“Customer Service” and “Le Glas”
In choosing to compose these series of Letters from the Pyrenees I was, in some measure, attempting to get away from the “year in such and such a place” type of of writing where the trials and tribulations of renovating a property in another country are described. I was keen to avoid the cliches of plumbing disasters, eccentric neighbours and unreliable yet comic builders. To begin with, we are not doing up a house; our neighbours are mostly sane and conventional and the tradesmen with whom we have had dealings have been few. We have, however, been obliged to navigate our way through a number of tricky situations in order to establish ourselves as functioning residents. I think there is an expression for customer service in French - probably Service Client - but it’s not widely publicised and, in my experience, not generally available. Service après vent (after sales service) is better understood, although getting to the point where you are actually in receipt of whatever it is you’ve paid for can prove challenging in itself. Take the telephone and internet, for example. After applying for the connection, but before we had actually been connected, we were given the choice of being kept up to date about the progress of our order by either phone or email. Luckily we had access to Alf’s wi-fi, and so didn’t make a fuss. Imagine our disappointment though when, after waiting two weeks, we were informed that our connection would by made in three weeks’ time. But this was nothing compared with our surprise when, the following day, another email declared that the connection had been made the week before. Great! I bought a cheap phone from Leclerc (supermarket), plugged it in and it worked. Now, we had a deal with SFR (sorry, don’t know what it stands for) where we could phone any country in Europe at any time for the same monthly charge. So I did… a lot. It worked really well. That evening, however, I received an odd call: “Jean-Paul?” “Sorry. I think you have the wrong number.” “OK. Sorry.” The lady caller hung up. Three minutes later the phone rang again: “Jean-Paul?” “Sorry Madam. You have the wrong number again.” “I don’t think so.” “What number are you dialling exactly?” She recited the number as if by heart. “I think there’s a problem here,” I offered. “That isn’t our number.” “No,” she replied. “It’s Jean-Paul’s!” Jean Paul is our sane and conventional neighbour. The following day it was established that Jean-Paul had been without a telephone for a week… since, coincidentally, our own line had been activated. We had the neighbour’s phone line with access to all his messages and, what’s more, I had been merrily calling England on his bill. “We need to get this sorted out,” I said. Jean-Paul agreed.
Like most businesses, SFR pride themselves on a telephone system based around press 1 for this, 2 for that and 3,4,5 for something else and I quickly arrived at their equivalent of customer service. I explained the problem. “Your line was connected on the 18th September, Monsieur Foot.” “Yes but it’s someone else’s.” “No it’s your’s.” “We get our neighbour’s calls.There’s a serious problem.” “So your telephone is not functioning, Monsieur Foot.” “It works, but there’s a problem with the connection.” “Have you plugged your phone in properly?” “Of course, it works perfectly.” “Then what is the problem?” After two or three runs around the SFR logic circuit and having, on the second lap, narrowly avoided being forced into the chicane of technical assistance, I gave up. Apparently, my problem was not on their lists of things that could possibly happen. Fortunately, however, Jean-Paul managed to contact the company that had been subcontracted to make the connection and an appointment was arranged for the following Wednesday. We hoped it would happen although, I have to say, we weren't very confident. In the meantime our internet equipment was overdue. We called into the SFR office in Oloron to find out what the problem was. “It’s the delivery company. They’re absolutely useless.” “So why do you use them?” “It’s the firm we use.” “So why don’t you change them?” “They’re all useless!” “OK. So when will we get our stuff?” “I don’t know… As soon as possible” “But you’ll let us know as soon as it arrives?” “Ah… well… it won’t be delivered here.” “It’ll come straight to Lescun, then. That’s a better idea.” “Ah no… You have to pick it up from the kitchen supplies shop.” “The kitchen supplies shop?” “Yes…. Baraut’s… It’s just down the road.” “That’s a bit weird, isn’t it.” “Not really. We always do it like that.” “OK… so they will phone us… Have they got our number? No, hang on, I’ll give you Jean-Paul’s number. Ask them to use that.” “Jean-Paul?” “It’s a long story… On second thoughts, you give me their number and I’ll phone them.” Much to our surprise the technicien du téléphone arrived the next day, as planned, and cheerily began to investigate the problem while, at the same time, trying out a few sentences in english, no doubt to keep us happy. We were even more surprised, but also confused, when the post lady arrived with a parcel from SFR. Inside, was a collection of internet apparatus and the television box. In the meantime our technician had been pacing up and down the street peering into holes in the ground from which a variety of ringtones could be heard. We, with Jean-Paul, looked on anxiously. Unnecessarily, as it turned out, as he soon drew alongside beaming with professional pride.
“That’s it. All done.” “Are you sure?” “Absolutely… look I’ll phone you on your number.” He tapped our actual number into his mobile phone and we could hear it ringing inside the house. “Brilliant. Would you like a coffee?” asks Kathy. It turns out to be one of the most rewarding invitations we ever made as, while he is drinking his brew, he unwraps all our equipment and begins to install it. “SFR… no good,” he mumbles in english as he adds sugar to his cup. “Orange… no, good.” He wires up the router and adds a filter to the phone. “Apple…no good.” He has turned his attention to the TV box now and quickly has it up and running. “TV… no good,” he adds as he drains the dregs of his coffee. “All done… “ he announces finally. “Have a nice day.” Now that’s customer service. And that’s the problem. It’s random and you can’t count on it. Occasionally, it’s excellent: the telephone technician, the wood delivery guy and the individual who had the smart idea of putting a grand piano in the departure lounge at Toulouse airport. Witnessing a young traveller who looks like he’s walked from Madrid slip off his rucksack and launch into a version of the theme music from A Game of Thrones brightens everyone’s day. Sadly, there is also the delivery man who leaves a barely intelligible message on the answerphone - I have a parcel for you but I’ve no idea where your house is so I’m not coming to Lescun. You can get your parcel from the MOT station in Oloron. (18 miles away) Perhaps we’ve been spoilt. In England, we’ve grown accustomed to the supermarket employee who leads us to whatever item we’ve been searching for and asks if there is anything else they can help us with before returning to their original tasks. Over here, it’s not quite the same. To begin with, finding a member of staff is problematic. They do not have uniforms. They wear their play clothes. Consequently, I do not approach the young woman in leather jacket and high-heels because, even though she is scanning shelves with an apparently professional eye, she might actually be a customer. And I don’t want her think that I’m trying it on. One item that no-one would have had trouble finding a couple of weeks ago, though, would have been flowers. Every supermarket in France was inundated with a tidal wave of multi-coloured chrysanthemums. Why chrysanths? I’m not sure. In Spain, over the same period, the range of floral arrangements is far more varied and extravagant. It was, of course, All Saints Day - Tous Saintes… or La Fête des Morts - the day when we remember those who are no longer with us. Hence the flowers. It’s a big deal in Lescun. The Mass to celebrate Tous Saintes, I’m told, was better attended than ever this year. We took a walk down to the church in the early evening well after the Mass had finished and the cemetery looked a picture. You can’t get into the churchyard from the outside, so access involves creaking open the heavy door under the cloisters and finding one’s way through the half-dark church to the second door that leads into the metropolis of tombs. It’s said that seven families established the village of Lescun and, judging by the repetition of names on the family tombs, I suspect they are still here. The Nouquerets, the Coapes, the Souperbats, the Rassu-Anglats, the Carrafanqs, the Moreno, the Chrisotomes and others - these are the names we see over and over again, carved on the mini-mansions of stone that house the dead. And I can’t help thinking, when I look at the inscriptions expressing love for great grandparents, grandparents parents,uncles and aunts that, if I belonged to one of these illustrious families, that … yes…they are waiting for me.
The cemetery with a view, Lescun Shockingly , however, we come across one tomb which the residents seem to be a hurry to inhabit. It belongs to our landlady and her husband and their names are already etched into the eternity of their headstone. Confusingly, however, I had seen them both earlier in the day and they appeared quite well for a couple of their years. Work on Alf’s insulation project continues to make progress. The barn ceiling has been finished and we’re half way through the ceilings of the first floor which have the empty roof space above. In fact, a week ago, Isobel and I were just finishing off the barn when she suddenly stopped. “Ah!” “What is it?” I asked. “Le Glas.” I had no idea what she was talking about but, helpfully, she continued. “Le Glas… someone in the village has died.” It turned out that she was referring to the sounding of the church bells announcing a death in the community. “It might be Lyliane,” she said. Lyliane was one of the first people we got to know here. We arrived in the village on a warm clear afternoon in the summer of 1983 having hitch-hiked from Cherbourg over several days. It had been an impetuous idea; we had the word Pyrenees in our heads and wanted to see what the area was like. One look at the magnificent horseshoe of mountains that dominates the skyline beyond the village and we were determined to stay. In those days there was no campsite and renting a gîte was far more difficult than it is now. But, with the help of the owner of the village bar, we tracked downLyliane who, rumour had it, sometimes let a sort of garret room over her garage.
In fact it was a store room for her and her husband Roger’s junk. It had no sanitation or running water but it did have a bed and a wonderful view of the Cirque. We took it. With water from the l’abreuvoir* in the lane outside and the use of an outside loo in the garden of Lyliane’s house just down the road, we were quite happy. We kept in touch and came back several years in a row, only tempted away from the room when the campsite was established and the lure of a hot shower after a sweaty day in the mountains proved to be the clinching factor. But, like all of us, Lyliane declined with the years. Roger had passed away many years ago but his wife soldiered on with the help of her neighbours and the tree daughters who had moved away from the village. When we arrived at the start of our year in the Pyrenees, however, we found her in very poor health and a week or so before we heard Le Glas she had been admitted to hospital. Translated, Le Glas means the death knell (echoes of John Donne if not Ernest Hemingway). In France the tolling of Le Glas is a custom that is not universally practised. But here, in the south of the country, it is more common and, surprisingly, the responsibility for it resides not with the church but with the Marie*, or the Commune*. When it is rung varies from village to village. Here, the bells announce the death of a member, or past member, of the village on the day of their demise. It is heard after the eight o’clock, midday and seven o’clock chimes. This is repeated every day between the death and funeral, which is usually held within two or three days. The final Glas announces the obsèques or l’enterrement*. It turned out not to be for Lyliane, who was still clinging to a slender thread of life in the hospital in Oloron - not her, but a much younger man who, though he was not a resident of Lescun, had been born there. Four days later the death knell echoed over the village again and this time, from our house, above and in sight of the church tower, I experienced its full force. There are just two notes: the high and the low; there are the lengths of the notes and there is the interval between. They are the same bells which announce at eight am, what I have previously described as a madman attacking a frying pan with a golf club. But now they are transformed. The high note I would describe as wistful with also, perhaps, an air of forlorn hope as we listen to the resonance fade like a sigh. We wait; we know what is coming but the anticipation is prolonged just long enough to pull at our insides. And when it comes, the lower note is heavy, sorrowful and final. The dreadful pattern is repeated maybe a dozen times. This time it is Lyliane. It is Saturday evening. She already lies, in her coffin, in her own home, just down the road from the garret room above the garage. There has, apparently, been no problem with delivery on this occasion. The funeral is arranged for Monday morning. The village turns out. The church is full. No-one wears black. Like supermarket workers the mourners turn up in casual clothes. Some, not wishing to participate in a religious service, hang around outside chatting, waiting for their chance to say a farewell in their own way. Others, like us, wait in the church - in our case, not knowing what to expect. Alf tells me he is one of the pall bearers and I see him along with three others, two of which I do not know, all dressed in jeans and jumpers, enter the church bringing Lyliane to her last resting place, not on their shoulders but low down, carried by the coffin’s handles. The service passes in a semi blur. We copy the sitting and standing but not the crossing from forehead to breast. We try to sing but we don’t know the tunes or the phrasing except for the unexpected inclusion of a version of Kum Ba Yah. There are no eulogies from friends or family. The
priest holds centre stage, recounting little anecdotes about the deceased while taking the opportunity to remind us all that when our time comes, when we meet our maker, we will be judged according the the good and bad that we have visited on the world. It reminds me, curiously, of ancient Egypt. And during the mass I can’t help but notice that the congregation is overwhelmingly composed of women. Is death, like birth, the province of females? But, as the bearers move forward to carry the coffin out into the daylight, I a hear a rumbling, like sacks of potatoes being tumbled down a ramp and I quickly learn that it is the men descending from the gallery. They file out into the cemetery with purpose. They will open the family tomb and lower Lyliane to her place beside Roger. It’s all known. It is predictable. And, in a way, it is timeless. Yes… I am, I have to admit, slightly uncomfortable about this link between customer service and how death is managed here. But, nonetheless, I can’t help feeling that Lyliane would have been a satisfied customer.
Lyliane and me in better times.
November 13th, 2015
* Marie - the village centre for administration ( the Mayor’s seat. * Commune - like an english parish, but with more power and a substantial budget. * abreuvoir - a horse trough with a constant flow of water fro a spring * obsèques/enterrement - funeral/burial.