Bev Spicer - One Summer in France: Two Girls in a Tent: A Bev and Carol Adventure, #1

Bev Spicer is the author of several books. She writes humorous memoirs (under the name of Bev Spicer) and more literary books (under the name of B. A. Spicer). Bunny on a Bike has been in a well known stores Best Sellers lists for Humour and Memoir . She graduated from Queens College Cambridge with a PGCE and taught English in many countries before returning to Cambridge and taking up a teaching post at Anglia Ruskin University. She now writes full-time and lives in France with her husband and two youngest children.

Other humorous titles by Bev Spicer

Memoir of an Overweight Schoolgirl : doughnuts, daleks and disasters (prequel to the Bev and Carol adventures)

Bunny on a Bike : Playboy croupiers in 80s London (a Bev and Carol adventure Bk2)

Stranded in the Seychelles : teachers in paradise (a Bev and Carol adventure Bk3)

Novels by B. A. Spicer

Locked Away (a DCI Alice Candy case Bk1)

Hit and Run (a DCI Alice Candy case Bk2)

Hit List

One Summer in France

(Two Girls in a Tent)

by

Bev Spicer

Cover Design

By

Sue Michniewicz

Text copyright 2013 Bev Spicer

All Rights Reserved

T he moral right of the author has been asserted. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission, in writing, of the author.

This memoir is based on my experiences over a three-month stay in France as part of a degree course at Keele University. Names have been changed, characters combined and events compressed. Certain episodes are imaginative recreation, and those episodes are not intended to portray actual events. Elsewhere, people and events are as I recall them.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Stolen Milk and Toenail Clippings

Chapter 2

A Visit to the Finance Office and a Magic Metal Hanger

Chapter 3

A Momentary Glitch and an Inspired Solution

Chapter 4

Bon Voyage!

Chapter 5

Polka-dot Pants and Gallic Gall

Chapter 6

Doughnut Girl and Dodgy Campers

Chapter 7

French Dining

Chapter 8

Liptons Cooking Oil with a Dash of Patchouli

Chapter 9

Inappropriate Behaviour at the Co-op

Chapter 10

Camping la Belle Sirene

Chapter 11

South-of-France-Dream-Goddess Bikini and a Faux Pas

Chapter 12

How do you Solve a Problem Like Maria?

Chapter 13

Molire, Tennis and Pancakes

Chapter 14

Busses, Books and Blisters

Chapter 15

As Nature Intended

Chapter 16

An Uplifting Chance Encounter and a Moped Trip to Spain

Chapter 17

Port and Coke

Chapter 18

Fractals, Philosophy and French Francs

Chapter 19

Pink Pants and Intimate Knowledge of a Muddy Ditch

Chapter 20

Boys, Bacardi and Boogie

Chapter 21

Let it Rain!

Chapter 22

An Act of Kindness and a Scary Sandwich

Chapter 23

Sexy Swedes, Books and Binoculars

Chapter 24

Cocktails and Cock-ups

Chapter 25

Qui veut des beignets?

Chapter 26

On the Beach

Chapter 27

Tent-sharing and Carburettors

Chapter 28

Beatrice

Chapter 29

The Curious Incident of Carol in the Nighttime

Chapter 30

Honesty is the Best Policy

Chapter 31

Confusion and Clarity

Chapter 32

Mohammads Homemade Couscous

Chapter 33

Eggs and Exploding Madonnas

Chapter 34

Bring on the night

Chapter 35

Sweet Sorrow

Chapter 36

Photographic Perfection

Chapter 37

A New Beginning

Chapter One

Stolen Milk and Toenail Clippings

I t was unbelievable , but apparently true. The university would contribute towards an obligatory three-month stay in France during the summer break for those students taking French as part of their degree course. Hard cash was on offer for a holiday adventure.

Hang on a minute. Who exactly told you about this? I asked Carol.

Andy did, she replied, looking up from her nail clipping.

Andy? (I had never seen such long toenails).

Yeah, Andy. James best mate. You know, the posh one with greasy hair and an annoying laugh.

Oh, that Andy! I didnt really have any idea whether something that Andy said might be true. I didnt know him that well.

I became aware that Carol was cutting her nails on the baking tray that I had used to make shortbread only the day before.

What did you do with the biscuits I made? I asked, already knowing the answer would not please me.

I ate the last few. Needed the tray.

Did you save me one?

Sorry, no. They werent very nice, anyway.

Carol filled the kettle and wandered, barefoot and newly clipped, back to her room to find tea bags. Anything you wanted to hold on to had to be kept well away from the communal kitchen.

I picked up the tray, emptied the gruesome contents into the bin and inserted it into the stack of washing up.

Looking out over the trees and fields on the edge of the campus, which seemed to be bathed in the luminous glow of new optimism, I thought of Dylan Thomas and his early poetry, when he was green and golden and before he started raging against the night, and then I thought of not having to spend the summer on top of the Long Mynd surrounded by boring glider pilots, or in my fathers ridiculous house in Milton Keynes, miles from my home town of Bridgnorth, where my friends would be having a great time without me. France spread itself out before me like a wanton hussy, luring me away from dutiful daughterly obligations and unpaid summer chores.

I had a moment of guilt. A seconds hesitation. But, hey! Life was for living! Here I was, my latest assignment practically written, although not actually set out on paper, my second year coming to an end, my roots newly bleached and my legs devoid of bristles, thinking about the prospect of bombing off to France with my best pal, on an all-expenses-paid holiday which would count as part of my studies.

Yes! I said. Yes, yes, yes!

Quick. Get some milk, can you? said Carol, coming back more speedily than she had left.

Which one is yours? I asked, springing into action, bending down to look in the fridge and trying not to breathe.

Carol gave me a sub-zero glare, which meant that I was being a birdbrain, again. (We rarely bought milk.)

How about this one? I suggested.

Give it a sniff, first, she advised, dunking the teabags and squeezing them between two forks, but for Gods sake hurry up!