» The Frome Fossil

HALF PINT OF PASTIS

The Frome Fossil

We once owned a house in France. It teetered high above a densely wooded valley in the obscurest south-west corner. The views were stupendous, the silence broken only by the clatter of the river below and the call of buzzards. Barns, haylofts, chicken houses and rabbit hutches clustered about the crumbling farmhouse. There was even a little building specifically for drying chestnuts The loft was full of pigeons and the cellar full of rats, and the crazily sloping field was ruled by frogs and snakes and wild boars. It was an utterly bonkers undertaking.

Our nearest neighbour was a gigantic moustachioed farmer called Monsieur Mouysset. He seemed to bear the entire labour of his land on his massive shoulders, and was in a constant lather of sweaty, dung-daubed dynamism. When we first met, he threw down his pitchfork and profferred his forearm for shaking rather than his hand which, he said, was “trop sale”. Then he invited us round for a welcoming drink.

We arrived, somewhat shyly, and were ushered into the kitchen. Madame and Mademoiselle Mouysset gestured at some chairs. We sat. Monsieur Mouysset flourished a bottle of pastis. We nodded. He filled two large tumblers to the brim and pushed them towards us. No-one else was drinking. Instead, they watched us beadily, not missing a gulp. Somehow, we downed the stuff and wheezed our thanks.

The moment the glasses were empty, Monsieur struck. Could he rent our top field for his horses? It was the only level part of the farm. But of course, we said. How much? he asked. This was the crunch. For, even in my pastis-befuddled state, I vaguely recalled that French law gave rights to people who paid rent on land, making it very hard to turf them off later. I spread my hands and smiled. “Nothing at all,” I said. He didn’t blench or chew his moustache, but he didn’t pour another drank either.

However, the Mouyssets were great neighbours. When we set off on the long drive back to England, Mademoiselle rushed down with a bottle of eau de vie and a freshly killed duck. But years later we sold up and never saw them again. Then the other day I had a message from the new owner of the house, saying that Monsieur Mouysset had died and hundreds of locals had come to his funeral. So, of course, we raised a glass to him. A much smaller one.

ALL HALLOWS

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