2006 - A Piano in The Pyrenees Page 4

  “Well, if you do go through with it,” said Anne, “you can rest assured that you’ve picked a terrific part of the Pyrenees. When Malcolm and I decided that we wanted to come out here, we spent nine months searching for the decent-sized town that we wanted to be near. After extensive research, we decided that it was Bagneres. Then we rented accommodation there and began the hunt for the right house in the right village.”

  “And you’re happy here?”

  “It’s wonderful,” said Malcolm.

  “You couldn’t have found a village made up of a nicer bunch of people,” said Anne.

  This is exactly what you want to hear when you’ve just bought the first house you’ve seen, having done no research and made no comparisons with any other houses whatsoever. It was nice to know that my wild, irresponsible and reckless leap into the French housing market could receive such comprehensive endorsement. I appeared to have landed on my feet, even though I’d broken every rule in the book when it comes to buying property abroad. I hadn’t even had the house surveyed. Well, I thought, why bother? I decided some time ago that I wasn’t a ‘make sure you have a survey done’ kind of person. I like to think that I could see if a house was falling down. I had an eye for that sort of thing. If there happened to be any hidden dangers such as subsidence or rising damp, then I would rely on my guts to instil me with a healthy feeling of unease about the place. I was something of a hippy in this regard. I went for it because it felt right.

  “It feels right here,” I said, as Malcolm and Anne cleared away the plates. “But do you think I’ll fit in here OK? I mean, an Englishman buying a house on his own—aren’t they going to think I’m a bit weird?”

  “I think you’ll be fine,” said Malcolm. “As long as you speak a bit of the language and turn up to some of the social events, they’ll take you to their hearts.”

  “Great,” I said, raising my glass, taking the final sip of red wine and staring off into the soothing horizon.

  Momentarily it felt like I could peer into the future, and I could picture it all vividly—me seated at my piano, gazing into the mountains, poised and ready to compose my masterpiece.

  “You look happy,” said Anne.

  And she was right. I was.

  3

  White Van Man

  Back in London I began to wonder what piano I was going to play in my new mountain retreat. It seemed that either I had to look around and buy one when I got there, or I could take my own piano out with me—the iron-framed upright with the tone and action that I loved; the piano that had provided me with hours of pleasure; the piano that felt as much like a friend as a hefty mass of wood, iron and ivory could possibly be.

  Upon reflection I decided that I couldn’t be unfaithful and get a new one. Besides, I would have enough on my plate when I got to my new home without having to drive to Toulouse to look at pianos, purchase one and then wait for delivery. That would lose me valuable practising time, and I wanted to start my new and strict training regime just as soon as possible.

  Of course, the question remained as to how I was going to get the instrument out to France. There was the easy option of instructing a removal company, but this would be expensive and it seemed somehow soulless. I preferred the alternative of hiring a van and driving it down there myself. That way, I figured, would allow for some emotional attachment to the whole experience and it would somehow mean more when I sat at the piano and played it. I have often felt that in the course of making our lives easier (and by that I mean by hiring people to do the donkey work or unpleasant tasks for us), we miss out on experiences that can enrich our lives and enable us both to learn and to acquire wisdom. We live in a culture where people avoid strenuous tasks and hard manual labour but pay vast monthly sums to join gyms where they work their nuts off trying to get fit and lovely-looking. (I, by the way, have always managed to remain lovely-looking without recourse to such cold and heartless places.)

  I started looking into hiring a van.

  “Get a Luton,” said Ron.

  Ron had started out as my builder, but fifteen years and a succession of extensions, kitchens and bathrooms had left him as someone I now considered a friend. Most of my other friends thought that rather odd. I’d crossed some kind of line that they thought ought to exist between builder and customer.

  “Don’t pay him for the job until he’s finished the skirting boards,” would be the kind of thing I’d hear.

  “I can’t do that,” I’d reply. “It’s Ron. He’ll finish them eventually.”

  And he always did. I was never disappointed, provided I was prepared to accept that ‘eventually’ was a period of anything up to two years.

  Through no real fault of his own, over the years Ron has acquired for me the unenviable role of’sage of all things practical and mechanical’. Whenever advice is needed in the vast realms of human endeavour where my knowledge is minimal, Ron will get a call and will offer up his best. In spite of the fact that most of the time this involves him uttering the words ‘Sorry, Tone, but I don’t really know much about that’, it has never stopped me returning for guidance. It’s not that he’s good, more that I don’t know anyone better.

  “Besides a piano, are you going to take other stuff down with you as well?” he asked.

  “Yes. A settee, a couple of beds, a sideboard and loads of boxes.”

  “Well, in that case it’s got to be a Luton. You can get so much more in them—they’ve got loads more available square footage than your long-wheelbase high-top transit.”

  Cleverly, Ron had spouted a lot of technical stuff that meant nothing to me. Never mind that I hadn’t understood what he’d been talking about, it had sounded impressive enough for me to be convinced of its wisdom. Until someone came along and spouted some better mumbo-jumbo, then this would remain my position.

  So, for now, a Luton van it was.

  When I spoke to Tim, he thought it was a good idea too. So good, in fact, that he wanted in on the whole thing.

  “If you’re going to hire a van, can I bung some stuff in and come with you? My place is virtually on the way, we could stop there for an overnight, dump my gear and then carry on to yours.”

  “Sounds great,” I replied. “That would make the whole thing much more fun.”

  “Do you think there’ll be enough room?”

  “I should think so because I’m going to hire a Luton and they’ve got loads more available square footage than your long-wheelbase high-top transit.”

  “Are you sure you want to go ahead with this, even though the house isn’t legally yours yet? I mean, what if it all falls through?”

  “It won’t all fall through. It’ll be fine.”

  “OK, your call. But how much is it going to cost?”

  “Leave it to me, Tim,” I said. “I’ll get some prices and get back to you.”

  §

  The first few quotes seemed a little high: £520 for four days; plus mileage. A glance at the map reminded me just how far it was to the foothills of the Pyrenees, and I began to balk at the prospect of making both the outward and return journey in such a short period of time. It wasn’t long, though, before I came up with a brilliant idea.

  I would buy a Luton van.

  It made perfect sense. I would find one that was old but reliable, one that I could use at my French residence for the summer, and then, depending on its condition and how much I’d paid for it in the first place, I could either drive it back to England and sell it, or simply dump it in France. The added advantage of this was that Tim and I could fly back, thus halving our driving workload and doubling the fun.

  “Are you sure that buying is a good idea?” asked Tim, over the phone.

  “It’s a bit risky, but we should be fine. I’ll get the van checked over before I buy anything.”

  “All right. Go for it.”

  In the following days I discovered that Luton vans in my price bracket (I’d given myself a budget of £1500 maximum) are most sought-after vehicl
es. Every time I answered an advert in one of the trade magazines I received the reply, “Sorry, mate, but it went this morning.” Obviously those in search of second-hand Luton vans buy the papers the day the ads go in and then mobilise themselves to make a swift purchase and see off the opposition. The only ones available were upwards of three grand and that was too much to make the project economically viable.

  After two weeks of being called ‘mate’ and hearing that vans had just gone’, I began to reconsider the hiring option. That was until, almost as a last resort, I quickly surfed the internet and to my amazement discovered a Ford Transit Luton Van that seemed perfect. When I say perfect, it is important to remember that I was not looking for a van that was in fabulous condition since I only really needed it to be able to complete one journey. And so a broad smile came across my face when I read the following advert.

  1983 Ford Transit Luton Van. Some bodywork damage owing to accident. MOT and tax one month remaining. Runs good. Click below for a photo.

  §

  When I saw the photo, I was genuinely excited. More excited than I had ever been before on viewing a really poor quality van. Perverse though it may have been, the van’s shortcomings were the very cause of my exhilaration. Its dents, short MOT and tax, and age were all positive boons. After all, the intention was to dump this van as soon as I got it to the Pyrenees, so there wasn’t much point in paying for luxuries like good bodywork and long MOTs if they were never going to be required. Plus there was the excellent news contained in the two-word description: “Runs good.” Never mind that the advertiser had used an adjective when an adverb had been required, the vehicle was a nice little runner, and that mattered more than grammatical accuracy.

  “Ron!” I called excitedly down the phone. “If I give you twenty quid, will you come and look a van over for me?”

  “I suppose so,” replied Ron, with little enthusiasm.

  “It sounds like it’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

  “How much is it?”

  “They’re asking for £250.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Get round here for eight in the morning and we’ll head off together from here.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  Ron was often available at short notice partly because he had no family commitments. He had a family—just no commitments. He’d been married before and he had three grown-up children, but the marriage had disintegrated when the children were very young and he’d played little part in their upbringing. After his second marriage had run into difficulties, Ron had begun to withdraw from the world and he now lived on a narrow boat that was moored alongside an island in the Thames. There was no bridge to the island and he had to row to and from his slender floating home in a bashed-up little dinghy. It was splendidly eccentric.

  The downside of this arrangement was that he would spend long winter evenings holed up in a narrow boat that was as thin as its name might suggest, and that didn’t even allow him enough headroom to stand up straight. Those of us that knew him well had become a little worried that in recent years he had begun to pass too much time in this confined space. Ron was slowly closing himself off to the world. He had become a kind of millionaire recluse, without the money.

  The van was parked on the driveway as Ron and I pulled into the suburban Croydon address. It was slightly more bashed up than it had looked in its photo. The whole offside wing was twisted and gnarled. It looked like it had been through a mincer.

  “Bloody hell!” gasped Ron.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” I countered, putting a positive spin on things. “Remember—beauty is only skin deep.”

  “Yes, but there’s such a thing as skin cancer.”

  “Let’s see how it runs. If it runs good, then that’s all that matters.”

  “Hmmm.”

  I rang the front door bell and was greeted by Fred, a middle-aged man with grey hair who looked like he ran a business that made him worry a good deal.

  “Morning,” he said cordially as he shook my hand. “I’ll start her up and I’ll take you for a spin round the block.”

  We moseyed over to the van, climbed into the cab and Ron and I waited in anticipation as Fred plunged the key into the ignition, looking surprisingly confident. Ron looked across at me resignedly as Fred turned the key clockwise, but to his tangible astonishment, the engine fired up and began to tick over, albeit somewhat noisily. Rather impressive, especially after what had been quite a cold night. I threw Ron an ‘oh ye of little faith’ look and he responded with the cursory raising of an eyebrow.

  “You have to leave it a few minutes to warm up,” said Fred. “And you need to keep the choke out. It’s best to use this.”

  Fred took a clothes peg from the dashboard and clipped it around the choke.

  “The spring on the choke is bust, but this does the job OK,” he added, almost suavely, as if clothes pegs were a design feature.

  Finally we set off. The van jumped forward noisily and slowly, but it worked its way through the gears well enough and it definitely went in the direction it was pointed in without any trouble. So far, so good.

  Having negotiated a narrow road, Fred turned us into a deserted industrial estate where he began to open up the accelerator.

  “What do you want it for?” he then asked, unwittingly expressing what Ron was clearly thinking.

  “I need to take a load of furniture and a piano down to France,” I replied. “So it needs to do one long journey at least.”

  “Oh, this van’ll definitely get you to France,” he said confidently. “This van runs good.”

  And with those words Fred nonchalantly spun us into a left turn. So nonchalantly, in fact, that he failed to notice the sports car that seemed to appear from nowhere.

  “Fred! Look out!” I shouted.

  Fred, whose mind had clearly been distracted by proud thoughts of how ‘good’ his van ran, suddenly saw the blue sports car directly in front of him and slammed on the brakes whilst heaving the steering wheel to the left. I caught a glimpse of the horrified face of the driver in the sports car as he took evasive action. Surely it was too late. A collision was inevitable. However, the van’s brakes performed exceptionally well and for a split second it appeared that we would just miss each other. But then BANG!!

  Time seemed to stand still. All I can remember is seeing the rear end of a sports car spiral out of view as a direct result of Fred’s sizeable vehicle smashing into it. A moment of silent realisation. Three men sat in the cab of a stationary Luton van looking ahead into an open road, without daring to turn their heads to view the motorcar with which it had just collided. Ron looked at me. I looked at Ron. The minimal eyebrow movement said it all. I chanced a glance at Fred, whose skin had turned a pallid grey, almost matching his hair.

  “Shit!” he said, under his breath.

  Shit indeed, I thought, as Fred gathered himself and then slowly descended from the cab to go and inspect the damage that his leviathan 1983 Luton Transit had inflicted on the impish sports car.

  “He must have written it off,” I said, still in disbelief.

  “I don’t want to be here,” said Ron with a nervous giggle and visible shiver, stating something which had always been the case but which had been accentuated by recent events.

  Five minutes must have passed. Five quiet minutes. Ron and I said little. What was there to say? Although I was longing to see what damage Fred had done to the sports car, it didn’t seem right to hop out of the cab and watch him whilst he tried to sort matters. All Ron and I felt able to do was sit and wait, and then see what mood Fred would be in when he eventually returned to the van.

  The shocked hush of the cab was finally broken by the return of a surprisingly upbeat Fred.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “These things happen. Still, it’s all been sorted with a handshake.”

  “What?” I asked, incredulously.

  “Well, he agreed that it was his fault. He was on the wrong side of the
road when I hit him. He’s happy to pay for his own repairs.”

  What a result for Fred, I thought. As far as I had seen he’d been at fault, but somehow he’d managed to talk his way out of it.

  “What about the damage to the van?” I asked, my mind turning to more selfish concerns.

  “Not too bad. The front right indicator is completely smashed and a bit of the bumper has fallen off- but I’ll knock money off for that, obviously.”

  And with those words Fred restarted the van and calmly drove us back to his house.

  I was now faced with an interesting dilemma. Should I go ahead and buy the van? The engine seemed to work fine, but it had been a wreck when we’d arrived to view it, and now, only ten minutes later, its condition had deteriorated still further. Ron circled the van with the air of a predator, studying tyres and generally doing things that might justify a twenty-quid call-out fee.

  “What do you think?” I asked him when he’d run out of things to prod.

  “I think it’s a piece of shit.”

  “Oh.” I thought for a moment. “Shall I offer 150 quid?”

  Ron scratched his head. “Not a penny more,” he said eventually, almost with disdain.

  §

  Fifteen minutes later I was driving the van back to my place. I was indeed proud, sitting up high in the cab of my new old vehicle. I’d never owned a van before and now I owned a bloody big one. I felt rather macho too. This was me, Tony, who up to this point in life had always felt rather intimidated by van drivers and the men who inhabited that world. Now here I was, one of them. Tough, brash, strong, self-sufficient, and able to wind down the window and shout ‘Orrlright darlin’!’ to adjacent blonde birds. It’s true that this image was slightly tarnished by the fact that Ron was following behind in his car to check that I was all right, but nonetheless I was doing it—I was driving a big van, a van that I owned, and I was doing it damn well.

  The wheels started to come off (thankfully only metaphorically) shortly after Ron left me to fend for myself when I stopped for petrol. Fred had told me that the petrol gauge had broken and that it was safer to fill her up ‘as soon as poss’. I pulled in alongside the pumps, descended from the cab and headed for where I thought the petrol cap would be. Nothing. I looked on the other side. Nothing. I looked around, about, above, below, around again, but I couldn’t find the bloody petrol cap anywhere. Like a fool I even checked the glove compartment (the handle came off in my hand) for a manual, but that really was overly optimistic.