Rue du Cheval Vert, Montpeller, Mid 1990s
Buoyed and encouraged by some good Sunday puces (markets), I decide to open a bookshop in Montpellier. There is already an English bookshop but they do not sell second-hand books.
Anne and I scour the city for locations and plump for a road (rue du Cheval Vert) near to a cinema, which screens American and English language films. By chance, the building at No. 3 in the road is where Napoleon’s father met his maker. It says so on the plaque outside.
‘Ici est mort le 24 Fevrier 1785 Charles Bonaparte père de Napoléon 1er.’ Customers, thinking it somehow fitting for un britannique to set up shop here, occasionally allude to the plaque. Some even think that it accounts for the shop’s location.
We jump through all the hoops: applying for a Carte de Sejour, registering with Montpellier’s Chamber of Commerce, signing up to ‘les charges sociales’. We discover, to our dismay, that the social security contributions expected from a small business are much higher in France than in the UK.
The landlords are baffled by my business plan but willing to sign a 3-6-9 lease, which means I am responsible for paying the shop’s rent for three years, after which I can renew or choose to leave. It’s quite a responsibility because the lease is in my name. I am trading not as a limited company (SARL), but as a sole trader because it is easier to set up and makes for less complicated accounting. So I am told.
And then it’s all go. Decoration. Assembling of shelves. Thinking of a name.
A friend suggests ‘Leaves of Grass’, which has a provocative appeal. Bill’s Book Company is another suggestion. I would like to be associated with the cultured brand of the BBC. I chicken out from using their logo but hope that people will make the connection with the initials. BBC — Bill’s Book Company.
A sign is made and then fastened above the shop of modest proportions. To attract the attention of ex-pats we stick jars of Marmite and a Paddington Bear in the window. The Penguin rep is sceptical of my decision to mix some new books with second-hand but she is won over on her first visit. The opening day is also a success, family and friends helping to make it so. Some customers even become good friends, lending support. In addition to making a pavement sign, bass guitarist Beach applies his artistic talents to designing flyers. The novelty of English second-hand books sees me through the opening months. But then we enter the summer months, long hot ones. Compensating a little for the students’ and locals’ annual desertion, the tourist trade ensures survival. And I’m pleased to soon feature in some of the budget guidebooks to France.
Let’s Go 1995
Bills Book Company (BBC) 9 rue du Cheval Vert (teclass="underline" 67 22 79 09), off pl. St. Denis. Diverse and exciting collection of literary bijoux. Some new, but mostly second-hand paperbacks (9–20F) Bill the British proprietor, is always up for tea and a chat. Open Mon-Fri 9.30am–12.30pm and 2.30–6.30 pm, Sat. 9.30am–6.30pm’
Not that I’m fighting the hoards away. In August few people visit the shop. I call this time of the year ‘The Burial of Hope for the Bookseller’.
The inactivity leads to idle speculation on money spinning ventures. I have a recurring fantasy set in a village near Millau (where Derek Raymond laboured in between the writing his Factory series). We occupy the bar terraces in the shade of the square afforded by the plane trees. We marvel at the sunny weather and enthuse about the red wines. We eat, drink and love excessively and what with our novel amounts of leisure, a mood of hedonism prevails for the duration of the holiday. We pretend to compensate for this indulgence by undertaking modest walks in the soporific heat. And of course we get touristy kicks from accomplishing simple everyday tasks, the foreign language negating the banality one normally associates with the daily chores such as a trip to the bakers.
We meet the village’s mayor and self-appointed local historian.
‘Oh yes, it had been an important spot once. Talagout was the market town of the valley, with three hundred and thirty three houses to be exact, and a dream of a church. I remember crying the day, in 1955, they drowned it all,’ he says breathlessly. The lake was later leased out to a water company but the land and the reservoir itself remained state owned. So they didn’t just flog them off like ours back home.
A notaire had grouped together all the houses for the sale. And the French State had forced L’Arnack, being the nearest village, into making the purchase. Financial compensation was dispensed to the inhabitants of Talagout, a sum of money still hotly disputed. L’Arnack’s mayor hadn’t wanted to buy the village for fear of appearing to condone the scheme, but the Government had forced his hand.
‘Whenever a property is put on sale in France, the town council always has first option to buy. It prevents ludicrously low bids,’ he explains. We are amazed to hear of such municipal power.
‘In Britain the mayor is traditionally one of the more ineffectual councillors who get worked up over bottle banks and parking meters. They carry little clout, their post being basically an honorary one.’ Following an explanation of the word clout, the discussion develops with the mayor striving to impress upon his listeners the magnitude of his legal clout.
‘In the strictest terms of the mayor’s mandate, you could sell Talagout then,’ we deduce with mischievous glee. At that moment a transaction becomes a possibility. ‘The village fête is in two days time. Let’s make its sale the central event,’ exclaims the by now grandiloquent mayor.
It rests on a roll of the dice. The old mayor is giggling uncontrollably, aware that a five is going to be difficult to beat. The pastis, council subsidised for the village fête, has robbed him of any residual air of municipal dignity he might once have possessed. The aniseed liquor heightens further the crazy notion of the ‘old village’ being at stake. ‘A three,’ he excitedly declares amid the approving roars of the revellers. We both search our pockets for the one franc needed, egged on by a drunken crowd. The ‘old village’ is ours. The mayor, reckless with age and alcohol, retrieves the deeds. And with the official stamp of the Mairie, Talagout village is sold to us for ‘le franc symbolique’.
Two days later the mayor has sobered. He isn’t sure of the exact legal position but he reasons it pretty academic. The sale might even generate publicity for the region, which owes its prosperity as much to tourism as it does to the grape. It might also help their recently hatched project to twin the town, I suggest. ‘Entente cordiale and all that.’
I get down to a new business. Estate Agency.
A GREAT EUROPEAN PROPERTY DEAL: 333 house village in South of France for sale. Extensive renovation work required. Derelict since 1955. Lovely surrounding vineyards in hilly countryside. Exceptionally humid climate. Consult us.
By the last week of August, I am convinced that my fortune lies in writing a spoof detective novel that breaks all the rules as laid down by Father Knox. I discover, in a pamphlet on the crime fiction genre written by Julian Symons, that in 1929 the clergyman produced a list of the ten Commandments of Detective Fiction. They are as follows:
1 The detective must be mentioned early on
2 Supernatural solutions are ruled out
3 Only one secret room or passage is allowed
4 No undiscovered poisons are permitted