‘What’s that?’ I asked
‘You’ll have to help me harvest the undamaged ones and we’ll store them indoors.’
So we painstakingly picked the best of the marrows and wrapped them up carefully and placed them in the warmth of the airing cupboard.

That night the temperature dropped to a more bearable level. The sky cleared and the stars came out to play once more. Exhausted by the heat and trauma of the day the Sloth fell into a deep sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow, but I felt more restless and lay there turning the events of the day over in my mind. Eventually, I began to drift off but then just before I fell off the precipice of consciousness into a welcome sleep I heard a stone being scraped in the garden. I looked at the Sloth who was lying on his back, mouth open and snoring loud enough to wake the dead. I picked up the flashlight from beside the bed and crept to the window. By the light of the moon I saw Antoine creeping up to Sloth’s prize tomato plants with a large kitchen knife in his hand. I turned the flash light full on his face. He froze like a rabbit caught in the headlights. His upraised hand which held the knife was still in the air poised to strike the hapless tomatoes. I yelled at him angrily. Seeing the game was up he dropped the knife and scrambled over the garden wall leaving behind a gift of one of his dirty trainers. An unlikely Cinderella!!


September surprised us all with its warm golden days but chilly, starlit nights. The day of the show dawned bright and clear and mercifully, without the suffocating heat that had bedevilled the town recently. The Sloth had risen early. He packed his remaining treasured marrows and tomatoes carefully and stowed them neatly away in the boot of the car. Le festival de la Courgette was being held in a field loaned by a friendly farmer. All the stalls were laden with glistening fruit and vegetables. The scent of flowers wafted in the air. There were two large yellow striped marquees. One was to dispense wine and beer to those with a burgeoning thirst and the other was for the judging of the various categories. The Sloth’s marrows and tomatoes had been laid out on the trestle tables inside the judging tents alongside the entries of the other competitors. We walked around admiring the various produce. The prize marrows took centre stage and lay together, basking in the public admiration. The Sloth was perspiring nervously. The French ladies, led by Clothilde, fluttered round the gleaming entrants in their brightly coloured dresses and shawls, chattering like magpies and pointing excitedly at the giant marrows. They pouted seductively at the Sloth. Their attention put a smile on his face.
Francois arrived cradling a huge orange pumpkin. It was perfectly round and perfectly smooth. It had an unearthly, almost extraterrestrial glow about it. I instinctively reached out and stroked its polished surface.
‘Goodness Francois, what a beauty’.
Francois purred, ‘Bien sur, you think I can win with theese?’
‘ Most definitely ‘ I nodded vigorously.
Clasping it firmly to his chest like a newborn baby he turned and strode purposefully in the direction of the judge’s tent.

Later on , excitement and the warmth of the sun had given the Sloth and Francois a thirst, so off we all went to the ‘refreshment ‘ tent for a much needed beer or Poire liqueur. Everyone else seemed to have the same idea and the bar was quite busy with crowds of people pressing against the makeshift bar. Family groups had commandeered the flimsy tables and chairs. The women sat sipping pear liqueur listlessly whilst their men leaned forward, legs apart and hands on knees, talking loudly at each other. Taking advantage of their hot and harassed parents, the children raced around shrieking at the tops of their voices. The elderly sat nodding and smiling benignly.

The Sloth and Francois waded through the sea of heaving bodies at the bar and came back with the drinks and some interesting news. Sloth was grinning in his usual lopsided fashion.
‘What are you grinning at?’
He pulled hard on his beer bottle. ‘Wait till you hear this!’ spluttered Sloth.
‘Oui’ smiled Francois, ‘C’est tres drole.’
‘Haven’t you noticed that there’s no sign of our friendly neighbour or his prize vegetables?’
I looked round again at the milling crowds and sure enough, there didn’t appear to be any sign of Antoine or his wife.
‘So…’ I began.
‘So, Antoine gave his veggies their usual feed, but after three days they turned yellow and died.’
‘What!’
‘Yep! He lost all of his prize marrows!’
‘But how? When?’ I stuttered.
‘It was ze poison’ murmured Francois, a smile curling his lip.
‘What poison?’ I echoed.
‘Well, someone had slipped some weed killer into the water barrel that he kept filled in the barn. He used it to feed his vegetables apparently.’
‘Well, I never!’
‘You see, the beauty of it was the old codger thought he was stealing a march on us by sabotaging our marrows and feeding his own to triple in size and carry away the first prize.’
‘But someone else had other ideas.’
‘Precisement, ma Cherie’
‘Oui’, said Francois sagely, ‘e ad the coming uppance.’
‘Did they ever find out who it was?
‘Nobody as ze smallest idea. E as much enemies.’

Suddenly the loudspeaker crackled and spat out a distorted voice.
‘They ‘ave judge the legumes’ explained Francois.
‘Right oh’ said Sloth, ‘We’d better get over there.’
Inside the judging tent a group of small, rotund men, perspiring in their ill fitting clothes, were gathered around a gleaming marrow. One of them placed a rosette next to it.
‘Ah! It eez the premiere’ breathed Francois and peered at the name on the entry. ‘and it is you, mon ami! Regardez-vous! You ‘ave won the premiere prize for Le Courge!!’
I stepped up to the table and looked at the card next to the marrow. Sure enough, there was the Sloth’s name with a large frilly rosette next to it.
‘He’s right! Look! You’ve won first prize.’
Sloth gazed lovingly at his marrow but said nothing. A slow beatific smile spread slowly over his handsome face.



The right of Rusty Gladdish to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

If you like reading The Sloth Diaries look out for his next adventures in Paris!!


Copyright Rusty Gladdish 2010

The Sloth Diaries: Les Traces dans la niege.
(Footprints in the Snow)

25th December 2008


Somewhere in the early hours of Christmas morning my sleep pattern took a dive and dipped down to zero. I awoke to the sound of a howling, banshee of a blizzard screaming its fury from the Russian Steppes. The wind wailed round the house like a lost soul demanding entrance but the Sloth, under the influence of the copious amounts of Pisse-Dru consumed the night before, remained impervious and simply burrowed deeper under the duvet.

I got out of bed and crept to the window. The glass was cold and completely covered with snow making visibility impossible. I turned the radiator up and got back into bed. As I settled back into a doze I became aware of a rustling and thumping sound from above. I turned over and buried my nose in the Sloth’s warm back. If the rats had come out to play in the attic that was fine by me as long as they stayed there.

Christmas day dawned in monochrome. The black trees stood stiffly against a slate grey sky almost absorbed by the dull white landscape. In my attempts to be organised for once, I had started cooking Le Dinde quite early on and now it sat on its oval platter, gleaming with honey and marinating in its own juices inside the oven. The Sloth had lit the wood burner and the flames roared up the chimney. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of the roasting turkey and the shining copper pots hanging above, glittered with the reflections from the fire. I glanced out of the French windows at the silver birch trees. Mistletoe clung to the highest branches. For some reason we hadn’t got round to getting any mistletoe this time. Then, as I looked at the trees I noticed a large bunch of mistletoe hanging down at what seemed a reachable level. Perhaps the Sloth could reach it. I could steady the ladder of course. It couldn’t be simpler. I smiled over at him.
‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked.
‘Oh, nothing really’
‘You’ve got that funny look on your face. In my experience, my little turtle dove, when I see that smile, I know you’re up to no good.’
‘We..ll’ I began hesitantly, ‘Actually, there is something.’

‘I knew it!’ Sloth said triumphantly
‘Well, I’ve just realised we haven’t got any mistletoe. It doesn’t seem the same without it somehow,’ I sighed.
‘We’ve got the holly though, I mean not having mistletoe is hardly a life or death situation is it?’ said Sloth, nothing daunted.
‘Well of course it isn’t but I just noticed a huge sprig of mistletoe hanging down from that tree over there. Look!’
He followed the direction of my pointing finger.
‘ Where? Oh yes! I can see it. It does look quite low down doesn’t it. I bet I could reach that. We’d have to get the ladder to it, mind.’

The wind had whipped the snow up into deep drifts and peaks. The silver birches looked like lollipops bedded in a fluffy white meringue. A couple of crows sitting on a branch, hunched up against the bitterly cold east wind, looked down interestedly as the Sloth placed the ladder against the tree.
‘Steady as she goes!’ he called out cheerily as he clambered unsteadily up the ladder. In no time at all he had grasped the branch firmly ‘See, what did I tell you? There’s nothing to it!’ Then just as he was breaking off the mistletoe there was an ominous crack. The branch snapped off, the Sloth’s feet slipped from the rungs and he slithered down the ladder in a hurried and undignified manner. He landed on his back in the snow, clutching the mistletoe to his chest. He lay there like a landed pike, his mouth opening and closing, gasping for breath and unable to speak. Poor old Sloth! The two crows, sensing disaster, had fled to another tree and from there they cawed their amusement from a safe distance. After a few moments he got his breath back and we staggered around in the snow as I tried to help him to his feet.
‘How do you feel?’ I enquired, trying not to sound anxious. The Sloth was never one to make a fuss.
‘I’ll live. Come on, let’s get inside. It’s bloody freezing out here’. We struggled through the snow and down the steps to the back door.

‘Hey! Look at that! Do you see what I see?’
‘See what’
‘Those footprints in the snow.’
‘Where?’
‘Over there, leading towards the garage. You can’t miss them, they’re huge.’
‘Oh yes! They must be yours from when you were putting out the poubelle’, I said.
He bent down to examine them more closely.
‘No way, lambkin! I take size 9s. They’re a lot bigger than that. Look!’ He placed his feet into the prints and there was room to spare. We stared at each other in silence until the trill of the phone ringing from inside the house sent us indoors.

The Sloth answered the phone. It was Mathilde. I went into the kitchen and began peeling the potatoes for the roasting tin. It had started snowing again and the trees at the bottom of the garden had disappeared behind a veil of mist.
I put the turkey, now surrounded with potatoes, back into the oven and lit the gas under the vegetables. I went into the living room and poured two glasses of St Emilion. The Sloth took his glass and had a grateful gulp.
‘That was Mathilde.’
‘I gathered.’
‘She was angling for an invite. Her niece has the flu and they’re not doing anything for Christmas. She doesn’t want Mathilde to get infected’
‘Seems sensible. You invited her round here I assume’
‘Well yes, of course. I thought you’d be pleased ‘
‘You thought right’ I said and poured out a tiny glass of sherry in Mathilde’s favourite glass.
Sloth pulled on his boots and his sheepskin jacket. ‘I’ll go and get her’

I put the drinks and a dish of stuffed olives and Feta cheese on the low table in front of the fire. The logs snapped and crackled in the burner and the scent of the pine cones I’d thrown on the fire earlier permeated the room. My eye fell on the Christmas tree, the red and gold baubles gleaming in the firelight and the little pile of presents sat waiting underneath. I’d bought a couple of gifts for Mathilde. Some English lavender toilet water and soap, and a box of English chocolates. We’d also got her a beautifully illustrated book about the Royal family. She was an avid fan of ‘Elizabeth’ La Reine d’ Angleterre. I stretched lazily and yawned. The fire was making me sleepy. Suddenly, my reverie was interrupted by a loud thump and a dragging sound that came from above which made me jump. I leapt up from the sofa and stood listening, my heart thudding against my ribs. I held my breath, waiting for the next sound but none came. Instead the back door flew open bringing Mathilde and the Sloth in a flurry of snowflakes. They stamped their boots on the step before stumbling into the kitchen. Mathilde hung her jacket over the radiator then smiled over at me, but her expression changed and she immediately registered that something was wrong. ‘Qu’est-ce qui se passe?’ She asked. I didn’t answer, but pointed my finger upwards toward the ceiling. The Sloth looked up and was about to speak when the noise began again, louder this time. We all three stood there looking up as if we were expecting the Second Coming any minute. The Sloth was the first to speak.
‘ That’s it! I’m going up in the loft. We’re going to settle this once and for all. I think the entrance to the loft is through the garage.’ I made towards the door. ‘No, don’t come outside with me. You two wait here’

Mathilde and I moved over to the Sofa in front of the fire and sat down. We didn’t have long to wait before we heard the definite sound of footsteps walking across the loft. The thumping and scraping began again. This time it sounded as though there was a scuffle going on and angry muffled voices could be heard. Then it went quiet. Mathilde and I strained our ears but could hear nothing. Then, without warning the door crashed open and two male figures almost fell into the kitchen. One of them was clearly the Sloth but the other was a tall, dark figure. He was hardly more than a boy. Both men were breathing heavily from their exertions in the loft. Poor old Sloth! He’s very unfit. Mathilde and I stared at the boy who stood before us. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen. He stared brazenly at us but his large dark eyes were full of fear and resignation as he stood there trembling.

The Sloth spoke quietly, ‘How long have you been hiding up there in the loft?’ The boy looked straight at the Sloth and spoke rapidly in flawless French.

‘I have been in hiding here for 7 months. I survived by working on the land for the local farmers. They paid me in cash, no questions asked. I earned enough money to buy food. This house is often empty for months. The owners only spend short periods of time here. I think they have another home far from here. They must be very rich to have two houses. I don’t even have one home ’

‘You mean they were living here while you were hiding in the loft and they didn’t know you were there?’ Sloth shook his head incredulously.

‘Yes, but it was easy to hide from them.’
‘How did you get to France?’
‘My father was killed in front of me and my sisters by the soldiers. They said they would come back for me, so my uncle paid my passage on a boat with hundreds of others. It was terrible. There was very little fresh water and no sanitation. The people on the Italian shore said they could smell the boat coming. We had almost reached the shores of Italy when the boat capsized and we were thrown into the water. Hardly anyone could swim and many drowned. I clung onto a piece of driftwood, a live human being floating among the bloated bodies of the dead. I was picked up by the immigration officers. They took me to a detention centre but I escaped and hid on a lorry bound for Calais. The lorry driver found me and let me out in the countryside and I found this village. There were only a handful of houses. Some of them with the shutters closed and deserted. I chose this one after I found there was an entrance to the attic through the garage. I have been very lucky. No one ever knew I was here.’

Then he suddenly burst out ‘I hope to call this country my home one day. But I am illegal! I only want what you have had all your life. Freedom and security for my family; education, a house and a job. Recently I suffered a loss in my native land. I could not go home to say farewell to them for fear that I would not get back! I am a law-abiding person, I have never been in trouble and want to live here for the rest of my life. I don't exist in my homeland or in this land. I have no voice, and I am living in the shadows! And I don't want to live like this anymore! I am tired of running and hiding.’

The Sloth nodded, ‘What is your name?’
‘My name is Patrice Beauregard. I’m from the Ivory Coast’.
The Sloth put out his hand and the boy clasped it.
Mathilde, who had been listening intently to the boy’s story, moved forward and took his hand and led him in silence to the table, groaning with food. She pulled out two chairs and sat down on one of them. Then she leaned over and patted the chair next to hers.
He cast a puzzled glance in our direction. ‘You will get the police?’
Sloth slowly shook his head. ‘No, of course not’
A violent shudder shook his thin body and he sighed with relief. Mathilde repeated her gesture and we all took our places at the table.

Outside the leaden sky was already darkening as
the snow began to fall again. Then, without
warning, a magpie was flushed clattering out
of the silver birch trees and soared upwards,
clearing the tree tops. We all watched in
wonder as it disappeared from view.


This story is a work of fiction and any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

The right of Rusty Gladdish to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

The Sloth Diaries.


The Sloth in France: La Tempete!

Carrefour was unusually crowded for a Monday morning. I had to drive round the car park three times before a sleek Peugeot slid out of its place to allow our battered little Nissan Sunny to take its place. The wind had got up since we had left home and discarded plastic bags were blown into the air where they fluttered like ragged flags. Sodden leaflets advertising the opening of the new Lidl next door, blown by the wind, stuck to the car tyres. This morning, the announcer on French radio had excitedly warned of ‘La Tempete’ which had already swept through Brittany with gales of up to 140 kilometres per hour. It was now battling its way up the coast to Calais. Comparisons were already being made with the terrible winter storms that had ravaged France in previous years.

As we trundled our trolley into the crowded aisles, the check-out girl nearest the entrance was uncharacteristically quiet. We were usually greeted with a cheery ‘Bonjour!’ but not this morning. Everyone was strangely preoccupied and focussed on piling their trolleys high with supplies.
‘What’s the matter with everybody this morning?’ I asked the Sloth. A portly, fur coated French femme au foyer with heavily rouged lips, crashed into our trolley and stormed past with a glare. The Sloth smiled weakly and murmured a conciliatory, ‘Bonjour, Madame’ to her furry back. Then, turning to things of a more important nature, he manhandled a box of 6 bottles of medium quality Bordeaux in to the trolley. ‘Yes, I know what you mean. Must be the high winds. Continual high winds have a strange effect on people, you know. When the Mistral blows in Provence, people go quite barmy for a while. They get migraines and undergo personality changes.’

‘Really? Do you think that’s why everyone is acting so oddly this morning? ‘
‘Yes, I do as a matter of fact. When I was teaching at a primary school in Gloucester once, I noticed that if there was a continual wind blowing, the kids would become quite aggressive and crazy in the playground.’
He hefted a second box of red wine
into the trolley then stood back, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
‘Right! I’m offski! Come and find me in the CD aisle when you’re ready for the check out,’ and he disappeared into the thick of the frantic groups clustering round the supermarket shelves.

With the Sloth safely out of the way, I glided round in a dream indulging my French fancies. I began filling my trolley with Pate de Canard, brioche and crusty baguettes still warm from the ovens and soft, creamy Brie from the local dairies to be washed down with a dark, dense fruity wine. Our trolley was almost full so I ambled slowly towards the CDs and Books aisle. I was just in time to see the Sloth on his knees in front of a slim, languid young woman dressed in dusky pink, suede hot pants with matching thigh boots topped with a long silver grey top coat. He seemed to be scrabbling on the floor in an undignified manner for something, whilst she tilted her honey coloured head, her hair falling seductively over one eye, regarding his antics with a certain curious amusement. She appeared completely bemused. They were completely unaware of my arrival. It seemed she had dropped her lipstick and it had rolled under the shelves. And Sloth being a gentleman, was gallantly trying his best to retrieve it. From where I was standing he didn’t seem to be having much luck though he might have been having a lot of fun! By now he was very red in the face and as I approached he grinned foolishly. He looked like a fox that had been caught with a hen in his jaws. A look I had come to know so well down the years. Poor old Sloth!

He stumbled to his feet holding the lipstick triumphantly aloft.
Oh merci! Merci, monsieur! Vous etes très, très, gentille’, she cooed.
He was so pleased with himself that he almost took a bow, then as he murmured something in French she whipped her shiny blonde hair out of her eyes and wandered off, leaving a cloud of Givenchy to remind us of our ordinariness.
With the Sloth now firmly under my supervision he manoeuvred our burgeoning trolley to the check-out. The queues were long and the customers were disgruntled. An air of tacit mutiny hung over the shoppers. Tempers, like the weather, were volatile so we weren’t surprised when a row flared up between two women. One of them had shoulders that Sebastien Chabal would envy while the other was as thin as a whippet and with an incredibly penetrating, high pitched voice which reached down to the back of the line. I noticed that they both had crew cuts and both sported a couple of red streaks running down the sides of their heads. It must be the latest style around these parts. There were a lot of ‘Ohs’ flying around before I realised with my abysmal ignorance of French, that they were actually saying ‘Eau’. One of them had taken the last of the 5 litre bottles of water and harsh words were being exchanged. The check-out girl ignored the fray and continued to put through the items at great speed. The people in the queue however, sensed a drama about to unfold and looked on interestedly in the hope that the row would escalate into something a little more piquant.
Things took a nasty turn when the rugby scrum-half gripped the arm of the skinny woman and began shaking her like a pit bull terrier with a hapless rabbit. The onlookers gasped in unison and the entire queue swayed in anticipation of the next stage of events. It was at this point that the Sloth, being a peaceful sort and an ardent admirer of the fairer sex, politely intervened. He offered one of our bottles of water to the Sebastien Chabal look-a-like murmuring sweet nothings in her direction. For some reason this seemed to placate her. She gave him a coy smile and grabbed the water with one hand and loosened her grip on the little woman who immediately fell to the floor in a faint. A small circle gathered round looking down at her sympathetically but no one actually did anything to revive her. The audience, deprived of their live ‘theatre’, scowled at us as we sneaked through the check-out leaving dissatisfaction and disappointment behind us. C’est la vie!

As we came out of the automatic doors we were almost driven back by the force of a howling wind that pressed us against the plate glass windows of the supermarket. Clinging on to the trolley for dear life we dashed to the car and quickly emptied our supplies into the boot. All around us detritus flew up into the air like larks on a summer’s day but the icy blast felt anything but summery. The towering poplar trees that bordered the car park trembled and shook. The sky had darkened and somewhere in the distance a dull roar could be heard. We dived into the car and I drove like someone possessed to get home before the storm broke over our heads and swept us away. The long, ribbon of road winding through the flat, furrowed fields was devoid of any trace of humanity as we batted along. ‘Good God! I’ve never seen the road so deserted before. Even on a Sunday, and we always get stuck behind a tractor on the way home from Carrefour. Bizarre!’ marvelled Sloth. Our little car swayed and rocked and once or twice came perilously close to occupying the roadside ditch
I gripped the wheel firmly and put my foot down. The gale practically blew us along and we were soon pulling into the home stretch. All the houses in the hamlet had their shutters firmly closed as their occupants cowered indoors. As we drew up to Mathilde’s cottage Sloth took off his safety belt. ‘Look! You go on to the house and get inside; I’m going to check on Mathilde’

‘Yes, OK. She’ll probably be getting a bit nervous.’ I left him at Mathilde’s garden gate and pulled into our drive. The wind had got even stronger now and was much noisier. I got all the supplies out and lugged them into the kitchen and shut the door. I switched on the light, it had become very dark outside and started to put away the food into the cupboards.

I’d just put the last of the duck pate away in the fridge and clicked on the coffee maker when the back door was flung open. The Sloth and Mathilde almost fell into the kitchen. ‘My God! There’s a blasted tornado going on out there!’ he gasped. Mathilde took herself over to the rocking chair and sat by the stove. Her hair was usually in a neat coiffure, but the wind had fanned it in to a wispy halo round her head. She smoothed and patted it back into shape then she leant forward to warm her tiny hands near the flames. ‘Oh Monsieur! Pas bon! Pas bon! Le vent, c’est incroyable!’ It was indeed incredible. I made bowls of milky coffee for us and a tiny cup of tar black liquid with a thimble full of Calvados for Mathilde. She thanked me and sat sipping it delicately.
She told us that this storm reminded her of the one that charged like a bull through a village some 50 miles away, years ago. Three people were killed and houses were torn from their foundations and tossed aside like empty match boxes. ‘Ah oui! Pas bon!’ she murmured. As if on cue a sudden squall of wind snatched at the windows and the whole house trembled and creaked in protest. Sloth and I exchanged glances. I indulged in a little displacement activity and threw a couple more logs into the stove. Then we heard a loud, sickening crash that came from outside. Sloth and I ventured outside holding onto each other tightly, and saw from the gate that Bernadette’s satellite dish had fallen from the roof and was sailing awkwardly down the street. A little further on we could see Monsieur Roche’s shiny new Magane on its side in a ditch pinned down by a telegraph pole. We looked at each other as the enormity of the effects of the storm dawned on us and then we turned and hurried back into the house. We all sat round the fire drinking our coffee with generous splashes of Calvados to gives us some Dutch courage. We spoke in slightly raised voices as we tried to drown out the racket that was going on outside. From time to time objects flew past the windows or were hurled up into the sky. We tried not to react when we heard the rasping sound of metal on concrete. Mathilde tried to distract us by regaling us with tales of the antics of her alcoholic neighbour, Alphonse.

‘Ah oui!’ she murmured and sipped greedily at her sweetened coffee heavily laced with Calvados. To keep out the cold ‘Bien sur’!
She placed her tiny feet daintily on the hearth and with her head on one side and her snapping black eyes twinkling , then, looking for all the world like a cheeky robin, she began to tell her story. She sighed. ‘You know, monsieur, what’s really hard to bear is the house he lives in used to belong to my brother Antoine. Oui! C’est vrai! My brother was a good businessman and owned three butcher’s shops. Round these parts people said that they were the best boucheries for miles. They sold only the finest cuts of meat. Ah Oui! Toujours la meilleure viande. Then one day, le desastre!! The big supermarche Carrefour came along and that was the end of his business. One by one his shops closed.’
‘It must have been terrible for Antoine’ I said.
I served her a Madeleine on a porcelain plate which she sucked at gently, brushing the crumbs from her skirt.
Sloth made sympathetic noises and ignoring a particularly loud crash outside, Mathilde took another deep breath and continued ‘
‘Ah oui! Pas bon! Pas bon! That Aplhonse had always envied Antoine and coveted his house. That’s not the only thing he coveted either’. She narrowed her eyes and nodded knowingly. ‘He was always sniffing around Therese. That’s Antoine’s wife. She’s a pretty little thing. Slim and dark like I used to be.’ I noticed the corners of Sloth’s mouth twitching and jabbed my elbow into his ribs.
‘When the boucheries closed down Antoine was finished. It was a terrible blow to him, vous savez. He put his heart and soul into those shops. ‘There was another long pause as she gazed into the fire.
‘So where did Antoine go after he sold the house to Alphonse?’ prompted Sloth.
Mathilde dragged her eyes from the flames.
‘They went to the Alpes. Therese has family near Chamonix. They bought a chalet and now they both work at the ski resort.’
‘Do you visit them, Mathilde?’
There was another long, wounded silence.
Then, ‘I am an old woman. What do I want with the snow and the ice? I visited twice in the summer months. It was a long journey by plane and train. Pas bon!’ She shook her head sadly.
Sloth nodded. ‘It must have been exhausting for you’
I leaned forward and patted her hand. ‘I expect you miss him’
‘Ah oui! Ah oui! But he’s a bad one that Alphonse. He lives alone and just gets drunk every night. His wife and son left him. They live in Lyon now. Last summer it was very hot and I was sitting in the garden. His son came to visit him and was helping him do some digging. Alphonse came out of the house swigging a bottle of wine. Anyone with half a brain could see he was drunk. In his other hand he had a shotgun. No one was more surprised than me though, when he raised the gun and fired a shot at the satellite dish. The poor lad fell down as though he were dead. He thought he’d been shot you see, poor lamb. ‘C’est fou!!’ Ah oui! I’ll never forget the look on that boy’s face.’

The fire in the wood burner had died down and the room had become darker. The Sloth got up and went to the door. The wind had been replaced by a torrential downpour. He sprinted over the yard to the woodshed and dashed back with an armful of logs. While he stoked the fire, I flicked on the lamps and went to make some hot chocolate. When I came back from the kitchen, rattling cups of chocolate on the tray, Mathilde was dozing, her head nodding gently on her chest, and her hands lying loosely in her lap. Sloth raised his finger to his lips. I took my place next to him on the sofa and we sipped our chocolate and watched the flames darting between the logs in the stove. Shadows flickered and danced in the dark corners of the room and the fire sizzled and spat. We watched Mathilde sleeping with all the innocence of a child, and listened to the rain beating against the windows.

* * * *


The right of Rusty Gladdish to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.