Signed, Sealed, Delivered

Françoise in all her glory.

I wish to devote this post to the way in which I win my bread.  Twice a week for the past six months I have been mastering the art of delivery in the back-streets of Bordeaux.  Now, it’s all too easy to glorify the work of a delivery man: he is a porteur du pain, a bringer of bread, a feeder of the world.  It’s in giving food to others that he himself is fed.  It has even been claimed that Tesco Direct can trace its foundation back to the revolutionary work of Jesus’ disciples as detailed in Matthew 14:19 (“Taking the five loaves and the two fish… he gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the people.”).  But if we are to discover the real nature of delivery work, we must pass beyond this glamour and romance.

When I, le livreur, arrive at a client’s door, I am sweaty.  This is to be expected, seeing as I have likely just parked illegally, negotiated multiple auto-locking doors, run up several flights of stairs, and groped for the corridor’s light switch, all with a family’s weekly shop clutched to my breast.  I do sometimes worry that the appeal of organic vegetables might be diminished by their being attached to a panting foreigner, but needs must.  The physical challenge posed by a delivery is such that I sometimes think myself to have fallen into a sub-par episode of Gladiators; there’s no Ulrika Jonsson, but I do have a client who looks remarkably like Wolf.

Second to these domestic challenges, the next biggest barrier to a successful shift is transport.   The French have a nasty habit of driving on the right, whereas my brain tends to adhere to the Britannic school of motoring.  This culture clash made the negotiation of my first roundabout rather memorable; both for me, and for the French gentleman I nearly killed.  I’ve since found a simple yet effective solution¹, and now consider myself positively European when in the cockpit of my van; I hardly ever swerve to the left, and have even been known to gesticulate angrily at stationary traffic.

I believe my boss to have noticed some of these British quirks when I joined the company, as I spent my first few shifts driving not one of the brand-new refrigerated Peugeot vans, but rather driving Françoise.  Françoise is a 1985 Renault Express who lacks power steering and functional indicators but who is gifted with a ‘choke’ and persistent smell of garlic.  Had she been human, one would likely have seen Françoise gulping cognac in a run-down Bordelais bistro.  Her face, lit by the light of a Gauloise, would crumple as she coughed up filthy joke after filthy joke, till eventually she’d lose her temper and throw a punch at a passer-by.  In short, Françoise was a shit.  The extent of her shittiness, however, was to remain unknown until the middle of a particularly difficult shift.  I had managed to get to the first five-or-so clients despite Françoise’s usual ploy of refusing to breach 25km/h.  I ran back from the fifth client’s house, very conscious that time was a ticking.  I jumped into the driver’s seat, thrust the key into the ignition, turned my wrist, and, nothing.  I tried again.  She spluttered, then nothing.  And again.  Nothing.  And so it was that Françoise point-blank refused to budge in the middle of my most stressful delivery round to date.  A lot of very hurtful things were said between us that evening under the setting sun, and, as I loaded my cargo into the rescue vehicle, I knew that things would never again be the same between us.  Indeed, it was the last time I ever worked with Françoise.  I’ve since been working with a much younger model, Delphine, who, despite her graceful curves, has never quite filled the spot of my garlicked drunkard.

When I do manage to arrive at a client’s door, the exchange that follows can be quite fascinating.  It’s not often we invite strangers into the heart of our homes in the way we do deliverymen.  Understandably, new clients are often put on edge by this foreign presence; the exchange of goods and payment tends to be clumsy and inefficient as the deliverer tries to help without imposing himself, and the client tries to receive help without losing control.  With practice, however, these exchanges can become quite beautiful².  After weeks of rehearsal, each party has matured into his role and the client-livreur relationship flourishes.  The exchange of goods for a pre-prepared cheque becomes almost balletic in its efficiency; there’s one client who each week I see for 15 seconds before I am once again on my way.  But, for every ying there is a yang.  For every super-efficient client I have the pleasure of working with, there is an equally inefficient client who, week-in week-out, makes me contemplate suicide.  Or, at least, homicide.  Some clients like nothing better than to play hide and seek with their chequebook.  Others believe that I am out to short-change them, and so are careful to count every last sprig of thyme before paying.  No, Madame, of course I don’t mind you weighing your box of watercress.  Really, Madame?  There’s 500g?  Goodness!  That’s exactly the amount you ordered, you say? Well isn’t that a stroke of bloody luck?

It’s always important to respect the professional nature of a client-deliverer relationship, especially in France, where professionalism is a cult.  Children, however, often do not share this passion with their parents.  On one occasion, I was thanking a lady for her continued custom when her four year old daughter beamed at me: “Would Monsieur like to sit down and have a cup of tea with us?”  I saw her mother’s eyes fill first with amusement at the prospect of a delivery boy coming round for tea, and then with marked panic, as she remembered that this delivery boy was English and might well take up the offer.  Unfortunately, I was running behind, and so had to decline.  On a different occasion, a young boy plucked up the courage to offer me a carton of juice as I unloaded the artichokes onto the kitchen table.  Again not wanting to impose, I politely declined.  From the hurt in that boy's eyes you'd have thought I'd just shot the family pet, not turned down a Fruit Shoot.  Indeed, he was so scarred by my attempt at professionalism that he no longer acknowledges my presence on a Wednesday evening.  It would seem that the French nation’s professionalism is born of nurture and not nature.

So there you have it; my daily bread.  Granted, it's more white-sliced than organic-granary, but it strengthens the heart nevertheless.         

   

                                                                                                                                                                   

1. A heartfelt Hail Mary followed by a decade of ‘Drive on the right, or you will die’ tends to do the trick.
2. Beautiful for a delivery-connoisseur, that is, much as a bacterium might be beautiful to a molecular biologist, or a well cleaned toilet to a toilet attendant.  I’m afraid it’s almost certain you wouldn’t find my deliveries beautiful.    

The Monastery

At precisely 2.15pm on 30^th June 2013 I found myself standing alone on the front deck of a Wightlink ferry as it pulled into Fishbourne Port, the Isle of Wight.  I had come to begin my gap year in earnest by spending 60 days in a Roman Catholic monastery.  Standing on that deck I tried to recall what had prompted me to apply for a ‘monastic internship’ at Quarr Abbey in the first place, but the exercise proved fruitless.  Doubt and regret were setting in.  What’s more, the whole docking had an ominous waft of Saving Private Ryan about it; perhaps I’d be gunned down by the Guestmaster or garrotted by a Postulant in the bloody shadows of the Solent, before reaching dry land.

The life of an intern would be like that of a monk in all but vows, habit, and tonsure.  The programme had been designed by the Benedictine community to provide young men not wishing to be monks, and who were not necessarily even Catholic, with an opportunity to construct sturdy foundations for future life.  I’d recently been emailed a daily timetable¹ which differed considerably from that of my typical summer vacation².  The whole affair was attractive in theory, and yet I feared its practice would prove repugnant.  

Well, I live to tell the tale, and whilst I won’t claim to have found Jesus in the vegetable patch, I will say that it was one of the best experiences of my life.  Here are some of the reasons why.

Silence

It turns out that monastic communities are quite big on ‘silence’.  Every night the 'great silence' began at the close of Compline and continued through until the celebration of Mass the following day.  We quickly learned that this silence was ‘great’ not so much in the ‘This is so much fun!! #lovin’summer2k13’ sort of way, and more in the ‘This is an extremely solemn undertaking that is not to be broken by any extra-liturgical chit-chat whatsoever’ sort of way.  It was therefore with more than a little trepidation that I approached a breakfasting monk one morning, feeling obliged to inform him that the monastery’s fence had been successfully negotiated by an entire herd of cows, which was now making its way steadily towards the Pilgrim Chapel.  He did not berate me for my impiety, but simply replied “Yes, that happens” before returning to his cornflakes, and to his silence. 

Outside 'the great silence', conversation was permitted neither at lunch nor at dinner.  As you might imagine, silent meals are, at first, excruciatingly awkward.  You feel all eyes to be watching your every mouthful, and you become painfully aware of just how noisily you chew.  Crudités were the stuff of the devil.  Whilst the set readings from The Rule and The Life of Saint Benedict might have helped to mask the mastication, they also introduced another, far more deadly, pitfall: the giggles.  One evening, we listened to an account of how the boy Benedict had made explode a water jar with a sign of the cross.  It’s safe to say that we interns did not meet one another’s eye for the remainder of that meal.

My relationship with silence changed over the two months for several reasons.  Firstly, I settled in, and realised the brethren were not at all interested in eating habits (pun intended).  Secondly, because we interns became accustomed to The Life of Saint Benedict (we hardly even looked up when the dragon arrived).  Thirdly, because silence began to gain a depth previously unknown.  The sight of habited monks, shrouded in silence, as they pass from shadow into light under the rising sun is something I could watch for eternity.  Only the Cantor could incense what was with his words. Lord, open my lips.  And my mouth will proclaim your praise.  These men were living a daily resurrection, and it was beautiful.

Silence was also liberating.  Conversation was no longer forced, and I could just be, enjoying the simple presence of others.  During the internship I took over 100 silent meals sitting next to the same monk.  Despite our mutual silence, I feel we got to know one another (I’ve heard similar stories about commuters who enjoy unspoken friendships on the way to work).  Silence was allowing these men to live out ordinary life on an extraordinary plane.

Minutiae

With so much time spent in the same routine, one’s attention inevitably turns to minutiae.  My former self was known to praise all these little things, but alas, this is All These Little Things- Round 2: Little Things That Make Me Want To Kill Myself.  Essentially, when you leave behind life’s more major worries (relationships, exams, money), some of the little things of everyday life really start to get on your tits.  I found myself getting irritated if a priest were to repeatedly use a fractionally-longer version of the Eucharistic prayer at Mass.  Whilst sweeping the cloister, I was really quite angry to see that the wind had retraced my steps in dust.  And no amount of ‘mood-lighting’ could have calmed my nerves after finding that a greasy film had formed on top of my first brew of the day.  I knew full well that this was all very silly, that none of it mattered, and yet, when in the confines of a monastery, perspective slips through your grasping fingers. 

So why was this a good experience?  Because I started to see how easily I could morph from being perfectly happy to being in a foul mood; I started to see just how enslaved I was to emotion; and I started to realise that I didn’t want to live like that.  The monastery is a perfect environment for implementing personal change.  When you find that a greasy film has formed on your cup of tea, you make a wilful effort to stay calm, and to control the irrational voice in your head that’s telling you to upturn it over Brother Simon.  And if you should fail, that’s ok, because you can try again tomorrow, and Brother Simon will have been given an exercise in patience.  I am certainly not saying that self-mastery was a fruit of my internship, but I am more aware of what’s going on within.  I imagine that after a lifetime of monastic internal war waging, the battles fought are less those of tea and dust, and more those of life and God.

Otherness

There was one episode in particular when monastic ‘otherness’ hung heavy in the air.  We interns had gone to St Cecelia’s Abbey to meet a real life nun belonging to a real life contemplative religious community.  Think Sister Act, pre-Whoopi.  It was with some apprehension that we were led by a laywoman into one of the Abbey’s meeting chambers.  This apprehension was considerably heightened when we were greeted by a set of sturdy iron bars running from one side of the room to the other, separating us from an empty chair.  We took our seats and waited.  One of us was trying to break the tension by musing on how best to fabricate a ‘Do Not Feed The Nuns’ sign, when suddenly a door beyond the bars opened, and in she came.  She was every bit a Bride of Christ.  

Her eyes beamed at us from her night-black habit as she shook each of our hands in turn through the grill.  And so we sat and talked and laughed.  It was surreal.  Here we were, laughing with a woman who would never step beyond these bars again.  What’s more, we interns were sipping tea and nibbling biscuits, neither of which had been provided for the Sister.  At first, I thought myself a captor, teasing his captive with the fruits of freedom.  But then I realised that the fire in her eyes was not Hobnob-hunger.  It was joy.  I don’t mean a vacuous joy, nor do I mean hysterical happiness; but here was a woman who would never again leave the Abbey, who had absolutely nothing to her name, who did little else each day than work and pray, and yet she seemed to be more alive than I was.  She was no captive, and I, no captor.  She was free in the fullest sense. 

God

For an article on monastic life I haven’t said much about God, nor do I intend to as it ain’t that kind of blog.  What I will say is that when you lead a monastic routine, even for two months, it’s no longer possible to hide spiritual laziness behind business; many preconceived notions about God and religion (be they orthodox, or less so) are obliged to change; and questions which are normally appeased by Facebook and chocolate might just emerge to look you in the eye.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fully articulate what I lived at Quarr, nor do I feel the need to.  I’m just extremely grateful to have been afforded time with these men as they try to live heaven on earth.  

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I am, of course, indebted to the community of Quarr Abbey, as well as to Nathan, Laurie, and Tommy, who were my fellow interns.

1.

5.30am          Vigils (Service)

6.15am           Breakfast

7am                 Lauds (Service)

9am                Mass

10am              Outdoor Work

12pm              Lecture

1pm                Terce (Service)

1.15pm           Lunch

2pm                Tea-Time

2.30pm          Outdoor Work

4.30pm          Tea-Time

5pm                Vespers (Service)

7pm                Dinner

8pm                Compline (Service)

8.15pm           The Great Silence

2.

11.30am          Brunch

12.30pm         Loose Women

7pm                 Dinner

12am               Bed

Avoir, Aura, Eu...

I learnt a lot in A-level French.  Indeed, the vast majority of that which has left my mouth and pen over the past two months has, in some way or other, been forged by the skilled smiths of Greenhead’s MFL department.  I remember well the hours of ferocious argument beaten out in one of the college’s many priest-hole conversation labs: was it possible for a state to remain truly multi-cultural whilst imposing a litany of secular sanctions?  Was nuclear waste a price worth paying for reliable energy production?  Was Camus using Meursault to condemn human nature or just social convention?  A-level prepared me to hold my own in a handful of dinner party staples.  ‘Fluency’, however, was (and is) an elusive beast yet to be poached; judging by my efforts over the past few weeks, its head shall not be mounted over my fireplace for quite some time.

Occasionally, it’s what you say that creates the problem.  Every language has a few little pitfalls lying in wait for unsuspecting foreigners.  French, however, seemingly harbours more pits than did Barnsley pre-Thatcher.  Around every corner is lurking an imperfect subjunctive or a MRS VANDERTRAMP in disguise.  Usually, tumbling into such a pit is forgivable, or even endearing, but some pits are best avoided.

I was walking back from Carrefour with a housemate, feeling particularly pleased with myself as I’d just managed to find a sizey chunk of camembert for an absolute steal.  On our way we passed two men who were in the process of greeting one-another, each by kissing the other on the cheek.  I was intrigued; what had happened to the ‘shake for him, kiss for her’ mantra I had so piously practised?  I wanted to know more, and quickly began to formulate a question to pose to my housemate.  Little did I know that the noun ‘un baiser’ (a kiss) could not simply be ‘verbified’ as can so many other nouns, ‘se baiser’ meaning something rather different indeed…

“Were those two men just fucking each other?”  I asked with innocent intrigue.  

My housemate turned to me wide-eyed.

“No, no, I don’t think they were” she said.

Lesson learned (s’embrasser, for those interested).

Sometimes it’s your silence that creates the problem.  I was sitting in the secretary’s office at the theological institute where I had just managed to introduce myself, explain that I was looking to enrol, and agreed to meet the Directrice.  The secretary (a middle-aged French lady) re-entered the room, assured me that the Directrice would see me in a few minutes, and took a seat facing me.  She smiled.  I smiled back.  Silence descended.  And time stopped.  I had the distinct impression that I’d fallen into an episode of Bernard’s Watch.  Panic mounted when I realised that she intended to hold this harrowing truce till the appearance of the Directrice. I willed her with my all to turn back to her work.  Ignore me!  My mind screamed.  Please stop being so bloody attentive!  I could not break the stalemate.  I had little to say, and less language with which to say it.  I could not look away.  The abyss deepened.  And then finally, she spoke.

“What’s this thing about Ireland?”

“Pardon?”

“Ireland.  Why do they all hate each other?”

“Right…”  I hadn't misheard.  This French lady was asking me, a deaf-mute with all the eloquence of an aubergine, to explain four centuries of Irish history.  Was this the European idea of smalltalk?  What was next; Rwanda perhaps?  And just as I wondered how to translate ‘Plantation Protestant’, the Directrice entered, and I nearly hugged her.

And so you see, a foreigner cannot win.  Speaking too much results in his injury by linguistic landmines, whilst keeping quiet leads him into the jaws of a hellish silence, or worse, rends him vulnerable to an unsavoury interrogation.  So there is nothing else for it; I will spend the remainder of my year uttering incomprehensible French noises à la GCSE Oral exam.  Thank God I studied French, eh?

Beginnings

My arrival in France was not the stuff of a Richard Curtis film.  There was no mood music; no charmingly awkward exchange with the Passport Control Officer; no voice-over.  Bill Nighy was nowhere to be seen.  It was more the stuff of an Airport: Liverpool episode; a hurried dash to the baggage carousel, a near miss of one’s baggage on said carousel, and then, of course, the obligatory ‘Man versus Bulk’ wrestle.  This less-than-holy ritual was however interrupted by the approach of two strangers, both of whom were smiling widely.  At me.  Now, I was in no mood for humouring nutters (Bulk had most definitely taken the upper hand by this point), and so I decided to unleash some mildly discouraging glances in their direction.  They persisted.  As I prepared to initiate more vigorous evasion tactics, the strangers revealed a beautiful sign, which read: “Bienvenue Dominic” and bore the images of a baguette, a bottle of red, the Tricolour, and what would seem to be one of those hallucinogenic frogs.  These were no nutters; they were my housemates.

Two weeks have now passed since that fateful meeting, and I certainly feel to have landed on my feet.  I’ll be spending the year living in a student house run by the Bordeaux University Catholic Chaplaincy alongside eight French students of a similar age and outlook.  Without getting too ‘European’ about it, I was very touched indeed by the lengths to which they went to make me feel welcome, and I very much look forward to getting to know each of them better over the course of the year.

Regardless of how much help and support is available, the start of a year abroad inevitably has the taste of starting life from scratch.  The little jobs that completed themselves effortlessly over several years in the Old Life must be executed simultaneously and without delay in the New: bank accounts opened, libraries joined, phone contracts bought, and jobs found.  This tabula rasa brings with it much stress, and yet it also bears a breath of fresh air.  A new, albeit temporary, life can be built using the blueprint of past experience, the bricks of new opportunity, and the mortar of gritty determination (I’m really sorry for that metaphor; I assure you that I am trying to cut down). 

One of the largest New Life hurdles that I’ve faced over the past two weeks, second only to the atrocity that is French ‘tea’¹, is language.  La langue Française is, of course, unutterably beautiful, with an emphasis on the ‘unutterable’ part in my case.  It would however seem that every Frenchman in existence has an awful lot to say and very little time in which to say it.  Indeed, being given directions can feel a bit like coming under a hail of machine-gun fire which does not stop until you admit defeat.  Or die. Still, by using a melange of spoken and gestured French, it is quite possible to get by. 

The importance of this second linguistic mode, that is, gesturing, must not be underestimated: it’s common knowledge that non-verbal messages make up a substantial chunk of inter-personal communication, particularly when the spoken word is restricted.  It is for this very reason that I have come to sincerely fear my telephone.  I really, really hate it.  This phobia has undoubtedly been worsened by my first experience of French phone etiquette.  I was deep within the heart of the library, feeling pretty pleased with myself as I had just managed to enrol without serious accident or injury.  As I filled my hands with Teilhard de Chardin and L’Évangile de Saint Jean, my pocket began to vibrate.  Oh God, please, no.  Having managed to liberate phone from pocket it was with horror that I recognised the French landline ID on the screen.  Please, please, no.  I had sent my CV to various companies earlier that week in search of work, and I really couldn’t afford to miss this call.  Simultaneously, I was acutely aware of two-dozen pairs of eyes already boring into my back, already hating me for my Laura Marling ringtone (yes, yes, I know, not cool).  Well, thought I, he who dares wins, and I lifted the phone to my ear. Below is a rough translation of what was said:

Me: Hello?

Caller: Hello, is that Mr Dominic Ballard?

Me: Hello?

Caller: Hello Mr Ballard, I’m calling from La Boulangerie (not the real name).  We received your CV a couple of days ago and would like to speak to you a little bit more about the possibility of you working with us.

Me: (slow, strained whisper) I am at the library.

Caller: I’m sorry?

Me: (slow, strained whisper) I am at the library.

Caller: Right…

(Slightly awkward pause)

Me: I cannot hear you very good.

Caller: (louder) It’s Le Boulangerie, the delivery business.  We’d like to invite you for an interview.

Me: My hands are filled with books.  Lots of books.  I cannot write it any more.  Could you send me a address for the meeting, please sir?

Caller:  Yes, of course. 

Me:  Thank you, sir.  That would be well appreciated.  I am sorry.

Caller: Right; so I’ll see you Friday morning for the interview, and I’ll send you more details by email.

Me: Very good.  Thank you, sir.  I am sorry.

Caller: Goodbye.

Me: I am sorry.

And so ended one of the most painful experiences of my life.  I looked around, and behold: the librarian, having heard my end of the conversation, was staring at me with disbelief.  I lowered my head, I took my books, and I left.        

These two weeks have been those of new beginnings, and new beginnings tend to be bitter-sweet.  I do not yet know what fruit these days will bear, but what I do know is that the adventure is begun. 

And that I got the job.

                                                                       

1. Anonymous desiccated leaf in a bag does not, and never will, constitute tea.  Furthermore, there is absolutely no rational explanation for the ‘tassels’ that appear on European teabags; they snap when used for ‘wringing out’, and, more often than not, panic at the climatic point of tea making, thus following the boiling water into the cup’s basin.  Their only fruit is a mix of soggy cardboard, sodden string, tainted tea, and scalding of both a physical and vocal nature.  Get your act together, France.