As recalled by Rye nonagenarian
Charles de Salis
Soon after my wife and I moved to Rye in 1980, I took over a French conversation class at the Further Education Centre. At the first lesson, the students told me about Mrs. Michell, an old lady in her nineties who normally attended the class, but was in hospital, having broken her pelvis. She spoke fluent French, and her attendance at the class had always been, the students felt, the highlight of her week.
She lived quite close to us, at No. 8 Mermaid Street, one of the cottages opposite the Mermaid Inn. When I heard that she had been discharged from hospital, I decided to call on her with greeting from her fellow students. She gave me a great welcome, lamenting however that she was no longer strong enough to come to the classes, so it was agreed that I should visit her from time to time for a chat in French.
Soon it became a fixture that at 5 o’clock every Thursday afternoon I should call on this little old lady and talk French with her in her charming front room facing Mermaid Street. After a little general conversation, she would announce: “I have written you a story about my youth, shall I read it to you?” I was supposed to believe that each story had been written expressly for me, but I realised that these narratives, in good but not perfect French, had been composed originally for the conversation class. No matter – they were new to me and I soon found them most rewarding. Here are four that have stood out in my memory.
The first must have taken place around 1908 when she was about 18. It was summer and she and a group of friends of her own age hatched a wonderful plan: they would spend a week together at a hotel on the Belgian coast. Parental permission was, with some difficulty, obtained; before she left, her mother took her aside and gave her three gold sovereigns which she was to hang round her neck and which were only to be used in case of an emergency. The party left from London on a passenger steamer which took them down the estuary and across to Ostend. The week was an enormous success: they swam by day and each evening there was a band to which they danced. But when they gathered for dinner on the last night, one young man was missing, and by the time dinner was over, they realised, that they would have to make inquiries with the police. At the police station, they were told: yes, they knew about him, in fact they had taken him into custody. His crime: he had bathed in the sea after dark. Although decently clad, he had broken the regulation that forbade night bathing. The English party pleaded for his release, but in vain: he must spend the night in the cell and be taken to court in the morning. The narrator then said “I know what I must do.” She retired to a corner, fished in her corsage and produced the three sovereigns, for which the police were happy to release the young culprit without further ado.
In the next episode we see Mr. and Mrs. Michell as a young couple: he is on holiday from his job in the Bank of England. It is the 4th of August 1914. They live near Westerham in Kent. He is captain of the local cricket team and a match is in progress on the village green. As the match draws toward its close, Mrs. Michell slips away to prepare tea for the two teams, which is to be in their house. As she walks along the lane she meets a boy on a red bicycle. He calls out to her: “We are at war with Germany!” She reaches home, prepares tea, and the teams arrive, sobered by the news, they discuss what regiments they will join….
The third story takes place not long after, and the scene is the Bank of England. The French Government has decided that the Bank of France gold reserves are in danger, and the Bank of England has agreed to house them. Escorted by a destroyer, they reach England and are driven to the back entrance of the Bank, where it has been arranged that a group of detectives disguised as roadmen shall protect the transfer into the building. When this has been safely achieved, and all the formalities finished, the French accompanying officials are able to leave, this time by the main entrance. At this period of the war, a number of well-meaning ladies have conceived the idea of supporting the recruitment drive by waylaying civilian males and putting a white feather into their lapels, as a symbol of cowardice. As the Frenchmen are unaware of this practice or its symbolism. They are delighted! “Mais c’est charmant! Merci Madame!” they cry proudly, and sport their “decorations” on their walk through London.
The last story is from the Second World War. It is 1940, at the time of the evacuation from Dunkirk. Mrs. Michell wishes to take a train from Waterloo Station. She comes into that vast concourse, and finds to her amazement that it is crowded with exhausted soldiers, mostly asleep. To reach her train she must pick her way through and over the bodies. Suddenly, she hears the song of a canary, and then sees it in its cage beside a sleeping soldier.
“I knew immediately what had happened” she says. “I could see it all, that soldier had stumbled through a ruined French village on his way to Dunkirk.” He heard the bird singing in its cage precariously hanging on an abandoned house. ‘I’ll take it home to me mum’, he said -and so he did.
These are slight little stories, but they have an evocative quality, like an old snapshot, which I find very moving.
Mrs. Michell left No.8 for a nursing home near Westerham. When she died she left me a picture in memory of our sessions together. It was by her artist grandson, and was called “The Secret Garden”, I treasure it!
From the June 2002 issue of “Rye’s Own”
All articles, photographs and drawings on this web site are World Copyright Protected. No reproduction for publication without prior arrangement. © World Copyright 2015 Cinque Ports Magazines Rye Ltd., Guinea Hall Lodge Sellindge TN25 6EG
“I knew immediately what had happened” she says. “I could see it all, that soldier had stumbled through a ruined French village on his way to Dunkirk.” He heard the bird singing in its cage precariously hanging on an abandoned house. ‘I’ll take it home to me mum’, he said -and so he did.
These are slight little stories, but they have an evocative quality, like an old snapshot, which I find very moving.
Mrs. Michell left No.8 for a nursing home near Westerham. When she died she left me a picture in memory of our sessions together. It was by her artist grandson, and was called “The Secret Garden”, I treasure it!
From the June 2002 issue of “Rye’s Own”
All articles, photographs and drawings on this web site are World Copyright Protected. No reproduction for publication without prior arrangement. © World Copyright 2015 Cinque Ports Magazines Rye Ltd., Guinea Hall Lodge Sellindge TN25 6EG