A Disasterous Birthday Celebration in the South of France by Jane Shortall

The Luncheon Party

Our dear friend John invited us to lunch, to celebrate his birthday. He is a tall, healthy looking, still reasonably fit mid-eighties ex Navy man. A torpedo just missed his ship during the war and he tells the story with gusto. He is brave, and it’s just as well ...

“I don’t want to have the lunch on my actual birthday,” he explained. “It’s the 13th and unfortunately falls on Friday, you see. Some people may be superstitious about something bad happening ... I’m not at all, but I know some folks take this seriously.”

We switched to Saturday and were all dressed up and ready to go at mid-day, as we waited for Maggie, the doyenne of the dinner party circle, who had kindly offered to drive us to the restaurant, having offered to first pick up John.

We were to meet up with the other guests at the wonderful La Petite Maison, John’s splendid choice for a lunch party.

As we stood in our garden, a phone rang in the distance. It seemed to come from the house. I toyed, meanly, with just letting it ring. But my instinct said if it’s ringing this long, maybe it’s serious?

Despite having lived for some years now in this house in the South of France, the phone is still, bizarrely, up on a huge blanket chest on the third level, where we sleep.

Who can explain why we haven’t got around to putting a second one in the kitchen, like normal people? More bizarre, in this modern age, but curiously not in this laid back area, was that at that moment, neither of us was carrying a mobile phone.

I dashed up the stairs, picked up the phone and heard Maggie’s voice. Without preamble she said, “I am in the ditch, where the road turns onto the track that leads up to your hamlet. John is quite unable to get out; there is a bit of a drop down from his side of the car ... could you come?”

We leaped into our car and raced down the long narrow track, where we saw that Maggie’s little car was indeed dangerously positioned, perilously close to toppling into the ditch.

John looked pale, but dignified nonetheless, immaculately dressed and with both hands folded neatly over the top of his walking stick. His expression, as ever, was somewhat stately. To me, he bears an uncanny resemblance to Somerset Maugham.

As we considered our options, a young man stopped his car and offered to help. He and Larry, using immense strength and little fuss, deftly helped a relieved John out of the car and into ours, where he happily sank back into one of the large, comfortable back seats of my old trusty Citroen.

Now, how to haul the little car back onto the track? Enter Madame Ortet, on her way home from the Saturday produce market. She took in the scene at once and motored briskly up the track to fetch her husband; the hero of our hamlet in the hills. It is Claude. with his tractor, who hauls people out of trouble; he towed us out of at least two snowdrifts. But alas, she was back within minutes informing us that her husband was up in the high hills collecting wood, and the towing of the car would have to be later in the afternoon.

Then, having established we were all on our way to a restaurant lunch, in thoroughly French fashion, both the young man who had stopped to help and Madame Ortet told to leave the car, just go, forget about everything and enjoy the celebration. There was nothing more to be done now; we would all meet up and sort everything out after three o‘clock.

This excellent suggestion was pounced upon and we arrived at the restaurant apparently without a care in the world and everyone enjoyed a superb lunch. After a leisurely two and a half hours of glorious food, wine, champagne and great conversation — John, in a long life, has lived all over the world and can be relied upon to entertain — we got back at three to find Claude, the hero of the day, tractor at the ready, waiting to help us.

But nothing happened, until there had been a detailed discussion about our lunch, ensuring that everyone had eaten well, asking if the change of ownership had affected the quality of the food; was it still excellent, as ever?

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Relationships and Going Places, Entertaining, Senior Women Web, Articles, Jane Shortall, Authors

The Luncheon Party

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