Lille

Copyright Oggbashan May 2019/January 2020

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

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I was straining my eyes to look through the split windscreen into the fog. The six-cylinder engine was so quiet at twenty miles per hour that only the flickering oil gauge showed it was running. Six feet away the winged W emblem cut through the swirling mist. Even with my fog light on the visibility was poor.

I had driven from Croydon to the A21 to join the A25 at Riverhead where I met the fog. It had taken me too long to reach the junction with the A20. The Maidstone bypass was behind me now and the A20 had reverted to being the poor road it was in the early 1960s. Ahead of me I knew there was a truck stop at Harrietsham. I hoped it would be open. I needed a break and whatever rubbish coffee they might serve.

Dover, my destination tonight for an early morning ferry, seemed an infinite distance away. In normal conditions I would take an hour and a half from Harrietsham to Dover. Tonight? Three hours? Four? I didn't know.

At least I was comfortable. The heater and demister worked well. The wipers, when I needed them, were effective in the wet mist. My leather covered seat was giving me reasonable support. Outside the February fog wasn't yet freezing. It might be before I reached Dover.

At last I was close to Harrietsham. The truck stop's lights were on. I swung off the A20 and stopped in their empty car park. There were several trucks in the lorry park but no other cars. Did I need my coat? I didn't think so for the few yards to the cafe. I opened the door and walked in to the overheated fuggy room. I knew I looked out of place in my Saville Row suit. I didn't care. I just wanted a toilet and coffee. Lots of coffee.

After using the toilet I walked up to the counter and asked for a cup of coffee, strong coffee. As I expected it was powdered instant coffee but it should work. The tired woman behind the counter looked at me as I paid. She seemed to be thinking whether to ask me something. I waited a couple of seconds, giving her the opportunity.

"Excuse me, sir," she said, "but do you speak French?"

That seemed an odd question.

"Yes, I do," I replied. "Why?"

Her face brightened. She almost looked like the attractive woman she must have been a decade or so ago.

"It's just that we have three French ladies here," she nodded with her head towards a huddled group of women near the heater. "and we are trying to help them. They have no English and none of us can speak any French."

"How did they get here?" I asked.

"They hitched a lift on the A20 in London. They were holding a cardboard sign that said 'Dover/Douvres'. One of our regulars brought her this far but can't go further. Because of the fog he's exceeded his hours. Most of our drivers here now have. Even if they haven't, the ferries won't be running tonight. The fog is too thick in the Channel. There will be delays for any freight traffic tomorrow morning too. So the French ladies are stuck here. We have tried to explain but we can't understand each other. I have tried to offer them a bedroom for the night, but they seem impatient to get to Dover."

"OK. Thank you. I'll see what I can do. It might take some time. Can I have another strong coffee if I run out, please?"

"Of course you can. It'll be on the house if you can help them."

I took my coffee and walked over to the miserable looking three women.

I spoke to them in French. I won't write what I said in French. What follows is a rough English paraphrase of our conversation.

"Good evening, Ladies. My name is Gerald Jones. I understand from our hostess that you are in a hurry to get to Dover? Is that right?"

All three of them started speaking at once, a torrent of pure Parisian French. I held up a hand.

"Please, one at a time?"

The older woman told the other two, rather abruptly, to shut up. I thought she must be their mother from the way she addressed them.

"Mr Jones, we do not understand why we cannot go further than this place. We had hoped to be in Dover by now."

I explained that the fog had delayed all the truck drivers who now couldn't drive further tonight without breaking the law. Even if they could, the ferries had stopped running tonight. The drivers wanted to help, but couldn't. The hostess had offered them a bedroom until the morning. Had they understood that?

Yes, she had understood the gestures about bed and sleep, but because she hadn't known that going further was impossible, hadn't accepted. They had hoped that one driver would take pity on them but they seemed rough, uncouth men...

I interrupted to tell her that any the drivers would have helped if they could. They all appreciated the Frenchwomen's predicament but couldn't help until the morning. I added that most of them were fathers of families and wouldn't abandon women in this weather.

She apologised profusely. She hadn't known that the drivers were men

of goodwill. She shouldn't have judged them by their appearance, or the hostess who served abominable coffee...

I finished my coffee. It was -- abominable.

I sympathised with her. French coffee was infinitely better. Maybe tomorrow she could have some, but what was the need for haste?

She explained that today was the 12th of February. On Valentine's Day, her eldest daughter was to have an engagement party, a large affair for friends and family. It was important that all three of them should be at home for as much of today and tomorrow as possible because there was so much to arrange... and her husband couldn't be trusted to do it right.

I asked how they came to be hitchhiking. That produced a torrent of French from her daughters.

Eventually I sorted out the facts from the complaints.

They had come to London two days ago for a shopping trip to Oxford Street, staying in a London hotel. All their purchases would be sent to their home address in Lille, France.

They had been booked on the Night Ferry train from Victoria. When they arrived at the station, the Night Ferry had been cancelled, and the station would close for the night shortly. They had been given that information by a French student, who had also been booked on that train. He had suggested hitchhiking to Dover, and had accompanied them on a night bus to a London suburb. The bus deposited them by the A20.

He had made their sign, but he had been picked up to ride pillion on a motorcycle, leaving them by the side of the A20. A lorry driver, that one over there, had picked them up half an hour later when they were very cold. He had driven them to this truck stop, and here they had stayed.

I suggested that the student's advice hadn't been very practical. What was simple for a young man was unsuitable for three ladies. But I had a solution. I would be leaving for Dover shortly. I would be delighted if the three of them would be my guests. Even if the ferries were not running when we arrived, the departure terminal at Dover would be more comfortable, and they could catch the first ferry to leave.

The mother accepted graciously. While they all made use of the toilet facilities I was able to explain to the hostess what was going to happen. She was relieved. I made a point of thanking the truck driver who had brought them to Harrietsham.

"Rather you than me, mate," he said. "I don't mind helping out, but the mother is a dragon. She spent the whole time berating her daughters. I couldn't understand the words. The tone was enough. She's worse than my mother-in-law, and that's saying a lot. Why they were hitching? I don't know. They're not the type."

I explained about the cancellation of the Night Ferry and the French student.

The driver laughed.

"I reckon that student lad was having a laugh. Hitch hiking's for youngsters like him, not dragon mothers. If she catches up with him, he'll get a large piece of her mind. We drivers will help out, but French mothers are not our usual passengers."

The mother was impressed by the size of my car. She and the older engaged daughter settled in the back. The younger daughter sat beside me. The fog was nearly as bad as it had been when I stopped. I had to drive at less than twenty miles an hour to be able to see any obstruction ahead. I was grateful that there appeared to be little traffic.

Within quarter of an hour the mother and older daughter were asleep. The younger daughter was talking to me. I appreciated that. The fog made me feel more tired than I should. Concentrating on speaking French was a help.

She introduced herself as Anne-Marie Dupont. Her mother was Antoine Dupont, and her soon to be engaged sleeping sister was Jeanne-Bernadette Dupont. They lived in a suburb of Lille. Their father was a factory manager.

Dupont is a common name in France, but a Monsieur Dupont who was a factory manager in Lille? That couldn't be a coincidence, surely. I was due to meet a Monsieur Dupont tomorrow. A few questions about what his factory made and I was sure. I was giving a lift to his wife and daughters. That might help negotiations between us. I hoped to import some of his products into England and export some of ours to France, using his base as a distribution and sales depot.

Anne-Marie was a delightful companion. Her French became more animated and more colloquial as we continued to converse. My earlier discussion with her mother had been very formal and precise, almost at arm's length. Anne-Marie's French was from a much younger generation. I was learning terms from her that I wouldn't normally use in France because my conversations were normally about business.

Anne-Marie wanted to know what my car was, and why was I driving an

older vehicle instead of a more modern one. I explained that this car, a Wolseley 6/80, had been my company car a few years ago. When it had been replaced this year by a modern Jaguar I bought it at a discounted cost for my own private use. I would have been driving the Jaguar but it was being serviced and the only other company car available wasn't insured to drive in France, unlike my Wolseley. The newer company car would replace the Jaguar. When it did, I would have it insured to drive in France.

Anne-Marie appreciated the size and quietness of the Wolseley. It would be impractical for a French owner because of the high taxation on engine size. Her father owned a small Renault and her mother used a Citroen 2CV as a shopping car. Neither was as quiet and comfortable as the Wolseley.

As Anne-Marie continued to talk with me I found out why her mother had

been so annoyed with her daughters earlier. She had seen some clothes that she wanted for herself but she was running out of English money. Her daughters had told her to spend it because they already had the tickets for the Night Ferry. When the Night Ferry was cancelled, the mother only had a few English coins left, not enough for a Ferry crossing nor the journey to Dover. She would get a refund in a week or two but she couldn't cash a French cheque in England. If they went on a French ferry they would accept a French cheque, but the British ferries wouldn't. Waiting for a French ferry might mean a couple of hours waiting in Dover.

Once in Calais, she would have to wait until the banks opened before she could buy the train tickets from Calais to Lille. That could mean they didn't get home until the afternoon and wouldn't have enough time for what she wanted to do, including some shopping in Lille.

Anne-Marie was surprised when I told her that her mother didn't need to worry. My car booking included up to five people including the driver so the Dupont family could cross the Channel at no cost. Once in France, I would be driving to Lille so again Maman would not have to wait for the banks to open. She would be in Lille, fog permitting, faster than by train and I could take the family to their home.

When we arrived at Dover, the mother and other daughter woke up. They were surprised that all they had to do was show their passports as I drove through the port to board a British ferry. Anne-Marie did some frantic explaining in rapid French that I could barely follow as we drove on to the ferry.

The mother was even more startled as we climbed up to the passenger decks and I paid for their breakfasts. She was effusively grateful as Anne-Marie explained that they would be passengers in my car all their way home.

"Madame Dupont," I said, "I am coming to Lille to meet with your husband at his office. Bringing his family with me is a good omen for our discussions."

The fog that had been with us all the way to Dover vanished once the ferry was a mile out to sea. I was able to clean myself up and shave on board. We landed in Calais shortly after dawn of a bright day. Within a few minutes of disembarking we were on the Route Nationale to Lille. Anne-Marie gave me directions to their house and I delivered them earlier than they would have been if they had taken the Night Ferry. The three women kissed me as they got out of the car which slightly embarrassed me. Monsieur Dupont hadn't yet left for work. His maid made me a cup of coffee as his wife and daughters assailed him with accounts of the shopping in London and how much they owed me for rescuing them from the transport café in Harrietsham.

The two daughters were enthusiastic about my car. Why couldn't their father have a large car like that? Monsieur Dupont and I tried to explain that French tax laws made owning such a large engined car prohibitively expensive in France, but the daughters weren't convinced. However the Duponts invited me to share their evening meal. I accepted and Monsieur Dupont asked if we could go to his factory in my Wolseley so he could appreciate it for himself. I agreed. When I left, all three women insisted on kissing me again, and their maid kissed me too.

Monsieur Dupont did like the Wolseley but he knew that the taxes for it would make it a real extravagance in France. I suggested that he considered the Wolseley 4/50 with a similar size cabin for passengers but a smaller, more tax-efficient engine, or even the Morris Oxford MO but he might find that too slow and sluggish.

Our discussions at his factory went well. He showed me around and I met all his senior managers before a basic lunch in the works canteen. Unlike English factories, wine was served with every meal. I declined because I was tired and had to drive again to take Monsieur Dupont back home. He apologised for having forgotten that I had been driven much of the night through English fog. He offered, and I accepted, the afternoon in the company apartment used for visiting staff from his other sites. I was grateful for the use of a shower and a few hours sleep.

At the end of the working day I drove Monsieur Dupont home before going to book in at the town centre hotel. I would return to the Duponts at eight for the evening meal. Monsieur Dupont had suggested that I forget the hotel and stay with them. I declined because I thought they would be too busy with the arrangements for tomorrow evening's party. Although Monsieur Dupont was slightly disappointed, I could see that Madame Dupont was relieved. Unlike the dragon mother she had seemed to the lorry drivers she was much more composed and reasonable. She had obviously been stressed by being stranded in England with no money.

I took a taxi to the evening meal at the Duponts'. Again I was welcomed with kissing but Anne-Marie's greeting seemed more enthusiastic. She hugged me and kissed me full on the lips, unlike the kisses on both cheeks by the others. The meal was very French and impeccably presented. Their cook was obviously talented and the maid efficient. I complimented the Duponts on the meal. They were surprised because to them it was an ordinary meal en famillie, not the spread arranged for tomorrow's party. I spent much of the evening talking to Anne-Marie, improving my French and enjoying her company. Her mother, father and sister spent most of the meal discussing arrangements for tomorrow evening. Monsieur Dupont invited me at attend. I declined at first, saying I didn't want to intrude on a family event, but after Anne-Marie and her mother insisted, I accepted.

When I left I was kissed by the cook, the maid, Madame Dupont and her daughters but Anne-Marie made a real production of her kissing. I was embarrassed by her actions in front of her father.

I took a taxi back to my hotel because as I had expected, the Duponts had served a selection of wine with the meal. I was very relieved to have a quiet night's sleep after the long drive. Apart from that I had found it hard to conduct long conversations in French even though I had thought Anne-Marie a delightful companion.

By the end of the following working day I had the outline of a very satisfactory deal with Monsieur Dupont's company that augured well for our future cooperation with increased profits for both of us. He, as only the factory manager, would need approval of his company's board but he thought that would be easy. I, as the outright owner of my company, didn't need anyone else's agreement.

Again I took a taxi to the Duponts' house. As I had expected I was

greeted not just by the Dupont women and their maid and cook but by every female guest. Anne-Marie claimed me with an arm around my waist and insisted on dancing only with me. When we weren't dancing she was sitting on my lap with her arms around my neck. That seemed to amuse her parents and sister. Anne-Marie wasn't going to let me go and I was enjoying having her so close.

I got on fairly well with Jeanne-Bernadette's new fiancé Marc-Luc. He was a production manager at the Dupont's factory and the only person present with a reasonable command of English, although not as good as my French. Everyone else present spoke in slower and more precise French than they would normally use so that I could be included in the conversation. Anne-Marie caused amusement by referring to me as 'her Englishman'. She made me promise to come to see her whenever I came to Lille, which was likely to be once a month for the rest of the year.

Towards the end of the evening I admitted to Anne-Marie that speaking so much French was exhausting. Her response was unexpected.

She said, In French, "Stop talking and let me use my few English words."

She did. She said: "Shut up!" and kissed me so I couldn't reply. She pulled back a little, looked me full in the face and said "I love you, Gerald."

Again I couldn't respond as her lips met mine. At the end of the evening she was reluctant to let me go. She made me promise to write and to see her on my next visit.

The next morning I booked out of the hotel. I loaded my things in the Wolseley and walked around the corner to an importer of English cars. They had a low-mileage left-hand-drive Wolseley 4/50. I rang Monsieur Dupont's secretary and left a message telling him about it before setting off on the journey to the ferry and home.

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Next month I was back in Lille, this time in the Mark X Jaguar. The Duponts were very impressed by the Jaguar. Monsieur Dupont had replaced his Renault with the Wolseley 4/50. His wife and daughters approved but the Jaguar was a revelation. I had to take the whole Dupont family for an evening meal at a Michelin starred restaurant about twenty miles away so they could ride in the Jaguar. M Dupont paid for the meal on his company expense account.

Anne-Marie again claimed me as 'her Englishman'. Her parents seemed amused and willing to accept Anne-Marie's decision.

At the French factory we had an agreement to sign. The French company's board wanted a representative in Croydon to look after their interests in England. M Dupont and I agreed that Jeanne-Bernadette's fiancé Jean-Luc, as the manager with the best command of English, would be suitable. They were marrying in June.