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.

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.