It was a connection all right. A white Peugeot was connected to our back end by interlaced bumpers. When we felt and heard the crash my wife said “Mon Dieu!” but in English. Allegedly I am the linguist, but the gift of tongues deserted me in the moment of crisis, English that is.

I can’t remember what my children said.

It was a long hard drive from somewhere. Loubressac, perhaps, Souillac, Pinsac, Carennac, one of those places ending in “ac”. Now, with the seaport at Calais still half a day’s drive, time and money running out, we had made this unscheduled stop, in dusk, the rush hour and the city of Angers (9th cent, castle, slate quarries and foul beer).

Angers, in addition to containing 130,000 Frenchmen, all eager to get home quick at that hour, was once the ancient capital of Anjou, birthplace of Fulk the Red (rouge to non-linguists), and source by obscure channels of our Plantagenet kings.

What did come to the surface of my thinking, as I sat there reviewing the situation – in the time, that is, between the actual impact and the sound of my rear lights tinkling into the roadway – was that the French are notably excitable even in circumstances of calm. Even the British motorist, to be fair, loses a drop of his sang-froid on these occasions. Any minute now – any second now – this French man would be at my driving window, with wild-eyed yammering, his moustaches bristling and the little sticking up bit on top of his beret stiff with Gallic rage. As if it were my fault!!!

In fact it was. I thought I’d learnt most things about driving in France, from hugging the wrong side of the road, never hesitating to hoot “Klaxonnez!” as someone had yelled at me in Aurillac or Salignac when I paused for a school procession, and staying indoors until the native motorists’ well-oiled lunch had worn off, to trying not to worry about falling rocks when passing the notice “Zone de Chute de Pierres”. What I hadn’t quite grasped was that I was actually supposed to run over pedestrians!!!

Though these pests aren’t exactly sacred in England (as they are in, California), at least we tend to think twice before ploughing them aside. It’s different in France, certainly in the ancient capital of Anjou. Should they care to risk life and limb for the traffic stream’s farther shore, that’s their funeral. Or easily could be.

Rather than flatten a dozen agile leapers, I braked. That was my mistake, mon erreur! It took the man behind off-guard.

Crash.
Tinkle-tinkle.

“My God,” said my wife.

It was his amazement and incredulity, I think, that delayed his arrival at my driving window. It must have been all of ten seconds before he appeared and hammered on it. As I was already winding it down, his fist narrowly missed my ear.

He spoke. I didn’t understand much, apart from a few easy words like imbecile and plonkeur, but it was some time before I could speak any of my own. When I did, they affected him strangely. He raised his arms and eyes to heaven, then dropped all four of them in a mime of great complexity. It seemed to say that he might have known, that it was just his luck, that of all the 130,000 locals it had to be him. Finally he put it into words. Into a word, rather.

“English!” close I thought. Plainly, though! it did nothing to improve matters, it did much to explain them. He was of course dealing with idiots, and did so. I want to say, in an unexpected fashion, first introducing himself and shaking my hand. He then summoned two ridiculously small policemen under whose supervision he drove my car and I drove his, still interlocked, into some sort of traffic-free area or courtyard, where he offered my wife a brandy from a small flask and took charge of everything.

This involved much; beginning with the separation of the cars, energetically aided by the constabulary and a magically produced crowbar, and the summoning from thin air of a ‘huissier de justice’, one of those absurd representatives of French officialdom without which no French accident is complete… and ending with his personally leading the way to a garage which was just closing, but stayed open under his eloquent persuasions, to rope up my boot, weld my exhaust, take the kinks out of my bumper, and provide enough rear lighting to send me legally on my way.

Did I know my way, he asked, after beating down the garage bill with typical, moneygrabbing Gallic haggling? His English was not good, and his sketch map on the Notes page of my RAC book was clear.

I suppose it all took about three hours.

He would be late, I said, amid my confused and halting thanks, for his supper. It was nothing, said he, raising his beret in farewell, his little sticking-up bit now slack. His wife would understand – entirely. She was English.

One should not generalise about the French. Some, it seems, come under almost civilising influences.