A Year at the French Farmhouse(27)

‘Oui, c’est là,’ he said, gesturing to one of the houses.

By the ordinary-looking front door, she now noticed a tiny plaque, flashing gold in the sunlight. A business premises.

‘Oh,’ she said, feeling, as usual, on the back foot. She wanted to ask him where he’d come from and how he’d managed to appear out of nowhere on a seemingly deserted country road just seconds after she’d pulled up. But as he already thought she was either a criminal or completely mad, she decided to leave that particular question for another time.

They walked together over the half cobbled, half muddy ground and as they approached she could clearly see the lettering on the plaque which read:

M. Jean-Jaques Berger, Notaire





They pushed open the black-painted door to find themselves in what looked like an ordinary house and she was glad, then, that Frédérique was at her side. Without him, she’d have assumed she’d come to the wrong place, despite the plaque, and that she’d walked accidentally into someone’s hallway.

Frédérique then opened a door to their left which revealed a small, cluttered room with a woman sitting at a desk. Its surface, the surrounding floor and several of the chairs that lined the room were covered in manila files and the room smelled suspiciously of cigarettes.

‘Bonjour, Florence!’ Frédérique beamed, and, seeing him, the woman stood up and held both of his hands as they kissed each other’s cheeks.

He introduced Lily and the pair of them were directed to sit on two of the chairs, which spilled their foam filling through cracks in the leather. Minutes later, a man entered, clutching a backpack under his arm.

‘Bonjour,’ he said to Florence, then took his place on a chair next to Lily without being directed. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said to Lily. ‘Always get lost around here. I’m Chris.’ He put out his hand and she automatically extended hers for a shake.

‘You’re the…’

‘The translator, yes,’ he said. He placed his backpack heavily on the floor, then removed his glasses and cleaned them on a corner of his shirt. ‘Sorry,’ he said again, ‘had another signing this morning already over in Eymoutiers, and barely made it.’

‘Thanks for coming,’ she said, not knowing what else to say. ‘You’re English?’

‘Welsh.’

‘Right. Well, nice to meet you.’

‘You too,’ he replied. Then, ‘So, do you know what happens next?’ he added in a low whisper.

‘Not really,’ she admitted.

‘Well, there’s a lot of legal jargon, of course. The notaire will see us in a minute and we’ll read through all the paperwork. He’ll go through a number of clauses, and I’ll explain anything you don’t understand. Then you’ll sign…’ He leaned his head close to hers as if imparting state secrets, his hair, fashioned in too spiky a style for his age, drooping in response to the additional gravity.

‘And that’s it? It’s all done?’ she asked, incredulous. It certainly seemed more straightforward than when they’d bought the house back home.

‘Well, for now,’ he said. ‘Then there’s the reports and the waiting, and you’ll get another call in about two or three months for the completion. Less if you’re lucky.’

She felt her heart somersault. ‘The completion? So this is…?’

‘This is the compromis. You’re promising to buy. It’s legally binding, subject to any clauses we insert. You’ll pay the deposit, which, if you back out, will be lost I’m afraid.’

‘But the house won’t be mine?’ she said, feeling goose bumps sprinkle her skin.

‘No.’ He looked at her with a mixture of confusion and amusement. ‘Has nobody explained the process to you?’

‘Well, it’s all a bit… sudden, really,’ she said. ‘I just…’ She couldn’t for some reason tell this man that she’d bid on the house by mistake on eBay. ‘I suppose it was a bit of an impulse purchase,’ she finished weakly.

‘It’s—’ But before he finished his sentence a door opened and a small man with dark hair and a well-groomed beard appeared in front of them.

He greeted Frédérique like an old friend and then turned to look at Lily. ‘Madame Butterworth?’ he said, his brown eyes crinkling as he smiled.

‘Yes,’ she said, offering her hand for a shake. ‘Nice to meet you.’

He looked at her hand for a moment as if confused then shook it briefly. ‘Et Monsieur Chrees!’ he said, his face breaking into a wide smile as he looked at the translator. ‘We meet again!’

Chris stood up and awkwardly exchanged air kisses with the notaire followed by a brief handshake with Frédérique.

Lily wondered at the need for a translator when everyone seemed to speak such good English, but didn’t say anything. Surely it was better this way than trying to work out legalese in a foreign tongue, even if it was costing her €250.

Moments later, she was sitting in a chair in front of Jean-Jacques, half nodding off and half drowning in a sea of terminology, as Chris quietly translated by her side. Rights of way and boundaries and the location of the septic tank and the sheer amount of clauses made her head spin. According to one document, the house was rated ‘D’ on a scale of A to E for its environmental credentials. ‘Is it not double-glazed?’ she asked Chris, who was in the middle of telling her what modifications she might need to make.