Chapter 7 Vocation
The car's engine had been rattling for two miles.When it finally dies, I find the car is up a steep, winding hill.I pray to the gods of Ireland: don't trap me in this place, don't leave me in this desolate and beautiful French countryside.
Beside me my wife, Bernadette, looked at me in horror.I leaned over the steering wheel and put my foot on the gas, trying to revive this dying machine.Apparently something was wrong with something under the front cover, and I must be the dumbest person in the world for a technical job like this.
The vintage Triumph Mayflower had just climbed the hill and finally died on top of the hill after a few gasps.I turned off the ignition, put on the handbrake, and got out of the car; Bernadette got out too.We overlooked the other side of the hill, where a country road led down into a valley.
There was no denying the beauty of that summer evening in the early fifties.At that time, this part of the Dordogne was completely undiscovered—at least not by the hipsters.This is a rural area of France that has remained virtually unchanged for hundreds of years.No factory chimneys or transmission pylons jutting into the sky, no freeway scars left in the verdant valleys.Small villages are perched on either side of the narrow lanes, and the villagers make a living by farming, harvesting crops on squeaky wooden carts pulled by two oxen.That summer, Bernadette and I decided to take a trip here in our classic car, our first holiday abroad – the first time outside of Ireland or even England.
I took a traffic map from the car and studied it, pointing to a point north of the Dordogne valley.
"I think...we should be here," I said.
Bernadette stared down the road ahead of us. "There's a village ahead," she said.
I followed her gaze: "That's right."
Through the bushes one could see the steeple of the church, and the roofs of the barn.I glanced hesitantly at the car and the hill.
"We might get there without the power of the engine," I said, "but not far."
"That's better than being stuck here all night," said the wife.
We get back in the car.I shifted into neutral, released the clutch all the way, and put the handbrake down.Mayflower began to slide forward slowly, and then gradually accelerated.In an eerie silence we glided down the hill, towards the church steeple in the distance.
The effect of gravity brought us to the entrance of the village, which turned out to be a small village with more than 20 families.The inertia of the car brought us again into the middle of the village street, and then stopped.Dusk was starting to fall as we got out of the car.
The streets were empty.A lone chicken was grazing in the dust against the wall of a large brick barn, where two large hay wagons were abandoned, their shafts on the ground and their owners missing.Just as I made up my mind to knock on a closed door and try to explain my predicament in my broken French, a lone figure appeared from behind the church a hundred yards away and walked towards us. come over.
As he approached, I could see that he was the priest of the village.In those days they still wore long black cassocks with belts and wide-brimmed caps.I searched for a phrase in French to greet him, but I couldn't find it.When he came to us, I called out in English: "Father."
Anyway, this greeting is enough.He stopped and smiled inquiringly.I pointed to my car and he smiled wider and nodded as if to say "nice car".How to explain to him that I am not a proud car owner showing off my beautiful car, but a tourist whose car broke down?
Latin, I thought.He was old, but he must have remembered some Latin he had learned in school.But what Latin do I speak?I racked my brains.The Christian Brothers had spent a few years teaching me Latin, but aside from the word "Mass," I had never used Latin.There is also no statement in the prayer book about the failure of the Triumph car.
I point to the hood of the car.
"Currus meus fractus est." I told him in Latin.The exact meaning of the words was: "My carriage is broken." But the expression seemed to have an effect, and his round face brightened.
"Ah, est fractus currus teus, filius meus?" he repeated.
"In veritate, pater meus." I told him.He thought for a while, then motioned for us to wait here for him.He quickened his pace and hurried back, entering a house.When I passed there later, I found that it was the village cafe, apparently the center of life in the village.I should have thought of that.
A few minutes later he appeared, accompanied by a large man in blue canvas trousers, a typical French peasant undershirt, and canvas shoes, plodding toward me in the dust. Come, the priest beside him walked briskly.
When they came to us, the priest spoke French quickly, gesticulating the car and pointing to the road ahead and behind.I get the feeling he's telling his followers: This car can't be stuck in traffic all night.The farmer nodded silently and walked away.Now the pastor, Bernadette, and I were left standing alone by the car.Bernadette walked over and sat quietly on the side of the road.
Sometimes people have to wait for something to happen while dealing with someone who doesn't speak the language and can't communicate.Only people who have been through this kind of thing will understand the situation we were in.I nodded and smiled; he nodded and smiled too.We all nodded and smiled.Finally, he broke the silence.
"English?" he asked in French, pointing to Bernadette and me.I shook my head patiently.Historically, the Irish have often been mistaken for the English.
"Irish," I said, hoping I had said enough.His face brightened.
"Oh, Dutchman," he said.I shook my head again and took his arm to the back of the car.On the sign attached to the side of the rear of the car, there are three letters of Ireland written in black on a white background: IRL.He smiled, as if facing a babbling child.
"Irish?" I nodded and smiled. "Ireland?" I smiled and nodded again. "Part of England," he said.I sighed.There are some things that are really arguable, and besides, it is not the right time and place to explain to this kind priest. In a way, thanks to the sacrifice of Bernadette's father and uncle, Ireland has not become part of England.
That's when the farmer appeared in an alley between flagstone-edged brick barns, perched high on an old rumbling tractor.In this world of oxen and horses and carts, this may be the only tractor in the village.Its engine sounded not much better than my Mayflower car before it stalled.It chugs into the street and pulls up in front of my car.
The farmer, in blue, connected my car to the hitch of the tractor with a strong rope.Then the priest motioned us to get in the car.Just like that, the priest walked beside us, and we were dragged forward by the tractor, turned around an intersection, and entered a yard.
In the deepening twilight, I saw that this was also a brick barn, with "Repair Shop" written on a chipped board.Apparently, the door is now locked and locked.The farmer took off my car tow rope and started packing.The priest pointed to his watch and the closed repair shop, indicating that the door would open at seven o'clock the next morning. At that time, the repairman could check the problems of the car.
"What do we do until then?" Bernadette whispered in my ear.In order to attract the priest's attention, I put my hands together on the side of my cheeks, and then tilted my head, using this internationally accepted gesture to indicate that we want to sleep.The priest understood.
The priest and the farmer began another quick exchange.I didn't understand a word, but the farmer was pointing with an arm up.I recognized the word "Press" which meant nothing to me, but I saw the priest nod in agreement.Then he turned to me and motioned for us to take off the luggage from the car, and stood on the rear pedal of the tractor, holding it tightly with his hands.
We did.The tractor drove out of the yard and onto the road.The kind priest waved us goodbye, and that was the last time we saw him.We stood side by side on the running boards of the tractor, and it felt so silly.I carried my overnight bag with overnight supplies in one hand and clung to the tractor with the other.
The silent driver took a road opposite the village, crossed a creek, and climbed a hill.Near the top he turned into a farmyard filled with summer dust and cow dung.He parked the tractor near the gate of the farmhouse and motioned us to get off.The engine was still running, making a loud noise.
The farmer approached the door and knocked.After a while, a middle-aged woman came out.She was short and wore an apron, silhouetted by the kerosene lamp behind her.The tractor driver pointed to us and said something to her, and she nodded.Satisfied, the driver returned to the tractor, pointed to the open door, and drove the tractor away.
When the two of them were talking just now, I looked around the farmyard with the last ray of skylight.This is a typical one of the many farm yards I have seen so far, with items piled east and west.The yard has dairy sheds, stables and stalls, and a wooden feed trough next to a hand pump.A flock of brown chickens was grazing on a large pile of manure.All of this looks weathered, unmodernized, and inefficient, but it is the millions of these traditional farmyards that form the backbone of the French agricultural economy.
Somewhere out of sight I heard the rhythmic up and down of the axe, the thump of the wood splitting, and the cracking of the wood.Someone is preparing firewood for the coming winter.At this time, the woman at the door summoned us to enter the house.
Inside there may be a living room, drawing room or lounge—whatever it is called—but we are brought to the heart of domestic life: the kitchen.It was a stone-paved room with a sink, a dining table, and two battered sofas by an open fire.There is also a hand pump next to the stone sink, indicating that the water is drawn from a well; lighting is by kerosene lamps.I put my luggage down.
The hostess looked lovely, with a round, apple-like face, gray hair pulled back in a bun, and weather-beaten hands.She wore a long gray dress and a white apron, and smiled and chirped like a bird.She introduced herself as Mrs. Price, and we gave her our first name, which was quite difficult for her to pronounce.Communication was obviously limited to more nods and smiles, but given our predicament an hour earlier on the mountain, I was so grateful to have a place to stay.
Mrs. Price motioned for Bernadette to go and see the room and wash up—a detail that clearly didn't matter to me.The two women took their luggage and went upstairs hand in hand.I went to the window, which was open and had a warm night breeze.Behind the window was another yard behind the house, where a carriage was parked among the weeds beside a wood shed.There was a fence around the perimeter of the shed, maybe six feet high.Inside the fence, a big ax fell one after another, and the sound of splitting wood continued.
Ten minutes later, Bernadette came downstairs.She scooped the cold water from the crock into a porcelain basin and washed her face, and she looked much better.Water splashed into the yard from the upper window, and that was the strange running sound I heard.I shrugged at her.
"A nice little room," she said.Mrs. Press, who was watching us, smiled.She was in a hurry, and she didn't understand anything except the tone of approval. "I hope," said Bernadette, with an equally cheerful smile, "that there won't be any bugs here."
I fear there might be.My wife is always bitten by insects like fleas and mosquitoes, which often make big bumps on her pale Celtic skin.Mrs. Press gestured for us to sit on the old sofa.We sat down and chatted while she went to work on the black cast-iron stove on the other side of the kitchen.The aroma of the food is very enticing and I feel hungry.
Ten minutes later she bade us sit down to the table, and set china bowls and spoons before us, and distributed each of us a loaf of delicious soft white bread.Finally, she placed a large casserole in the center of the table, with an iron spoon protruding from the lid, and motioned for us to eat whatever we wanted.
I served Bernadette a vegetable broth.This is a thick soup with potatoes as the main ingredient, which is delicious, nutritious and filling.We both ate three bowls.I offered to serve one to Mrs. Price, but she declined.Apparently there is no such custom locally.
"Servez-vous, monsieur, servez-vous," she repeated, and I filled myself another bowl, and we ate heartily.
Within five minutes, the sound of splitting wood stopped.After a while, the back door opened and the farmer came in for supper.When his wife explained to him our history, I rose to greet him, but he showed no sign of interest in the two strangers sitting at his table, so I sat down again.
He was a big man with his head touching the ceiling.The way he walks is slow and clumsy, giving the impression that he has well-developed limbs and slow reactions.
He was about sixty years old, with gray hair cut short.I noticed that he had small round ears, and that his eyes—though they looked at us without any greeting—were an innocent pale blue.
The giant sat down in his usual chair without a word, and his wife immediately filled him with a bowl full of soup.His hands were black with dirt and I knew they were on something else, but he didn't wash them.When the soup was served, Mrs. Price returned to her seat, gave us another big smile and nods, and we continued eating.Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the farmer gulp down the soup with a spoon, and break several pieces of bread as if no one else was there.
There was no speaking between the couple, but I noticed that she looked at him now and then with affection and forgiveness, though he didn't notice it at all.
Bernadette and I tried to find something to say, at least something between us.The purpose is not so much to exchange information as to break the dull atmosphere.
"Hopefully the car will be fixed tomorrow," I said. "If it's a big problem, maybe I'll have to go to a nearby big town to buy parts or find a salvage car."
I was concerned at the thought that the cost of repairing the car might add to the burden of our short postwar trip.
"Where's the nearest big town?" Bernadette asked as she scooped up soup.
I tried to remember the map in the car: "Bergerac, I think."
"How far?" she asked.
"About sixty kilometers," I replied.
Then there was nothing more to say, and there was silence again.After a full minute of this, a sentence in English suddenly came from nowhere: "Forty-four."
We were both eating with our heads down, and Bernadette looked up at me, and I looked as bewildered as she was.I looked over to Mrs. Price, who smiled happily and continued eating.Bernadette nodded slightly at the farmer.I turned to him, who was still wolfing down his soup and bread.
"What did you say?" I asked.
Without showing that he heard, he drank some soup and ate a few more pieces of bread.After a while he said in very clear English: "Forty-four, to Bergerac, forty-four kilometers."
He didn't look at us and just continued eating.I looked across at Mrs. Price, who had a happy smile on her face, as if to say, "Oh, yes, my husband has a gift for languages." Bernadette and I put down our spoons in amazement.
"Do you speak English?" I asked the farmer.
A few seconds passed.Finally, he just nodded.
"Were you born in England?" I asked.
There was a longer silence, in which he did not answer.Fifty seconds passed.
"Wales," he said, putting another piece of bread into his mouth.
Here I should explain that the reader will be bored if I don't speed up the dialogue while telling the story.But that wasn't the case at the time, and the slow conversation between us lasted a long time to finish, because there was always a long gap between my question and his answer.
At first, I thought he was hard of hearing.In fact, he could hear it clearly.Then I thought, maybe he is a cautious and suspicious person by nature, and he has to carefully consider the meaning of his answer, just like a chess player, he has to think about the consequences of every move he takes.actually not.The thing is very simple, he has no scheming at all, he is the kind of person who thinks slowly.He has to digest a question, figure out its meaning, conceive an answer, and express it.After such a lap, tens of seconds, or even a whole minute, passed.
Perhaps, I shouldn't have had a strong interest in talking patiently with him for nearly two hours, but I was curious, I wanted to know why an English Welshman would work as a farmer in such a remote country in the interior of France.Slowly, bit by bit, the reason revealed itself.The story is so enthralling, it captivated both me and Bernadette.
His surname was not Pres, but Pres, pronounced Pres in French.His full name is Evan Price and he was born in the Rhonda Valley in South Wales, England.Almost forty years ago, during the First World War, he had been a private in the Welsh Regiment.
At that time, he participated in the Second Battle of the Marne just before the end of the First World War.He lay badly wounded for several weeks in a British army hospital, during which time the government declared a truce.When the British returned home, he was too wounded to go and was transferred to a French hospital.
Here he was cared for by a young nurse who fell in love with him when he was bedridden with pain.They married, moved to the Dordogne in the south of France, and settled on her parents' small farm.He never returned to Wales.After the death of his father-in-law, his wife, as the only child, inherited the farm, which is where we are now.
Mrs. Price sat and listened all the way through this so slow narration.Whenever she understands one or two words occasionally, she will smile happily.I tried to picture her in 1918: slender, like a happy sparrow, with dark eyes, clean and tidy, and very happy to work.
The little French nurse nursed and eventually fell in love with this huge, helpless, simple-minded, overgrown child in a Flanders hospital for infectious diseases.Bernadette was so moved by the image that she leaned forward and touched Price on the arm.
"It's a touching story, Mr. Price," she said.
He showed no emotion.
"We're from Ireland," I said, as if offering some information in return.
He remained silent as his wife served him a third serving of soup.
"Have you ever been to Ireland?" asked Bernadette.
A few more seconds passed.He grunted and nodded.Bernadette and I looked at each other in surprise.
"Do you work there?"
"no."
"How long have you been there?"
"Two years."
"When was that?" Bernadette asked.
"1915...to 1917."
"What are you doing there?" Another time passed.
"Be a soldier."
Of course, I should have known, he didn't enlist in 1917.He enlisted earlier, having been sent to Flanders in 1917.Previously, he was with the Irish Garrison Command of the British Army.
Bernadette shivered slightly.She comes from a rabidly Republican family.Maybe I shouldn't have bothered to bother, and shouldn't have explored further.But out of journalistic instinct, I continued to ask.
"Where are you stationed?"
"Dublin."
"Oh, we are Dubliners. Do you like Dublin?"
"dislike."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
We Dubliners are very proud of this place.We love foreigners—even the garrison—to appreciate the qualities of our city.
The early life of the former private, as well as the later part of his life, unfolds very slowly.He was born in a very poor family in Rhondda, Wales in 1897, and his life was difficult and desolate.In 1914, at the age of seventeen, he enlisted in the army, and his motivation was not so much patriotic enthusiasm as the need to eat, clothe, and have a barracks.He was always a private and never got a promotion.
He spent twelve months in training camps and in a munitions depot in Wales while others went to the front in Flanders.In the second half of 1915 he was posted to the Irish Garrison Command, where his troops were stationed at the cold barracks at Ireland Bridge, on the south bank of the River Liffey in Dublin.
I suppose life must have been dull for him, which is why he said he didn't like Dublin.Rough barracks dormitories, with meager stipends even in those days, stupid endless cleaning and discipline, standing guard on bitterly cold nights and pouring rain.As for recreation... it must have been limited, the soldier's stipend could not be spent, only a few beers in the mess hall, and little or no contact with the local Catholic residents.Two years later, he was sent elsewhere, and he was probably happy about it.Or was this clumsy, slow man ever happy or sad about something?
"Hasn't anything interesting happened?" I finally asked, somewhat desperate.
"Only once," he finally replied.
"What is it?"
"It's an execution," he said, and concentrated on his soup again.
Bernadette put down her spoon and sat frozen.The vibe in the room was a bit chilly.Only the lady, she didn't understand a word, and her husband was so dull that neither of them cared at all.I shouldn't have asked any further.
After all, in those days, many people were executed.Ordinary murderers were hanged in Mountjoy Jail, but they were hanged by prison guards.Do they still need troops to do this job?Moreover, according to military regulations, murderers and rapists among British soldiers will also be executed after being tried by a court-martial.But was the prisoner hanged or shot?I don't know this.
"Do you remember when, the execution?" I asked.
Bernadette sat motionless.
Mr. Price looked up at me with his clear blue eyes, then shook his head. "A long time ago." I thought maybe he was lying, but he wasn't, he just couldn't remember.
"Were you on the firing squad?" I asked.
He thought for a while, as usual, then nodded.
I don't know what it's like to be a firing squad member.Squinting one eye, looking through the rifle sights at another man tied to a stake sixty feet away, making out the white mark over the heart, aiming the sights at the living man, hearing the sound of the shot. After the order, pull the trigger, hear the sound of the gun, feel the recoil of the gun, see the man tied up by the rope pale and slam down, then return to the barracks, wipe the rifle, and go to have breakfast.Thank goodness I never knew, nor did I want to know about such a scene.
"Try to think about when is that?" I urged.
He really tried, really tried, you could almost feel the effort.At last he spoke: "1916, I think it was summer."
I leaned forward and touched his arm.He raised his eyes to look at me, not evasive, but patiently inquiring.
"Recall...try to recall...who is the person you executed?"
But it was too difficult for him.No matter how hard he tried, he still couldn't remember.Finally he shook his head.
"A long time ago," he said.
Bernadette stood up suddenly.She smiled nervously and politely at Mrs. Price.
"I'm going to bed," she told me, "don't stay too long."
Twenty minutes later, I went upstairs.Mr. Price was sitting on the sofa by the fire at this moment, not smoking or reading a book, staring at the flames with a look of contentment.
It was dark in the room, and I didn't want to fumble with the kerosene lamp.Taking advantage of the moonlight shining through the window, I took off my clothes and lay down on the bed.
Bernadette lay quietly beside me, but I knew she wasn't asleep.I knew what she was thinking and I was thinking the same thing.We recalled that sunny spring day in 1916, on Easter Sunday, when a group of people planning a movement that was unpopular at the time - to separate Ireland from Great Britain - stormed post offices and Several other buildings.
We are reminded of the hundreds of soldiers sent in to drive them out with guns.But none of them was Private Price, who was idly stationed at the Ireland Bridge Barracks, otherwise he would have mentioned the incident; we recall the rubble, corpses and wounded in the streets amidst the smoke and shouts , there were Irishmen and Englishmen; and we remembered the delivery of the finally defeated insurgents in the Post Office, and the scornful tearing down of the strange green-orange-white tricolor they hung on the roof, It was again replaced by the Union Jack of Great Britain.
Of course this is not taught in schools now, because it is of little importance in the long river of history, but it is a fact after all: when the rebels were brought in shackles to Dublin Docks, to go to Liverpool Gaol by water, Dubliners-most of them It's the poor Catholics - curse and vilify them for bringing so much misery to Dublin.
The matter could have ended here, but the British authorities made a stupid and crazy decision: from May 3rd to the 12th, sixteen leaders of the uprising were executed in Kilmanham Prison.Within a year, popular sentiment had changed: In the 1918 general election, the Independent Party swept the country.After two years of guerrilla warfare, Irish independence was finally recognized.
Bernadette tossed and turned next to me, lost in remembrance.I know what she's thinking.She thought of those bleak mornings in May of those years, when the trampling sound of firing squad soldiers with iron boots sounded on the road, and they marched from the barracks to the prison in the darkness before dawn.She thought of soldiers waiting patiently in the large prison courtyard until the prisoner was escorted to a stake in the far wall.
She thought of her uncle.On this warm night, she would definitely think of him.Her uncle, whom she revered, died before she was born.In prison, he refused to speak English with prison guards, and in court-martial he spoke only in Irish.On the execution ground, when the sun just rose from the horizon, he faced a row of black gun muzzles, held his head high, and regarded death as home.She thought of others too... O'Connor, Clark, McDonough, -- of course, there must be Pierce.
Annoyed at my stupidity, I couldn't help muttering under my breath.All of this is meaningless.Other prisoners, rapists, robbers, murderers and deserters from the British Army, were all shot after being court-martialed.This was the case in those days, when many criminals were executed, and even more people were sentenced to death during the war.
"It's summer," Price said.That's a long period of time, from May to late September.What happened in the spring of 1916 was a momentous event in the history of a small country.The unknown privates can't play any role in major events at all.I gave up these thoughts and fell asleep.
We woke up early the next day, because the sun was shining through the window shortly after dawn, and the sound of poultry in the yard was enough to wake the dead.We both washed in the water from the tank, and I shaved as clean as I could, then poured dirty water out the window into the yard, which moistened the thirsty ground.We put on yesterday's clothes and went down the stairs.
Mrs. Price had served us both at the kitchen table steaming coffee with milk and bread and butter, which was delicious.There was not even a shadow of her husband in sight.I hadn't finished my coffee when Mrs. Price summoned me to the front of the house.In front of the yard near the main road with piles of cow dung, my Triumph car was parked, and there was a man standing beside it, who turned out to be the owner of the repair shop.I thought Mr. Price might be able to translate for me, but he was nowhere to be seen.
The repairman was eloquently explaining, and I only understood one word he repeatedly mentioned: Carburateur.He then gestured and blew into the tube to remove the dust from the tube.It turned out to be so, so simple.I vowed to learn auto repair.He asked me for a thousand francs—in the days before de Gaulle introduced the new franc, a thousand francs was about a pound.He then handed me the car keys and said goodbye.
I settled the bill with Mrs. Price, another thousand francs (in those days it was possible to go on vacation abroad for a small sum), and called Bernadette.We loaded our luggage, got in the car, and started the engine right away.After a final wave of good-bye, Mrs. Price went into the house.I reversed the car once, turned the car, and drove past the farmhouse door toward the road.
Just driving on the road, I suddenly heard a shout and stopped the car.Through the open glass of the driver's door, I saw Mr. Price running towards us from across the yard, the big ax dangling around his head like a toothpick. as light.
I opened my mouth wide, thinking he was coming to attack us.If he wanted to, he could literally chop our car into pieces.But then I saw the joy on his face, and it turned out that the yelling and the swinging of the ax was to get our attention and get us to stop.
Panting, he ran to the car window, and a big face appeared on the car window.
"I remember," he said, "I remember."
I was taken aback.He smiled cheerfully like a child doing something that would make his parents especially happy.
"Remember?" I asked.
He nodded. "Remember," he repeated, "the man I shot that morning was a poet named Pierce."
Bernadette and I sat in the car in shock, completely frozen, staring at him expressionlessly.The mirth had gone from his face.He tried his best to please us, but failed.He took my question seriously, racking his poor brain all night trying to recall a piece of information that meant nothing to him.After trying for so long, he finally remembered ten seconds ago.He caught up with us in time, but we stared at him blankly, expressionless and speechless.
His shoulders relaxed and he stood erect, then turned and walked towards the pile of firewood behind the shed.Soon, I heard that rhythmic thump again.
Bernadette sat in the car, staring out the windshield.Her face was pale and her lips were tightly pressed.A picture comes to mind: Years ago, an awkward lad from the Rhondda Valley in Wales received a rifle and a round of cartridges from the quartermaster at Ireland Bridge Barracks.
Bernadette spoke up. "Demon," she said.
I looked across the yard, where the ax fell and fell.The man with the ax once started a war with a bullet and set a people on the path to independence.
"No, dear," I said, "not a demon. Just a soldier, doing his duty."
I let go of the clutch and we started down the road down the hill towards Bergerac.
Notes:
Notes: