Grande Fete

Le Comte and I are planning a party. We have had several parties in the years we’ve been here and they all start the same way:
‘I need some action,’ says le Comte. ‘Nothing ever happens round here.’
That is so not true; ducks lay eggs, Daisy eeyores, trees come into leaf, and the leaves then fall off again, in the winter it snows etc.,
‘No social life,’ complains le Comte. ‘No pub.’
There I have to agree with him. Didier’s drinking hole is hardly the Kings Head or the Red Lion. There are no quizzes, no juke box, no pool table, no real ale and the terrace has lost its appeal since I witnessed one of his regulars peeing up the conker tree. It’s great if you like pastis and want to watch France play football or rugby on a very large screen. After ten pm the doors are shut and the bar fills with the fug of cigarettes. It’s a real lock in, just like the old days.
‘We could go to the pictures,’ I suggest.
The cinema in La Grande Ville is a somewhat nineteen seventies experience; no merchandise on sale, nowhere to get a coffee, one small vending machine that has run out of chocolate raisins, a million entrepreneurial opportunities passed over, and dirty toilets.
‘No thanks,’ says le Comte, ‘I don’t want to listen to Angelina Jolie dubbed into French.’
‘Same legs,’ I say encouragingly.
‘Still no.’
‘Well what then?’
‘We’ll have a party.’
At this point le Comte becomes intensely animated and I try not to think of the washing up. However, as he outlines his ideas for the latest event I find myself drawn in and start planning what to wear and who to invite. The latter is easier than the former; everyone we know.
Some of our parties have been very successful, others more moderately so, but the first was easily the funniest due to the small chasm between our expectations and those of our guests.

It was May at Chateau Coldspot and the new English owners had been installed for almost a year.
‘We should have house-warming party,’ le Comte suggested, ‘to give something back to the community.’
‘So true,’ agreed la Chatelaine, ‘they have been very welcoming, haven’t they? Anyway, it would be fun.’
So they picked a Saturday evening and sent out invitations (in French, of course), to all their neighbours, to the parents at the tiny school in the mountains and anyone else they had come across during their first months in le Midi– the tree surgeon, the wine seller, the Welsh lady in the next village... all received a summons to attend.
On the appointed day much cooking took place in the kitchens at Chateau Coldspot; quiches and buns in plenty were stirred and baked. Generous supplies of wine and mead were purchased and candles were placed on every available surface. At the appointed time of 8pm la Chatelaine was drying her hair, confident that no one would turn up for half an hour or so, when le Comte came charging frantically up the stairs.
‘They’re here!’
‘Who?’
‘Everyone.’
‘What?!’
And they were. From the upstairs window a procession of cars could be seen trundling down the hill and across the bridge.
‘Oh my God.’
Hair was rapidly sprayed into place as le Comte and la Chatelaine rushed outside. Large quantities of guests were stepping out of their cars carrying all manner of plants, bouquets and decorative household items.
‘Merci, merci,’ la Chatelaine was heard to gulp, several thousand times.
Le Comte shook hands with everyone.
‘Drink?’ he offered.
‘No, thank you,’ said everyone, very politely and stood in the courtyard looking up and down and round and round.
‘What do we do with them now?’ hissed le Comte.
But la Chatelaine had no idea. She smiled and nodded vaguely until le Comte took a crowd off on an impromptu tour of Coldspot. They returned much too soon.
‘Why don’t they go into the kitchen and get pissed on the wine and beer?’ asked le Comte. That was what happened at parties, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t know,’ squeaked la Chatelaine. But they didn’t, none of them, not the entire evening.
Fortunately, Pierre le tree surgeon took charge. ‘Like this,’ he explained, and, pouring a generous glass of pastis, offered it to the nearest gentleman guest.
‘Un pastis, Monsieur,’ he said. And it worked!
‘Merci,’ said the guest, accepting the glass.
Ha, so that was how to do it. Le Comet and la Chatte got stuck in immediately and those who didn’t drink pastis were handed sweet white wine or orange juice. At last everyone was standing around with a drink. Better.
A very tall, very camp Dutch friend was staying at Chateau Coldspot that week. He had arrived to help le Comte with the plasterboarding and other manly tasks. He was twice as tall as the short French people, but happened to speak their language. He toured the guests, smilingly topping up the pastis and distributing words of greeting from on high. The short French people regarded him happily, as if he were some kind of cabaret.
At last it was time to eat and the guests, as one wave, moved towards the table. Now they would accept a glass of wine.
Meanwhile, the local juveniles, including the Squarking Princesses and the Squabbling Princes, had disappeared into the gardens beyond the reach of le Comte’s new spotlight. A couple may have been lost in the river though none were actually reported missing. Of those that returned, a good time was apparently had by all.
It was altogether a very odd sort of party, no one got drunk, all the guests were on their best behaviour and le Comet and la Chatte were shattered from the effort of trying to communicate.
Finally, after many hours, they lay side by side in their as yet unpainted bedroom, rigid with exhaustion.
‘Well,’ said le Comte, ‘I think that was a success on the whole, don’t you?’
But la Chatelaine was catatonic, unable to respond. And really, she hadn't a clue.

The following week a neighbour answered the question, catching le Comte as he was out strimming near the Chateau gates.
‘That was a good thing, you did,’ he said in careful French, patting le Comte’s arm warmly. ‘A good thing.’
So it had all been worth it, after all.