Dolley - French fried: one mans move to France with too many animals and an identity thief

Copyright 2010 Chris Dolley

http://www.chris-dolley.com

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book in any form.

Cover design by Pati Nagle and Chris Dolley

Cover art: The Swineherd by Paul Gauguin

Published by Book View Caf

http://www.bookviewcafe.com

Investment? What investment? You cancelled it in April.

It was now September. September 22nd 1995.

I froze. Id only called Simon, our financial adviser, to ask a few routine questions. I hadnt expected this. He was talking about our investment bond the bulk of the proceeds from our house sale, our life savings, the money that was going to fund our new life in France.

No, I didnt, I replied, hoping that thered been some kind of mistake.

I could hear a riffling of papers, pages being turned, a note of panic in Simons voice.

I ... er ... have the correspondence here. Yes ... April. You wanted the bond encashed and the money sent to your business account in Spain.

What business account in Spain? I didnt have any accounts in Spain. I didnt have any business accounts anywhere!

I couldnt believe it. This could not be happening. Not to me. Things like this happened to other people!

And then I thought about the chaos that marked our first seven months in France the move from Hell, the neurotic car, the police roadblock, the fire, the ten foot long caterpillar, the day I accidentally signed for the local football team ... and realised ... Im just the kind of person this does happen to.

It was a shock. That sudden shift in my internal picture. I was no longer the person who sat safe and warm watching events unfold upon the television screen. I was the person in front of the camera. The man standing in the doorway as the getaway car mounts the pavement. The man eating his sandwiches in the park when the sniper opens the attic window.

Theyre all me.

oOo

Seven months earlier

It was the day before our move and doubt was sitting on my shoulder, whispering. Was moving to France a terrible mistake or just the result of unpardonable crimes in a previous life? Even the weather was against us. The latest forecast for Wednesday the day of our ferry crossing had the English Channel buried in isobars and lashed by gale force winds. What if the ferry was cancelled? The Channel Tunnel wasnt finished yet. We couldnt take a plane unless British Airways considered two horses, one dog and three cats acceptable cabin luggage. And wed have nowhere to stay either the new owner would be moving into our farm tomorrow morning.

All wed have were a single change of clothes and a collection of dog and cat bowls our clothes and furniture having gone ahead of us. They were being loaded into the removal van today.

But moving to France had to be the right thing to do. Wed spent three years with more money going out than was coming in. Which gave rise to The Plan sell our farm, free up the capital and move to rural France where we could buy a similar property for a third of the price and use the balance to live off of. Simple and brilliant. All problems solved and a better climate thrown in for good measure.

Even though it was a nightmare to organise.

We lived in Devon; the new house was in the foothills of the Pyrenees an 800-mile drive and a six-hour ferry trip distant. We had a jeep and a thirty year-old tractor. Neither excelled at long journeys.

And then there were the animals. Two horses, three cats and an enormous puppy.

Even if we could fit the dog and cats into the Suzuki which I doubted could we all survive an eighteen-hour journey cooped up together and remain sane?

This thought fuelled a recurring nightmare me behind the wheel of our jeep with my face being licked by the dog on my lap and a cat fight filling the rear-view mirror.

We had to find another way. Which led us to the horsebox. It was one of those rare moments in our move when everything suddenly came together. We knew we had to hire someone to transport the horses, could they take the dog and cats as well? They could? Excellent! Could they take us? Even better. And to prove there really was a deity they even reduced the price on the proviso that we doubled as grooms for the journey.

I didnt dream that night. A force field of contentment kept the demons at bay. I didnt have to drive; I didn't have to knock on hotel doors in the middle of the night covered in scratches and dog slobber. Bliss.

A word that could not be used to describe the weather. The storm hadnt arrived yet but the wind was picking up; playful gusts were turning meaner, clouds were looking busier. The one silver lining was that it hadnt started to rain yet. At least our possessions were being loaded into the back of the removal lorry in the dry.

We had thought our last day on the farm was going to be a quiet one a day to say goodbye to our home of six years and walk the fields for the last time. But no, its a day of constant interruption and visits electric and water meters being read, removal men walking in and out, boxes being packed, furniture loaded, inventories filled in, telephone calls, vet inspections. The latter taking two whole hours as every whorl and marking of the horses had to be scrutinised and faithfully recorded on their travel documents.

Did I mention the cleaning?

Wed thought our house reasonably clean for a farm for a farm in a muddy winter overrun by cats and a dog with big feet. But, as soon as the rooms were cleared, bright islands appeared on our carpets where the furniture had been. Were the carpets really that colour when we bought them?

Which brings us to the dog, Gypsy, a four-month-old lurcher. For anyone unfamiliar with the breed, the lurcher is the one that fills the gap between the Irish Wolf Hound and the crocodile. She was immense. And her favourite game was dragging her favourite toy across the floor. Sad to say, her favourite toy was my leg. What can I say? I have highly desirable ankles.

Which can be a problem when youre rushing to clean a carpet ... and your dog decides its playtime. Note to all husbands: being dragged across the floor by ones ankle is not a credible defence when your wife is under stress and expecting help with the carpet cleaning.

Stop playing with the dog! shouted Shelagh, trying to make herself heard over the sound of the vacuum cleaner. Youre supposed to be helping.

People whove never had their ankle between a canines canines cannot appreciate the pain. Its a cross between having your funny bone tapped with a hammer and a tooth drilled. And it activates a nerve that has fast track access to the part of your brain (the Little-Girlie Thalamus) responsible for making your eyes water and raising your voice two whole octaves.

As I said, no defence.

Shelagh gave up Hoovering and resorted to bartering, trying to swap me for a biscuit not the first time in our marriage shed attempted this. Gypsy held out for two custard creams before unclamping her jaws. Which gave us time to lay a trail of biscuits leading to the lounge door, open the door, throw a biscuit through and ... goodbye hellhound. One point to the limping Homo sapiens team.

It took a lot of scrubbing but eventually the bright islands receded and out came a passable example of the carpet wed bought.

On to the next room.

This time we tricked Gypsy without having to resort to biscuits or displaying a provocative ankle. We opened the door, let her bound through, then slipped past her in the excitement, slamming the door shut behind us. An hour later, wed shampooed, scrubbed and vacuumed the living room carpet back to acceptability.