We tried everything to sort the mess out, bribery, begging, bitching and barter, nothing worked.
I have never actually understood whom the estate agent works for in France other than himself. I know that the Notaire works for both parties, and from his barbed comments, at least I knew whose side he was on; ours, thank god!!
He was brilliant, he phoned us every time some bit of paper arrived, every time he had a conversation with the agent or buyers, every time he had heard a rumour, every time he had a good liquid lunch and wanted to reassure us that he was doing everything possible with the power invested in him by La République Française. Our agent on the other hand avoided us, our friends and the Saint Antonin rugby team like the plague.
About the second week of our enforced cardboard city environment, the heavens opened and downloaded huge great two euro sized raindrops for three hours solid and promptly flooded the cellar. We were out at midnight in pyjamas sweeping the rainwater out trying to protect the family’s cherished possessions from the wrath of Neptune.
The next day the sun shone brightly so we took everything even slightly damp outside to get a suntan. Cars were stopping thinking they had found a “vide grenier” or garage sale. We stood guard as our chattels warmed themselves through and managed to flog a couple of fire guards, an old armoire, two bedside tables and a couple of broken lamps to passing trade.
It was as you can imagine a very difficult and stressful time for all of us. We still had holidaymakers in some of our holiday homes and owners out for the end of the season, and our customer service was a little below par, well to be honest almost none existent.
“What do you mean sir the house doesn’t have an avocado peeler? Use a knife!”.
“No, there is nothing we can do about the frog in your swimming pool, that’s why we leave you a net.”
“Of course you won’t die if you get a mosquito bite…. well at least I don’t think you will.”
“How am I supposed to know who won the big netball final in Huddersfield?”
To anybody, friend, holidaymaker or property owner I offended during those weeks I apologise unreservedly.
It also had its wonderful moments.
I couldn’t walk passed a bar in Saint Antonin Noble Val without some local French friend offering to buy me a Ricard or Pastis to get over my troubles. We were invited out to people’s homes on a regular basis for lunch, apéros, dinner and on one occasion breakfast.
If one of our artisans drove passed they would stop in the middle of the road and after the normal shout of “Oh you are still camping there are you”, would offer us any help they could, including having a quiet word in a dark alley with our agent.
I think a lot of our friends thought we were destitute, and would come in and wander around the house making that “tsk…tsk” sound the French are very good at.
Colette, our middle aged divorced neighbour came around one morning to have a peek at our rather desolate interior. Although her motive was to check we were still sane, I have a sneaking suspicion it was also to ensure she had prior knowledge of when the rugby team would be returning. She walked into one of our bathrooms and saw the fitments were still on the walls. All I heard was a very bad French swear word and my name being hollered.
“Richard” she screamed in her south western French/Occitan dialect, “you are not leaving these for your xxxxxxxx (another very bad south western French swearword) buyers are you?”
“Well”, I said humbly “we had agreed we would leave them”.
A diatribe of invective, questioning my manhood, my intelligence, my Frenchness, and my British spine, followed this last utterance. I didn’t come out of it very well at all…… In fact I could tell she was not at all impressed with any of my body parts.
“Call yourself a man, take it all” she shrieked, “leave nothing behind, do you know what a light bulb costs these days?”
So when the time came we did!!
And the time, it did come.
Eight weeks into the siege, our Notaire phoned me early one Monday morning (10am) to tell me that normally he doesn’t work on Mondays, his health and his wife’s were fine, what wonderful weather we were enjoying, what a fantastic meal he had at the Mairie on Saturday night, and just as he is about to hang up he mutters that he has heard a rumour that our buyers may, possibly, perhaps, probably be in a position to sign soon.
Apparently he had received a very important English legal document in the morning post from our buyer’s mortgage company and basically the man from Del Monte, he say “Yes!!”
