Christmas Bloody Christmas! - Conclusion
I left the offices and headed for the compound café at the end of the pre-war brick clad warehouse block. After a couple of café cremes, a sandwich jambon and a lively chat with two Dutch driver friends from Wim Vos, I returned to the Gondrand office almost on the stroke of four o’ clock. Herve was as good as his word and handed me my papers. “No controle,” he confirmed. “Thanks Herve,” I replied and then continued a little apprehensively, “Could you do me a favour? Could you send a telex to your office in Luxeil asking them to ensure that they’ll have a vet to certify the load when I arrive tomorrow please?” To qualify for my six hundred deutschemarks I had to physically clear customs which meant that I would be free to offload on the 24th. and I was leaving nothing to chance. “Already we did it,” Herve laughed, “Don’t worry Andy. The mill at Demangeville are most insistent that they get the load before Christmas.” Once again I thanked him profusely and gathered up my paperwork including the stamped bordereaux paper which would allow me out of the compound and into la belle France. Regaining the cramped cab of the Mack R600, I fired up the diesel, selected second main and second split and eased the rig out of my parking slot between a Unic of Transnord and a Saviem of Debeaux. At the gate I handed over my bordereaux and the guard lifted the barrier and I slipped up through the mains and split gearchanges now so used to the precision of the gearboxes that it was almost a matter of honour not to use the clutch except for starting and stopping.
I estimated that the run down to Luxeil les bains should take me a about three hours along the A35 to Mulhouse, the A36 to Belfort and then onto a minor route nationale up into the foothills of the Vosges mountains to the spa town of Luxeil. I’d driven down from a parking area near Bad Reichenhall where I’d spend an uncomfortable night in my sleeping bag across the seats of the Mack so, with in excess of three hundred and fifty miles covered plus the time spent in customs, I was in need of a good meal and a night’s rest in a real bed. Only fifteen minutes down the road was Eurostop, a purpose built truck parking area and hotel catering for international transport. I pulled off the main road and into the massive parking area which that night was only about a third full but with the unusual addition of a couple of German Mercedes 0302 tourist coaches. It looked as though I should have no problem getting a room for the night so I parked up, gathered my overnight belongings together, jumped out of the cab, locked up and walked across to the six storey hotel block. The ground floor was taken up with a restaurant and bar area in front of which was the hotel reception. My euphoria at the prospect of a shower, food, drink and a proper bed for the night was short-lived however. The smartly dressed receptionist was apologetic but the hotel was ‘complet’ with the tourists from the coaches. This was most unusual since the complex was supposedly for the exclusive use of truckers but it was explained that with Christmas in only a couple of days, booking s were light and the management had exceptionally accepted this reservation from a Christian tour group on their way home from Lourdes. But ‘monsieur’ was welcome to use the showers in the toilet area and, of course, to spend as much money as he wanted in the restaurant and bars. So despondently I showered and shaved, restowed my overnight case in the truck and took my place at a lonely restaurant table surrounded by the pilgrims, none of whom was remotely attractive, and all of whom babbled away so loudly that I was unable to enjoy the music from the jukebox in the bar. Before turning in for the night in Hotel Mack, I had a couple or three beers at the bar and several times punched my favourite number of the moment ‘Jeepster’ into the jukebox. This had the added trivial satisfaction of me noting that the tourists were really ■■■■■■ off after the fifth or sixth time Marc Bolan’s classic screamed through the bar as they tried to enjoy a peaceful evening, indeed their guide even suggested that I choose something more soothing. I ordered another Jupiler Pils, stuck another Franc into the Wurlitzer and pressed E11 yet again before retiring for the night.
Sleeping across the seats of the Mack could not be described in any terms of comfort. The width of the cab was about five feet so it was not possible to stretch out unless you opened a window and stuck your feet into the freezing night air. By judiciously placing your overnight case between the driver’s and passenger seats however you could get a reasonably flat if somewhat confined surface, restricted by the position of the two gearsticks and the steering wheel. In short I did not sleep at all well, but woke fitfully several times until at last, although it was still dark, I checked my watch, discovered it was five-thirty and decided to make a start. I reckoned that Luxeil les Bains could be reached by around eight o’ clock and I could check in with customs nice and early to ensure that the crispy wonga would be waiting for me on my return to Salzburg. I started the motor and let her run for ten minutes to warm the cab while I dressed and stowed away my sleeping bag. I was sorely tempted to give a couple of blasts on my air horns as I left the compound but knew that a gratuitously kind gesture would be rewarded during the day and so I desisted and felt quite elated at my remarkable restraint. Once out on the N83 traffic was negligible and I was soon up to sixth main and fourth split not even having to change down as I ran through the sleepy villages. Colmar came and went, lamps starting to be lit in the upstairs windows as I passed and by Mulhouse early risers were out and the traffic was starting to affect my progress with constant gear changing necessary as I transited the town. At Belfort I had to look out carefully for the turn onto the N19 which swung westwards towards the Vosges mountains. At Ronchamp, a small hill town, remarkable for me only because it featured a sharp left turn in the market square which my rig could only just negotiate, I saw that we were approaching nine o’ clock so I was already a little behind my estimated schedule. Fifteen kilometres later we had left the hills and I took a right turn onto the D64 and I entered the goods yard behind Luxeil les Bains station just a tad before ten o’ clock. I was a little late so was slightly worried that they might make that an excuse for not clearing me through customs that day.
The only freight agent’s office in the compound was at one end of a warehouse built for loading railway trucks. Luckily it belonged to Gondrand Freres. I parked outside and entered the office clutching my paperwork and, most importantly, the phytosanitary certificate. Immediately inside the door was a counter with an open flap at the right hand end. There were five desks on the other side complete with typewriters and at the back was a telex machine and a Xerox photocopier but there were no staff to be seen. I shouted but there was no one in the back office either so I decided to walk over to the station which involved crossing the tracks but there were no trains to be seen so no danger was apparent as I gingerly stepped over the rails. Once inside the imposing building, which looked more like a chateau than a railway station, I found the main booking hall also deserted but attached to it was a bar and there was definitely activity in that direction. I walked through the door to find a large buffet with a bar at one end with several uniformed railway staff amongst others, enjoying a mid-morning break. “Y’a-t-il un gen de Gondrand ici?” I enquired in my best schoolboy French and a moustachioed functionary, possibly even the station master judging by the amount of silver on his peaked cap, nudged his companion. “Tu as du travail apres tout,” he said. (You have some work after all). The companion placed his glass of cognac back onto the bar and turned to me. “Ah Monsieur Iran,” was his greeting. I handed him my paperwork and he beckoned another uniformed individual over. “Gaston,” he said, “Here is the cotton for Demangevelle.” He then addressed me, “Gaston is the customs man. He will clear your paperwork. We have telex from Strasbourg so everything is in process.” Gaston cleared his glass finished his coffee and grudgingly accepted the paperwork. “Ah, moment,” said the Gondrand man, “You have the sanitary papers?” I handed them over. “All in order,” he confirmed. “Once Gaston is finished we call the vet for final clearance and you are free to offload.” This conversation incidentally was entirely in French and I was struggling to clearly understand what was being said but it did sound as though everything was being taken care of. The Gondrand man introduced himself to me as ‘Thierry’ and immediately ordered a coffee cognac which the barman deposited right in front of me. With finely combed greying hair, a sallow face highlighting his very Gallic hooked nose, grey eyes and a slight stoop despite his slim build, he had the demeanour of an absent-minded professor but this could of course have been put down to his service at the bar and not the legal one. We continued our conversation in broken French and a little English and my understanding was that I would be cleared soon after lunch. In the meantime I asked Thierry if I could use the telex back in his office and I sent a message to Gerhardt confirming that I had arrived in Luxeil-les-Bains and that clearance was taking place. I was all fingers and thumbs on the telex machine. It was a German Siemens setup which required you to press either the ‘number’ key or the ‘letter’ key before each digit and it took me some time to produce the ribbon of punched paper tape which then needed to be checked for accuracy before we loaded it into the ‘reader’ for transmission to Salzburg. We got through three tapes before I was satisfied that Salzburg would be able to understand the end result without an excuse for being confused! Thierry then insisted we return to the station buffet as lunchtime was looming and we needed another aperitif apparently.
With the benefit of hindsight I should have realised a lot earlier that all was not going to plan. There had been no need to wait for customs clearance before calling the vet, indeed clearance could not be effected without his signature on the phytosanitary certificate. However the smoky buffet, heavy with the smoke and scent of Gauloises, was a scene of pre-Christmas merriment and Thierry was a jolly and entertaining host. Whether or not this was a deliberate ploy to allay my fears I cannot say but a good worker’s three course lunch followed, shared with the station personnel, a couple of local gendarmes and Gaston the customs officer. This was accompanied by unlimited vin rouge de pays poured liberally from a carafe which needed frequent refilling. This I confess left me in an extremely agreeable and expansive mood and I was slicing a liberal helping of runny camembert when Thierry turned to me and said “We still have not heard from the vet. I will go and call him again.” He left the room with a rather shaky gait which in retrospect was amusing but at the time was starting to ring alarm bells in my head. Gaston, a portly ruddy faced figure, at this point decided to launch into song encouraged by the remaining SNCF staff, some of whom had departed to process a train which had had the temerity to actually stop at the little station and disgorge passengers. They all returned post haste as Gaston was rendering a hearty version of the Marseillaise. I was in the course of ordering a black coffee when the assembly turned to me. “Your turn,” they chorused. “God Save the Queen” one of the Gendarmes chimed in. “Mais je suis Ecossaise,” I argued. “Rapellez le Grand Alliance.” I ended up singing “Loch Lomond” to much amusement and an unordered glass of cognac was plonked down next to my café noire. Then Thierry returned. “I cannot raise the vet,” he shouted above the hubbub, “I now go in my car to his house.” He departed and I had visions of him ‘making the zigzag’ as the French say through the roads of Luxeil in his Citroen 2CV. Luckily the police force seemed to be occupied with us in the buffet. One of them launched into a Foreign Legion marching song which started ‘En Algerie dans le djebel’ but the rest was a blur. The little party broke up as the afternoon’s work beckoned and I returned to my Mack for a post- prandial nap. It was cold with intermittent snow flurries and I ran the engine on fast idle to keep the cab cosy and dozed off, the previous night’s insomnia, the wine and the cognac and the sumptuous lunch taking their toll.
I awoke to the first bombshell to ruin my afternoon reverie. Thierry was knocking on my door. He looked up at me and sheepishly said, “We cannot obtain the vet today!” I froze. Six hundred deutschemarks was evaporating before my eyes. “He is on a farm near Vesoul and cannot return,” Thierry explained. “But can we go to Vesoul and get the paper signed,” I asked, the dread of not being able to clear customs that day and so breaching my agreement with Gerhardt, clearing my drowsily befuddled mind. “It is not possible,” Thierry replied, “First he has to open your truck and inspect some cargo and second it is now four- thirty and customs is closed. Also,” he added with a shrug and a grin, “Gaston, he celebrated too much and went home early.” My luck appeared to be running out. “But the vet comes in the morning,” Thierry ventured brightly, “And then we can clear you before lunchtime.” With that he turned on his heel, opened the door of his 2CV and sped off in a reasonably straight trajectory through the gates of the goods yard leaving me to my own devices. The cab of the Mack was too small to accommodate cooking devices or even a store of food and drink so everything had to be obtained out of bars and cafes. The town centre was close by and I spent a couple of hours walking around as night fell. I ambled back to the station buffet and managed a couple of beers and a sandwich made with a local saucisson and Dijon mustard before being ejected at nine o’clock when the establishment closed for the night.
Next morning, true to his word, Thierry turned up with the vet and also Gaston who broke the lead seal on the container doors which I then opened wide and helped the vet up into the back of the load. He took a couple of samples and promised to return within a couple of hours with all the paperwork for Gaston to complete his clearance process. As his Citroen DS vanished from the compound, Thierry and Gaston strolled across to the Gondrand office while I repaired to the station buffet for coffee and a croissant or two. Mentally I was now becoming downhearted. ICC now had an excuse not to honour the six hundred deutschemark agreement. I was still not offloaded. It was Christmas eve and I was far from home. In addition I was hungover from the previous day’s excesses. Eleven o’clock came and went and I was on my third coffee with no news from Thierry. I called the waiter, paid my bill and crossed the railway tracks to the goods yard. Outside the Gondrand office was the vet’s DS so I hurried over to the office where I discovered that everything was finished and I could proceed to the spinning mill at Demangevelle to offload. After handshakes all round I settled into the driving seat of the Mack, started the motor and while it idled, checked my map for the best route which turned out to be the N57 north out of town and then the D417 west, a run of about an hour I estimated. The terrain was easy, undulating farmland dotted with copses and hamlets. I reached the village of Demangevelle just after one o’ clock and Thierry had told me to turn right opposite a bar called Catillon Martine which luckily I spotted just in time. This road led out of the village and over a small canal bridge before turning left onto the Rue de la Filature and the spinning mill complex was immediately visible on the left hand side between the road and the canal bank. My spirits were down but I reckoned that once I was tipped, I could travel up to Paris on Christmas day, load at Danzas and be back in Salzburg before the New Year. As I approached the factory gates however, it became obvious that my plans were about to be thwarted once again. They were closed. I stopped the truck, pressed my airbrake button and jumped down from the cab leaving the engine running. At the gate I could see that the plant was deserted but there was a side gate which I pushed and it opened. I walked into what looked to be the loading bank area on the right hand side and, seeing a light on in a small building, I knocked on its’ door. “Oui” a disembodied voice shouted. I entered and a wizened old boy who I took to be a cleaner looked up through his bifocals at me. “Je suis routier avec votre cotton d’Iran,” I explained. He looked at me as though inspecting some alien being before exclaiming. “Je doit telephoner mon chef.” (I must phone my boss). Once his call was over he told me that they had not heard from Danzas that I was in Luxeil so did not expect me at the plant to offload. I could bring my truck into the yard. There would be a watchman on duty night and day but they could not offload me until the day after boxing day as they had no staff. I could come and go through the gate and there was a bar and cafe in the village, I could also use the toilets and the vending machine in the canteen attached to the mill and that was that. I thanked him and he opened the gates for me to enter the factory where I reversed carefully into the loading area.
I spent a lonely afternoon in the cab reading and listening intermittently to a crackly BBC world service on Long Wave radio. In the early evening I wondered into the canteen to make use of the facilities and managed to prise a cup of thick coffee flavoured dishwater and a shrink-wrapped cheese roll from the machines. I sat on my own in the neon lit sparsely decorated canteen and felt thoroughly miserable and sorry for myself. One small grain of comfort was that the nightwatchman took pity on me and allowed me to take my sleeping bag into the canteen area where I was able to stretch out on the floor rather than being hunched up across the seats of the truck. In the morning I woke early, washed and shaved and decided to walk into the village to see if anything was open. Maybe I could find a bijou café with a buxom French madame behind the counter serving fresh bowls of hot chocolate and warm croissants for breakfast. “Happy Christmas,” I sighed to myself ironically as I walked across the yard, lightly dusted by the snow which had gently fluttered down during the night. With my belongings safely packed in my cab, I locked it and, dressed in a dark blue parka, blue Levi jeans and my long calf length leather boots, I set out along the road to the village.
My mood was grim to say the least. Christmas day and I was on my own, my bonus in doubt, my loved ones probably bereft that I had once again failed to make it home for the celebrations, my back aching from the hard floor of the canteen and a couple of days before I could get offloaded and out of this hell-hole in the back of beyond. I must have made a sorry sight indeed as I trudged miserably along the snow-rinded lane. It was about eight o’ clock as I turned right and mounted the small bridge over the canal. A light mist was hanging over the surrounding meadows in the slight valley that separated the canal from the village. As I peered over the edge of the bridge, I could see that the canal itself and the lock underneath the bridge were frozen. In the distance I could hear a brittle crunching noise and realised that this must be the first barge of the morning somedistance away, breaking the ice in its’ path. I descended the steps from the bridge onto the towpath by the lock to watch the progress of the barge as it rounded a corner about a kilometre upstream and approached along the dead straight upper reach of the canal. A lock keeper appeared and proceeded to open the sluices to bring the lockwater up to the same level as the oncoming barge. This action had the effect of draining water from the upper reach along which the barge was proceeding, leaving the ice suspended in mid-air. It could not stand this strain for long and there was a massive cracking noise along the entire reach of the water as the ice broke on both sides leaving a frozen island floating in the middle of the canal right back to the bows of the barge which proceeded to plough its’ way through. As the barge hit the ice island it pressed it up against the lock gates where it shattered and the lock keeper had to break it up further with a pole which made a watery plop plop sound as it splashed into the icy canal. All these noises were accentuated by the quiet stillness of the morning and the calls of a very few water fowl. The stillness was increasingly broken by the rumble of the green and white barge’s diesel engine as it sidled into the lock. I watched in admiration as the bargee’s son leapt ashore and, with the help of his father, ■■■■■■■ at the bow. The rumble of the diesel suddenly increased as the bargee’s wife at the helm threw the diesel into reverse to bring the vessel to a halt whereupon she dived out of the wheelhouse and expertly ■■■■■■■ at the stern. She must have been an expert helmswoman as well because, although the lock was a mere four or five inches wider than the barge, it never touched the sides the whole time it was in it. The top gates closed and the lower sluices were opened allowing a fountain of water to spout through the lower lock gates washing over the ice below. Once the barge had lowered, the lock keeper opened the gates and the barge glided out onto the lower reach breaking more ice as it progressed. The barge slowed and touched the bank and the bargee jumped ashore with a little motorbike and puttered off towards the village in search of the day’s provisions.
I turned and left the canal folk to their separate world and carried on somewhat disconsolately towards the village. A gaggle of well wrapped small children were walking towards me looking very sweet in their colourful wooly hats with satchels on their backs full of what I took to be presents for relatives perhaps. As I approached them, without exception each one greeted me with a “Bonjour monsieur” followed by a “Bon Noel Monsieur.” By the time they had all passed my cheeks were wet as I welled up with such an offering of gratuitous friendliness. As I walked further along that country lane I started to realise what a miserable specimen of humanity I had become. Here I was, surrounded by an exquisite countryside scene, newly milked cattle grazing in the snow-dusted fields, birds singing of their joy at the brightness of such a crisp morning, the awesome beauty of the frozen canal and the canal folk getting on with their lives and their work. I was looking forward to a warm café and a French breakfast. I was healthy and had so much to look forward to. A cycle approached from the village. As it reached me it stopped and the rider, a young chap dressed in a warm coat and with a Russian style fur hat addressed me in reasonable English. “Bonjour monsieur .You are the English truck driver?” he asked politely. “Bonjour et Bon Noel, yes I am,” I answered. “Ah tres bien,” he said, “I am the guard at the mill today. My boss is coming later. He is very sorry we did not unload you yesterday. He will take you to lunch and then you are to be in a hotel in Vesoul which is the nearest one.” With that he pedalled off towards the factory. I continued but with an optimistic spring in my step towards breakfast in the village.
Happy New Year everyone!
