Friendship

The car park has more foreign cars than French. The British bar opposite the square has blue-grey painted shutters. A blackboard is propped outside the door: there’s a pie and chip night on Thursday and a gospel service on Sunday.

It is out of season; the chateau is closed. The estate agent’s is full.

The smell of oregano wafts around the old mill that is now a pizza restaurant and the first customers are reading the menu.

An old man is shuffling along the ancient bridge pushing a tired red bicycle, a baguette under his arm.

His sturdy, too-large shoes are weighing his short, bent body down. As he pushes, the concentration shows with each step; a little more ash drops from a thin cigarette clamped between his lips.

His age-worn cotton work jacket is soft, dust blue and buttoned up to his chin with mismatched broken buttons. The heavy brown corduroy trousers which cover his weary bowed legs are baggy, a little shabby, tied at his ankles with blue plastic string.

His cloth cap is pulled down tight against the windy, warm April day.

He glances into the car at me as we wait for a shiny, black Mercedes 4 x4 with Dutch number plates to cross the bridge. I smile back and he smiles back. He points at the oncoming car and for some reason we both find it funny.

He places his baguette carefully on the stones behind him, rests his bicycle against the wall. He turns back towards me and then grasps his hands in front of him, right thumb on top of his left, in a handshake.

He beams at me, nods as if to say that we can be friends.

The Mercedes passes. I turn around to watch the old man as we drive away. His baguette is still resting on the bridge, his hands are still clasped in friendship.

And his cigarette is still balancing in the corner of his laughing mouth.