Life, love and laughter

in the land of sun and vines

winner of a ‘Chill with a Book’ Readers’ Award

 

“I would definitely recommend this collection to anyone looking for a warm, easy read that leaves you feeling like you’ve been sipping beer on bench in the village square, as the sun warms your face and the world passes by.”  Bookshine and Readbows

“The stories are wonderfully written, funny, touching, and definitely worth the readers’ time. Ms. Stoner has written a delightful book, even better than her first. I look forward to more of her writing about the south of France.”  Kathleen M. Lance

“All the characters are vibrant, and I love the way the style of each story reflects the personalities.  Sheer genius in every single morsel of these bite size temptations.”  Books in My Handbag

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tales-Pays-dOc-laughter-vines-ebook/dp/B07JF8RV2N/

 

Here are two Tales to be going on with…

The poet, the thief and the Indian prawn

‘Shall we spoil ourselves and get an Indian take-away?’ said Richard Patterson one Friday evening.  It was becoming a regular weekend treat, now that Monsoon had opened its doors in the Rue de l’Eglise.  ‘I’ll give them a call. What do you fancy?’

‘I’ll have a Lamb Passanda for a change,’ said Martha, ‘and get plenty of poppadums.’

There was no need to ask what Richard would have:  it was always the Tandoori Mixed Grill.  P’tit Gui’s cousin Arlette, who managed the restaurant, often slipped him an extra tandoori prawn when no-one was looking.

‘Look at Visitor!’  Martha laughed.

The little dog, who had been spark-out in front of the fire with her best friend, the black and white cat Bandicoot, suddenly sat up and looked alert.

‘I swear she knows the word Indian.’

‘Why wouldn’t she?  It’s to do with food, isn’t it?  Well, you’re not getting any, Madam:  it’s bad for dogs,’ Richard continued with mock severity.

Visitor settled back down on the hearth, but Martha noticed her ears were at half-mast.  ‘Oh dear,’ she thought.  ‘Mischief on the horizon.’

The smells were almost unbearably enticing when the take-away was delivered.   As Patterson dished up the food, Visitor and Bandicoot were in close attendance and even Banjax, Bandicoot’s brother, suddenly appeared to keep an eye on the proceedings.

‘Watch out for marauding cats’n dogs,’ warned Martha, as they sat down to their supper.

‘No chance,’ said her husband, tempting Fate.  Fate was listening.

They were finishing their meal.  As usual, Richard had left his tandoori prawn for last.  Suddenly Visitor looked up, growling, the hair on her neck standing up.  She rushed to the back door, barking frantically and pawing at the wooden panel.

Richard was on his feet.  Someone had been getting into the back garden of late, digging up bulbs and overturning the table and chairs.

‘I’ll have you this time,’ he yelled, and flung the door open.  Visitor dashed out between his legs and ran around the garden, still barking.

‘I can’t see anything out here… hey!’ Richard was almost knocked off his feet as the dog sprinted back into the house.  He turned in time to see her bound up on to a chair, snatch the prawn from his plate almost in mid-air and hit the ground running.  By the time he had gathered his wits, Visitor had disappeared into the cubbyhole under the stairs and was munching, with ferocious delight, on her ill-gotten gains.

‘Hey!’ he said again, ‘I was looking forward to that.’

Martha was shaking, tears running down her face.

‘Your little dog is obviously a master of diversionary tactics,’ she gasped. ‘You should have known better than to trust her.’

‘My little dog?  She’s no dog of mine!’ Richard was biting back his own laughter as he sat down again.  A solitary poppadum remained on his plate; he munched it reflectively.

‘Still,’ he mused, ‘What a story it will make. ‘

 

Cheeky

The little village of Morbignan la Crèbe was abuzz.

In the café, several of the regulars huddled at a corner table, talking in whispers, their Midi Libres pushed carelessly aside, their cafés cooling at their elbows.     Bernard, the barman, was keeping a wary eye on the door.  Occasionally he glanced at the baseball bat tucked under the counter, each time giving himself a little reassuring nod.  If trouble was coming, he was ready.

Everybody jumped as the swing doors flung open, and on a roar of ‘Ou est-il donc?’ Sylvestre shouldered his way into the room.  Drifts of sawdust clung to his tattered dungarees and there were twigs in his dishevelled hair. Lightly, almost disrergarded, at his side swung the axe of his trade.

‘Ou est-il donc?’ he repeated, glaring suspiciously round the small café.  Bottoms shuffled on hard chairs, eyes were cast downwards:  no-one would meet his bloodshot stare.  No-one was in any doubt whom the irate woodsman was looking for.  It had been the talk of the village for weeks.  Kiki had been up to his old tricks.

By rights he should have been among them:  normally you could set your watch by him.  Every day at 11 am pile he made his entrance, dusty from his labours in the vines, ready for his café allongé with just a teeny-tiny Marc on the side. With a familiar cry of ‘Jour toulmonde!’  he’d stand in the doorway of the café, one finger hooked casually in the pocket of his skin-tight jeans, windblown hair raked back with casual fingers.  With a wink for the ladies and a nod for the men, Kiki had arrived.

Kiki was the village’s oldest teenager.  Never mind that he had seen more summers than the most venerable wines in the cave coopérative.  Never mind that no small amount of grey now threaded the once-lustrous black locks.  Never mind that he was soon to be a grandfather for the third time: in Kiki the glory years lived on.

The English members of the community, not surprisingly, called him Cheeky. The ladies of the village adored him.  The single, the celibate and the widowed among the male population enjoyed his stories and his escapades.  Husbands and boyfriends viewed him with a certain distrust.

Today was different.  Today there was no Kiki at his usual table, no shouts of laughter dominating the conversation, no tall tales to hold everyone spellbound with delight or disbelief.

And, even more telling, the tabac was closed.  This was unprecedented:  every day from 11:15 to 4:30 (apart from Sundays and jours fériés of course) Kiki was to be found at his post behind the counter, dispensing Midi Libres and Marlboroughs and cheap novelties for the tourists with a friendly word and a saucy grin.

‘Ou est-il donc?’  Where was he, indeed?  And – the unspoken question hung in the air – where was Paulette?  Sylvestre’s mousy little wife hadn’t been seen in the village for a couple of days.  She had, it’s true, recently been spending more time in the tabac than the occasional purchase of a newspaper warranted. She had, it is also true, been taking an early morning stroll in the vines of late, once her husband had breakfasted on café au lait and a hunk of fresh baguette and gone about his daily rounds.  Had something been Going On? With nods and winks and wise taps to the nose, Morbignan concluded that something had.

A week went by, and two, and nothing was heard of Kiki or Paulette.  The villagers travelled to St Rémy or the nearby village of Les Herbes for their tobacco fix. It was after one such quest that Jim returned with a tale to tell.

‘While I was out, I thought I’d swing by Cap d’Agde and check out the new bistro.  Thought I might get myself a gig.’

Matthieu and P’tit Gui exchanged a glance.  Typical Jim, they thought, but did not say.

Jim was the village’s Monsieur Showbiz.  He and his petite amie Mélodie ran the restaurant on the hill above Morbignan, La Truite Dorée.  And Jim was the resident entertainer.  No, he couldn’t sing.  No, he couldn’t play any musical instrument save the kazoo – and that he played badly.  No matter:  Jim was a performer:  he knew how to get an audience on its feet and stamping wildly with approval.  Sometimes, with Guitou on the harmonica and Jeannine on the double bass, he would persuade an unwary café owner to give his “band” a late-night spot.

‘I dropped into the Café du Port while I was there, and who do you think I saw?  Kiki!’

‘Kiki?  What was he doing?’

‘How did he look?’

‘Did he recognise you?’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘Was Paulette there?’

‘How did she look?’

‘Did she say anything?’

Jim raised his arms protestingly under the hailstorm of questions.

‘Yes he recognised me, yes he looked fine, yes Paulette was there, yes she looked fine, yes he said something.  He said “Bonjour”.  Paulette looked more than fine, actually, I hardly recognised her.  She’s had her hair done and she was wearing make-up.’

“Shhh!’  Matthieu raised a cautionary finger.  It was too late.  Sylvestre had come in, unnoticed, and was listening quietly to the conversation.  Without a word he turned and strode out of the café.

‘Oops,’ said Jim.

If the habitués of L’Estaminet expected the woodsman to return dragging his prodigal wife by the hair, they were in for a surprise.  Sylvestre was missing for a day or two.  When next he walked into the café he did, indeed, have a woman on his arm.  It was not Paulette.

As usual, Jim had the lowdown.

‘I was just finishing a set at Le Chat Noir, that’s that new bistro I told you about, and blow me down if Sylvestre didn’t walk in with this bit of stuff. She can’t have been more than 18, but she had so much make-up on it was hard to tell.  Very cosy they were, too.’

‘Ce qui va pour l’un,’ remarked Davide from the next table.  The former mayor had a tendency to be pompous.

‘Yes, sauce for the goose!  Good on him,’ Jim agreed, and winced as Mélodie kicked him sharply under the table.

‘Well?’ he countered.  ‘She went off with Kiki, didn’t she? Sylvestre’s got a right to have some fun.’

 

‘Ou est-il donc?’

The summer evening was soft and they were gathered on the terrace of L’Estaminet for a pre-dinner apéro:  P’tit Gui, Jim, Mélodie, Alice, Matthieu, Richard (also known as P’tit Mat) and Gaston Bergerac.

The woman erupted through the café doorway on six-inch stilettos and stood, arms akimbo, glaring at the assembled drinkers. Her sun-streaked blonde hair was swept back in an elegant chignon, discreet make-up enhanced her deep brown eyes and her designer suit perfectly outlined a figure that set Jim’s eyes gleaming.

‘Mon dieu!’ gasped Alice.  ‘It’s Paulette.’

‘Yess, eet’s Paulette,’ she mocked, ‘And where ees my ‘usband?’

‘At home, I imagine,’ ventured Jim, ‘But, Paulette…’

Turning on her heel, she was gone.

The group looked at each other.  Very casually, Alice rose.  ‘Well, must see about getting dinner,’ she muttered as she set off in Paulette’s wake.

‘Wait up, Alice, I wanted to ask you…’ Jim was right on Alice’s heels.

One by one the drinkers rose from the table and drifted, absent-mindedly, in the direction Jim and Alice had taken:  the direction of Sylvestre’s house.  Paulette had disappeared inside.

For a long time, all was silent, then, on a crescendo of shrieks, the door was flung open.  There stood Sylvestre, looking sheepish.  And there stood Paulette.  In her hand she had a fistful of bottle-blonde hair; attached to it was a howling, struggling teenager.

‘And don’t come back!’  With a flick of her elegantly shod foot Paulette sent the interloper sprawling into the road.  Noticing her audience, she raised her chin with a challenging stare.

‘Eh bien, quoi?’ she said, and slammed the door in their faces.

Sylvestre was a man transformed.  He stood straighter, walked with a jaunty step, greeted even the most casual acquaintance with vigorous handshake and a bellowed ‘bonjour, chef!’  Every evening would see him stride into the café with Paulette by his side, settling her into her chair with the proud solicitousness of a new lover.

Paulette wore her crown lightly, but never once did she relinquish the upper hand. And Kiki was never seen in the village again.