Thursday, 18 December 2014

My French Life

August 2008

When we moved to France it was done on a whim.  I think it was probably my idea.  

My husband Al’s parents had bought a mobile ‘ome on the south west coast near Ronce les Bains and we’d already been out there for a two week holiday.  The lure of a new adventure beckoned. “Let’s move to France,” I said on Saturday afternoon after a mind-numbing trip to Tesco’s in the drizzle. 

“Okay,” said Al.  You find out everything we have to do, put the house on the market and I’ll see if I can work from home.   Well, that’s the twist I put on his rather more detailed response.

A year later, having given up trying to sell the house, and after I’d checked all the things he’d asked me to check and filled in reams of largely unnecessary forms, and after his company had agreed to his working remotely, we packed a trailer, squeezed into our Rover with our two enormous sons, and set off.



Our friends came to see us off - very sad.



The A14 had never seemed so exciting.

Ten hours later, we rolled up at the gite in the dark, apprehensive and very tired.  I’d booked everything through the Internet. We'd chosen our accommodation in a village called le Gua, after sifting through hundreds of places in department 17, and viewing them on Google Earth to detect potentially poisonous emissions from factory chimneys or noise pollution from encroaching motorways laden with juggernauts.  Ha!




Let the mayhem begin!


We got out of the car and were assaulted by a German Shepherd and two bouncing Jack Russells, much to the delight of our children.



Kiera

We’d dissected emails and analysed phone calls for clues as to whether our new landlords would be monsters, but nothing could have prepared us for Jim and Monique, who were the perfect hosts from day one.  We were lucky.  They were accommodating and fun.  Bright and breezy.  

Life at the gite was cramped, but there was open countryside beyond Jim's fields.  And there were horses, donkeys, dogs, cats…you get the picture...  Pulses slowed.  We breathed in the clean air and accompanied Jim and his dogs on long walks, gathering mushrooms, walnuts, figs, living off the land.  

Al got the Internet sorted out (eventually) and stuck a desk in the corner of our bedroom.  Hey presto! He was a teleworker.  Paid in sterling, with an exchange rate of one euro fifty to the pound, we were comfortably off. 

Our two boys, then 8 and 11 went off to French school with the little French they’d picked up in England and on the Internet during the summer.  They coped brilliantly, despite Harry being put into the wrong classes at first and Alfie having a teacher who believed in teaching by decibel. 

I didn’t have a job and was charged with finding a house to buy.  What fun!  I got lots of brochures and started circling ads.

Three months went by and Christmas came.  We shared it with Jim, Monique and Paulette, a formidable local woman in her seventies who had only recently given up cycling 28 kilometres to see her relatives on the Ile d’Oleron.  She arrived, dismounted in mid sentence and didn’t really let up much.  She cornered my husband, hemming him in between the wall and an enormous rubber plant, telling him that she wanted to tour Europe on the back of his motorbike.  I could see that he was tempted.  At lunch, Paulette said the turkey was dry and tough, but as she'd forgotten to put her teeth in, no one was particularly surprised.

Christmas in Charente Maritime, sitting on the terrace for coffee in the warm sunshine while my boys petted the various dogs, cats, rabbits, donkeys and horses, it was easy to think that we’d done the right thing.


Harry's first riding experience.


Happy Days  


(To be continued…)

Sunday, 14 December 2014

Review: 'A Thousand Splendid Suns'








Khaled Hosseini  (‘The Kite Runner’) is a best-selling Afghan-American author.

They say that you should write about what you know.

Khaled Hosseini certainly has me believing in a world that is both horrifying and exquisite.  There is human suffering on an unimaginable scale, tempered by compassion, and friendships forged in the most hostile environments.  Characters are beautifully drawn, so that we walk in their footsteps, travelling with them along paths that offer hope in the midst of war and oppression.  Mariam and Laila, women of their time, are skilfully brought together, their sufferings shared and made tolerable by a mutual empathy that allows these women to bear with integrity and stoicism the lives they have had no part in choosing. 

We learn about an Afghanistan wracked with brutal traditions, aggressive regimes and a divided people, not through dry documentary, but via the experiences of the characters we have come to care deeply about.  We are shown the vastness of the land, its ancient monuments and close communities, its mountains and deserts.  Khaled Hosseini is a true master of the written word and, as we find out in the author’s final notes at the end of the book, a man of principle, who takes an active interest in the future of his country.

Highly recommended.  






Click here to view Bev Spicer's books (UK)

Click here to view Bev Spicer's books (US)





Friday, 12 December 2014

Alex Crane - an unusual heroine.

This book was a labour of love.  It got into my consciousness and wouldn't get out.  Started in 2011, it's my second book, and the one that has been redrafted the most.  I hope this means it has evolved into the best book it can be, although I can't promise that I won't tamper with it in the months and years to come.

This latest draft has received some judicious and professionally advised editing - I've made some fairly ruthless cuts in the first four chapters in an effort to pick up the pace whilst still building intrigue through my main character.  She is a complicated woman with an uncompromising attitude to most things.  As one reviewer commented:  "The protagonist in this novel must surely be a contender for one of the most selfish, self-centred and egotistical characters of twenty first century fiction so far."  She went on to describe how, nevertheless, she found Alex a totally absorbing character, and explained why she had given 'My Grandfather's Eyes' five stars!  A great thrill for an author who has taken a huge risk in creating such a controversial heroine.    

I can only assume from this and other positive reviews that there are many readers who enjoy exploring a mind that is fed by rancour and doubt as well as by love and certitude. Alex is not all bad. She is a passionate human being. But her views and her actions are often shockingly candid. 

I hope to make a paperback version available shortly before Christmas.

In the meantime:








Friday, 5 December 2014

A Spy in the House of Love





Anais Nin


I read this when I was young enough to believe that I could, if I wished, ‘be’ Sabina.  I had already devoured most of D H Lawrence’s novels and been impressed, as only a pretentious undergraduate can be, with this (or any) kind of angst-ridden literature, so I was ready for more and was inclined to believe that Anais Nin would go deeper in, as it were, and stay there for longer.

A third of a century later, I downloaded the English version to my kindle and plunged in once again.  What I found was a predictable minefield of emotion, a philosophy that had more twists and turns than an anaconda and, in between, passages that struck home with one or several blinding truths that went off like fireworks in my brain.  More!  I wanted more.  It was like sifting through sand to find diamonds, laborious but ultimately worth the effort. 

Nin is a master at proving the point that, as The Verve later put it, rather more succinctly, in Bittersweet Symphony: (we are) ‘a million different people from one day to the next…’  Sabina wrangles with her multiple personalities and endeavours to satisfy each one, all the time searching for the elusive real ‘Sabina’.

I will undoubtedly return to this book, but I will try it in French next time. The English version was chosen for its lower price tag (shameful) and in the vain hope that it might be easier to read (genetic flaw).  I have to say that it is not a bad effort, (I believe that Nin was criticised greatly for her English*) but there is an unavoidable awkwardness that jars the flow and this book needs, above all, to flow.  There were too many ‘annihilations’ ‘dispersions’ ‘fragments’ and every part of speech involving the base form ‘bleak’ (this last one must have been when even the author had had enough of Sabina’s inner turmoil and her long-way-round trip to find herself).

A richer, more natural lexical field would at least have avoided choices that are almost but not quite apt, not to mention the tedious repetition of standby, last resort words as mentioned above.  ‘Lostness’ was probably the last straw for me.

However, until I get to grips with the French edition once more, which may read better, I feel a bit of a fraud.  Even in English, the book is definitely well worth reading.

* I believe that Nin wrote in both English and French and that her books are not translations.


Last Dance by The Raveonettes FBFC #165



This is one of my favourite songs, recently re-discovered and played while I jog round the garden plotting my latest book:  'Joanna Love's Stories'.  Don't jump to conclusions, now.  You'll never guess what it's about!

In the meantime, click on the video and have a listen.

Happy weekend,

Bev xx

PS  I just published a new short story.  If you like a good detective story, you might enjoy 'Hanson's Hunch'.

It's a bit of a whodunnit.  Here it is:   Hanson's Hunch


Wednesday, 3 December 2014

Thursday, 27 November 2014

My French Life - un Jeu de Foot





 Guardian extraordinaire!


     Football is rife in France.  Every village, no matter how petit, has a pitch equipped with floodlights and somewhere to buy a (very drinkable) coffee (bring your own milk) or a beer. 
I have two sons who live for the beautiful game and need to train twice a week, come rain or shine.  Corme Royal has two pitches.  Impressive.  But there are not enough players in most age categories to form a local team.  This means (you guessed it!) joining another club in a neighbouring village.
     Last weekend (no rain - many thanks to the Management), my eldest played against Marennes. 

     Imagine...
     The players jog onto the pitch in formation, lining up then passing along to shake hands.  The referee has sorted out a startling selection of gear, this time in an ecstasy of red, turquoise and baby blue.  The players take their positions.  The goalkeepers raise a hand.  The scene is set. The whistle blows.
     Dressed in layers, I shun the stands and observe the action from behind the barrier, joined by other hardcore football aficionados.  Today, there is a restaurateur, recently retired, a local Papi (grandfather), and his much younger wife out for an afternoon constitutional.  We converse, tentatively at first.
     Apparently, Federer (le Suisse) has just beaten their very own Gasquet in the final of the Davis Cup.  Now, here they were, in the company of an enemy supporter, with their team already losing 1:0 on its home ground.  Should I be afraid?  On the contrary, we are civilised, jovial, even philosophical.  I dare to cheer (je m’excuse!) when St. Georges scores against Marennes. 
     At half time, the Papi indicates the need for a roller.  Opinions vary.  We are joined by the linesman, who senses the chance to air his views and assures us that the ground is too soft for such a delicate operation.  We study the peaks and troughs, lost in a dream of perfect pitches.  The rather handsome restaurateur mentions the unusually long grass for the time of year and we nod, admitting that a judicious trim might be in order, were it not for the need to convince the Mairie to perform an out of season duty.  We laugh.  Ah, la France!
     The whistle blows for the second half.  I have three Tic Tacs and there are four of us.  Ah, les Tic Tacs!  I shake one into each of their palms, insisting that they are welcome.  As I look up, my son (the goalkeeper) performs an elaborate step over and lets in a corner.  1:1.  I clap politely.
     "Allez les jaunes!"  I call from the sidelines.  
     Moments later, just as I have asked about the excessively noisy frogs and am listening to a minute description of one, we score from a free kick, just outside the penalty area, through a chink in the five-man wall.
     “Hooray!  Bien joué! Allez les jaunes!”
     “Allez les blues!” calls the handsome restaurateur, entering into the spirit, at last.
     “Allez les verts!” I reply, going for ‘all inclusive’ with a glint in my eye.
     We move to a new level of understanding.

     2:1 and all is well.  But only for the next fifteen minutes.  After an untidy scuffle in front of the goal, the ball slips in and once more there’s all to play for.  
     My companions are discreet.
     “C’est un bon match – pas de bagarres (no fighting)”,  says the Papi’s wife.  Her hair is fabulous, in a ‘Back to the Future’, kind of way.
     I smile in agreement.
     I grumble internally.  Our team needs a win.  If we descend any lower, my son tells me, it will be difficult to find officials willing to referee or run the lines.  The game will become a brawl.
     We watch intently as the time ticks away.  The referee gives out free kicks at an exponential rate.  There is increasingly colourful language, including a phrase which I’d taken to be a figment of my old French teacher’s imagination:
     “Ta mère aux shorts!” shouts one of the opposition. 
     The Papi chuckles. 
     I consider the implications of such an overtly sexist remark (at the same time, I like to think I still look good in shorts…).

     Then, from the centre line, our most corpulent player – a beer-bellied thirty-five-year-old (my son is 17 yet plays for the seniors) steals the ball and advances in the style of Ronaldo, dancing, dodging, ignoring the coach, who is screaming, “Lâches!  Lâches! Donnes! Donnes!” (release/pass the ball!). 
     For God’s sake, I think, what a terrible show-off.  But he beats one defender, then another.  Do we dare to dream?  The coach murmurs, “Putain…”   One more defender is outclassed and the goalkeeper adopts the stance of a protective kangaroo (technical name: shot-stopper).  Our quick-stepping hero pauses and directs the ball  into the back of the net with a nonchalance that brings the crowd dangerously close to a communal cardiac arrest.  I clutch my phone as I regard our linesman turn purple, and try to remember the number for Samu:  is it 15, 16 or 17?
     The cheering dies down and the last five minutes seem like a lifetime.  The opposition does score, but the goal is given off-side.  I suppress a churlish whoop.  The final whistle blows and I relax.
     I shake the hands of my tolerant new friends and wait for my son, who will give me  a blow-by-blow account of the match on the way home.  He is jubilant, yet, as always, critical of his mistakes.
     I pull out a magic ham baguette and he grins. 
     "Thanks, Mum.  You're the best!"





Happy Days!