Narrow Dog to Carcassonne (32 page)

Alien cultures, hostile crowds, machinery, death by water—this could be a bad day.

We got to Fonsérannes early and were the first in line. The sun was shining and Goodness me on the towpath there was Den. Had a bit of a do last night, he said. German beer—need a walk. Here, give me your rope. We went into the first chamber with two German families. Behind us two Englishmen were wrestling on the towpath over their place in the queue.

I would like to explain how the staircase locks of Fonsérannes work but I really have little idea. We were riding a waterfall upwards, aided by a shutting and opening of gates, and a girl lock-keeper with a loud voice and a hard face. I had not before seen gates open while your lock chamber was filling, or sailed up into a new chamber against a current. The hirers, who had generations of crew to take ropes, and did not have sixty feet and sixteen tons to handle, did well enough. They shouted a lot at each other and sometimes they shouted at me, but I didn’t understand them.

Monica threw our ropes up from the bow, and I threw them up from the stern. Den, who seemed to know what was happening, caught the ropes and passed them round a bollard and dropped them back for us to hold. As we crashed and blundered up the cataract I found I could tie a knot halfway along a thirty-foot rope by waving it and shouting, without letting go of the end.

Alongside the Fonsérannes staircase there is an inclined plane that takes you up in a tank on rails so you don’t have to go through the locks. Get that inclined plane working again, you lads at the Voies Navigables de France, or you have seen the last of me at Fonsérannes.

UNDER THE TABLE IN THE PIZZERIA AT Colombiers, in the shadow, there was an expression, like Alice’s Cheshire cat. But it was not a grin. Whippets can grin, and yawn and doze, but their normal expression is as one betrayed—My last walk was very short and you won’t let me kill the cat next door and I am not getting enough attention and I have not had a piece of cheese or a pork scratching for days and it’s a bloody disgrace. Such an expression had assembled itself under the table round the stricken eyes of a whippet. A female whippet, the same colour as Jim, slender, beautiful. Jim was pleased to see her, only too pleased, and when the shouting had died it took us five minutes to stand the tables and chairs back where they ought to be.

Here in Languedoc there has always been much wine, said the
patronne
, but it was just
vin de table
. Now we have the
vins de pays
. Monica and I had a pizza and a bottle of red Vin de Pays d’Oc. The pizza had six-inch anchovies, and the wine was like the sound of trumpets.

There are many English here, said the
patronne
—they are always buying houses. You can eat outside in January, February, March. There are storms but they do not last. I love your boat—it is a moment of England. And your Jim, he is a male, he is strong, he is magnificent.

THE CANAL POUND ABOVE THE STAIRCASE WAS fifty-four kilometres long. Through the plane trees vineyards green enough for any salad, and long fields and brown ridges and low chalky cliffs and cypresses and bamboo and palms and red-roofed houses and blue mountains. The start of the Canal du Midi had been dowdy—But Miss Jones, you’re beautiful!

Jim and I got off for a walk. The vines came up to the canal. I expected the grapes to be bitter but the black grapes of the Minervois are full of the warm south.

The fortified church at Capestang sailed into view—its clock forty-four metres above the vineyards. The church militant, the church bang on time, the church well able to look after itself thank you, and just see the size of this. The canal drifted along its contour and the church came nearer and we were gaining on it and passed it but watch out here it comes again. The vines turned grey and the plane trees turned black and the fortified church lit up in fury at being left behind and we tied up to some roots and went to sleep.

When I woke I looked out at the trees. My shoulder was stiff from the Etang de Thau and I had drunk deep on beauty and on
vin de pays
. I wanted to be really cold and have a holiday. But how can I have a holiday—I am over-holidayed, overfed, overdrunk, overheated, and over here.

I rolled out of bed and let Jim on to the towpath. Then I went to the gas locker and took out the kit for the pump-out machine. Despite our success with the old hooligan from Leighton Buzzard, we had not tamed the pump-out machine. My nerves had been shaken by the pump-out machine, my brain had been rattled by the pump-out machine. Like the South Goodwin light vessel, it was always with us, waiting its chance. It had held us up for ten days in Belgium because of a crossed thread. It had sent Monica over the side in Watten, hanging from the grab-rail, her little face pathetic, and I had to pull her up by her wrists like a trapeze artiste.

The problem is getting your balance to screw the hose into the gunwale. Unless you have a firm footing the hose keeps trying to pull you into the cut and the threads cross and your wrist goes and you want to break down in tears. So you have to find a firm and level quay just the right height. Such quays are rare and there are usually boats moored already, with crews enjoying the fresh air. Should we stop here, if we go on will we find another quay in time? It took an hour to pump out and usually something went wrong and we had to do it every week and we hated pump-out day.

Here at Capestang we were in the country and the boat had hit bottom a yard from a soft verge so in principle it could not be pumped out. But I had a plan. I laid my equipment on the bank—pump, handle, stout vacuum tube, transparent bit of pipe that lets you see what’s going on, long brown outlet hose, kitchen paper, WD-40 spray and first-aid box. Then I pulled out the big one.

I lifted the gangplank off the top of the boat and put one end on the bank and the other on the gunwale. I put one foot on the plank and the other on the gunwale. From this secure footing I leaned down, and with the touch of an eye surgeon screwed the transparent bit into the orifice and the stout hose into the transparent bit.

It all went together first time and I stepped back on to the bank. I pulled on the handle and the pump primed and sent the sewage along the pipe and deep into the cut. I pumped thirty times and stopped before I was tired and walked along to check that all was well on the output side, and then pumped thirty times again. I felt Olympian. I jammed the hose in the cut alongside the boat so it could not leap out and hiss at me and pumped fresh water through the system and washed all the kit and put it back in the gas locker.

Jim had returned, and stood close by me. He had rolled in something left on the towpath by a creature not in the best of health.

Monica woke up. I would have done it with you, she said. I overslept. It was the
vin de pays
. You always said you could never do a pump-out without me. You used to need me but now you’re all independent, being a martyr.

Monnie, I said, this was a private defiance,
un défi personnel
. Forgive me darling, but I have learned so much. You would think that success with a pump-out came from screwing everything up and pumping like hell. But if you do that it bites you in the bum. If you screw things tight they jam up like they did in Belgium and if you pump too hard you get tired or die.

It’s like business or sport—the principles are just the same. To prevail in life psychological preparation is required, a winner’s attitude, new ideas, a good night’s sleep, the right materials, delicacy of touch, rest periods, personal cleanliness, and scrupulous attention to detail.

You should write a book, said Monica,
The Secret of Success—The plane trees rustled and the birds sang and I said to myself Goodness me I am indeed a proper marvel, as I stand here in Languedoc on a bendy platform, pulling on a little handle, pumping shit into the cut
.

THE CANAL DU MIDI HAD SAVED ITS BEST—CATHEDRALS of plane trees more grand than Fradley, aisles thronged with light. Long views over fields and woods to the Pyrenees, rocky cuts hanging with bushes, and always the sun, and the hot wind a torrent pushing us from the south as sideways we pressed to our goal.

Jim walked along the roof and licked my face, and lay down in his bed by the lifebelt and pushed his muzzle straight up and worked his cheeks to pass the air into his nose so he could tell what was going on and what had been going on and what was going to happen next.

What are we going to do when we get there? asked Monica. Why did we want to go to Carcassonne anyway?—I have forgotten. Because it has a nice-sounding name, I said, but I had better ring the port. It would be a shame if there were no room.

The
capitaine
at the port was two ladies, Sylvie and Stéphanie. They’ve got lovely voices, I said to Monica, very sexy and breathless. Sylvie is coming out to meet us. She’s probably fifteen stone, said Monica, and fought with De Gaulle.

We passed through the Saint Jean lock and moored up and there appeared in the bushes above me lacquered red hair, a pretty face, a halter top, a tailored skirt, legs to stir the raiment of a stone saint, and flip-flops decorated with precious stones. I am Sylvie, your
capitaine
, she said, the
capitaine
of the port of Carcassonne, and she slid down the bank and nearly into the cut.

Sylvie helped us tie the six-foot English flag across the window on the one side, and the French flag on the other side, and the lines of bunting along the roof to the backside.

The wind tugged at the flags and I steered the boat looking through the flapping lines. I put on my Breton sailor’s cap, and we pushed slantwise across the wind through the tunnel of planes and the wobbling sun.

I COULD SEE BUILDINGS THROUGH THE TREES, and beyond them walls and towers. It ain’t over till it’s over, I thought, and sometimes it’s not over then, but it’s nearly over now. At the lock the queue of hirers parted like the Red Sea and a gamine in jeans came running, and shook all our hands and shook Jim’s hand—I am Stéphanie.

We held on tight in the surf and came out into the big basin in the middle of modern Carcassonne and moored in front of the
capitaine
’s cabin. There were little notices taped to posts, saying,
Welcome to Carcassonne,
Phyllis May. It was five to four on 8 September. We were five minutes early.

Sylvie jumped off with a rope and people waved from the quay. There were friends from Stone who had moved to France, and their relations, and friends from Stone who were on holiday, and the couple from the next boat, and a chap who had come to service the showers in the
capitainerie
and one or two gongoozlers.

Monica and I hugged and kissed and we hugged Jim and one of Monica’s lady friends started to cry. A little girl gave Monica some flowers and people took a lot of photographs. We made it, we said—we have been so lucky.

We all went down into the boat and Jim jumped everyone and licked them and brought out the frog of plush and people patted him and asked if he was a good boat dog and why was he so thin and can you really see through him? Monica fetched the pork scratchings she had brought from Stone and Jim sat up and then he lay down and then he lay on his back and waved his legs in the air and then he stood up again—Is there anything in particular you want me to sing? Owen rang and congratulated us and explained he was down the café with Ianto, and Valmai had run off with the car.

Captain Sylvie presented Monica and me each with a canvas briefcase with brochures about Carcassonne and a T-shirt and a child’s baseball hat with the device of the city and a blue and red pen shaped like a rocket and a compliments slip from the mayor, offering his devoted and cordial sentiments. Stéphanie ran out and came back with pink plastic soap dishes, shaped like elephants, with the device of Carcassonne in their bellies, and gave one to each of the three little girls in the party.

The corks from Grandfather Gosset’s champagne bounced off the ceiling and we talked about Stone and about France and the men got stuck into the beer. On the hi-fi Chet Baker was singing of love. Monica and I showed Cousin Ken’s pictures from Dead Man’s Wharf with the rotting pier in front and told stories about the Sea Cat and the Rhône and the Etang de Thau. Our visitors went through the galley and the cabin and the engine-room and marvelled at the engine and climbed out on to the pontoon and came in again at the front door.

We used the champagne glasses, and the wine glasses, and the mustard glasses, and the tankards off their hooks, and got halfway into the china mugs. The bunting flapped at the windows and the sunlight yellowed and faded.

TOMORROW WE’LL GO TO THE MEDIEVAL walled town, said Monica—it’s the sort of place you are supposed to visit. But Carcassonne has already given us the marvellous voyage—the green Thames, the Avon full of ink, the great bridges, the light in the sea, the Channel, Paris like a silver bowl, royal Burgundy, even the Rhône, the destroyer. It has given us the Camargue with the lakes and the flamingos, and the vines of the Midi. It has given us adventure, and friends, and some worst of times that were the best of times.

It’s like the poem by Cavafy the Greek chap, I said. The one about Ulysses, whom I so closely resemble—

Keep Ithaka always in your mind,

Arriving there is what you’re destined for.

But don’t hurry the journey at all.

Better if it lasts for years,

So you’re old by the time you reach the island,

Wealthy with what you’ve gained on the way,

Not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvellous journey.

Without her you wouldn’t have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

On the quay Jim was trying to push his entire body inside a bag of pork scratchings. Didn’t Ulysses have a dog? asked Monica. Ulysses had a very fine dog, I said, called Argus. Ulysses didn’t take him to Troy because Argus was too young. Argus was a hunting dog—hares and deer. He was good, not like Jim—he used to catch things. But when Ulysses came back to Ithaka in disguise after twenty years Argus was lying in a corner covered in fleas because he was old and no one cared about him any more. Argus was the only one to recognize Ulysses. He wagged his tail and said Hello and fawned on Ulysses and dropped dead. I thought that was really respectful—I can’t see Jim doing that, eh Jim, our narrow dog to Carcassonne?