The Death of The Impossibly Old Farmer

The most surprising thing, you know, was the silence. The loneliness. I don't know why. But you expect noise, activity, help? However, there was no-one and nothing; only beautiful, peaceful, lonely, silence. A chicken clucked gently as it passed by, before pecking unconvincingly at some grain which that morning, had been placed dutifully for her in a bucket. It was 5:45pm. Birds were singing. The sun was setting in the distance. The meadow looked absolutely stunning.

"Kill me..." the old man said. "I beg you. Finish this....Please kill me..."

And he fucking meant it.

And so I did, I'd knock the same knock, walk through his little hallway, past his boots, past the many huge straw clad bottles of home made Pineau, of which he himself would drink very little, past his bike, his smart shoes with quick-fix insoles cut out of cereal boxes. There would also, usually be some sort of gathered produce, (potatoes, walnuts, apples, or sometimes cherries.) Then through a door and into the kitchen. I say kitchen, but in fact it was more than that. It was his entire living space. It had a round dining table, a stove –un poêle– with a horribly ugly pipe coming from it, slicing through the room just above head height, to the chimney. He loved his poêle. It terrified me.

There were photographs of very stern looking people placed randomly about the room. His family. Each one of them had a story and occasionally they would be changed, and a new member of the family, with an equally fascinating tale and an equally hard expression, would have their turn to be on show. One picture never moved. A picture of his mother.

He also loved newspapers (He never threw them away) and calendars, I suppose when you have no family, few friends and therefore no company, calendars become your friend. A series of landmarks. When you are an I.O.F, and time is all you have left, I guess calendars are a perfect and constant reminder of the past, present and ever diminishing future.

He had 14 of them in his living room. All different years

So. Into his house I'd go. He was always pleased to see me; well, not always; very occasionally it was clear I'd upset him. He never said why, or what I'd done, but he made it very clear.

I'd ask him outright, "Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" But it was always the same response: "Ah!" he'd say with a shrug and he'd raise a mysterious finger. I knew I'd never find out.

I never did find out.

But usually, I was welcomed with a broad toothless grin. A lovely grin. He had a kind face, with twinkly eyes, intelligent eyes. When he smiled, his face lit up.

On the sideboard was a tiny old photograph of another young man. We had always been drawn to it. It didn't take long to realise who it was, and although there was a sadness in his face,The I.O.F had been a very handsome man in his youth.

He would pull up a chair, subconsciously adjust his flat cap- (which was permanently on his head), Then, without saying a word, he'd shuffle off to his cupboard, get two small tumblers, place them carefully on the table. Then shuffle off to the fridge and get an unmarked bottle of home made Pineau. He'd pop the cork... and then it would hit you... The smell... Not from the bottle, but a 30 second delay of nasal horror from the fridge it had come from... a heady combination of old fridge, old goat's cheese and charcuterie.

He would pour himself a splash, taste it, pull a face that let me know he was considering the flavour, then his face would change and let me know that the drink was good. Every time. The same bottle. The same drink. The same ritual. The same expression. And I fucking loved it.

It sounds stupid now as I read it, but I felt, well, French, For the first time since I moved here. I wasn't just a spectator, a tourist, I was part of this man and his life, this old French peasant. ("Paysan" is NOT AN INSULT. He was a proud countryman.) It reminded me of my own French grandfather who I realise, I miss very much, and memories of him and his solitary lifestyle came flooding back. I was immersed, and like I say. I fucking loved it.