Author's note: This is rather different to anything I have posted here before. Hope you like it.
***
Paris, summer 1965. I had arrived to spend two months living with a Parisian family, the parents speaking no English; and attend classes (in French of course) at a prestigious lycee in Cinquieme - the Latin Quarter. It was a school exchange, and I was just eighteen.
One Sunday, a few weeks after I had arrived in Paris, the family went visiting relations in the countryside. The car was a big old-fashioned Peugot. M. Samuel (of course) took the wheel. He was a research physicist, and whilst pleasant, was the epitome of Parisian bourgeois: very straight-laced, always in a suit, and somewhat limited in the range of his mealtime conversation. Mme Samuel sat beside her husband. She was much warmer, and it was she who had encouraged me to learn Paris by foot; suggesting interesting places to explore which were off the tourist trail, like the delightful Place Mouffetard. She had told me where the folk club was in Citee Universitaire; and had even introduced me to, and tacitly encouraged me to date, her bonny but staid convent-school niece Annie.
I of course went in the back of the car with their energetic younger son Remi. He was a lively twelve-year-old with a smattering of English which he loved to practice, and a self-imposed mission to be guide and interpreter to l'etranger Ecossais. Which said etranger endured with good grace, as Remi was a lovely engaging boy, and I had grown to really like him.
Between Remi and I in the back seat sat douce seventeen-year-old Annie. Freed from the strictures of her convent-school for the day, it was her parents we were going to visit.
The Sunday-morning drive out of Paris began, through the south-west suburbs in heat that was increasingly oppressive. By the time we passed the outer Peripherique the inside of the car was stifling, though the close presence of Annie's sweet-scented form squashed beside me was tinglingly delicious...Out of the city the car speeded up, and with windows down it became more pleasant.
The elder Samuels conversed between themselves, sounds sucked through the open windows by the heat. Remi's constant Franglais commentary was mixed with Annie murmuring huskily to me in French about our route. The car rolled through the unending richness of L'Isle de France, a succession of broad rich grainfields interspersed with orchards and meadows where cattle and horses grazed moistly by riverbanks. The road was forever poplar-lined. Farmers with tractors and peasants with horses tended the land, and every so often we passed through quiet villages, rough brick and occasional stone cottages, but every village, it seemed, with a medieval church and fine nineteenth-century Mairie at the crossroads. The sun beat down relentlessly through the humid heathaze.
As she spoke of what we passed, Annie's movements beside me were electrifying and, I thought, blood surging momentarily, not always involuntary. Remi dozed off as the journey continued, and I dared a few entirely voluntary movements against Annie's thigh. She leaned closer and my glance showed me her eyelids were fluttering against dozing, but as her tentative surreptitious movements became more certain, I knew this was for the benefit of M. Samuel's gaze in the mirror.
I desperately wanted to touch her with my hand, but it had to remain demurely on my lap. Instead I moved my hidden foot against hers and my blood surged once more as she responded immediately. I could feel her breathing quicken as I sensed my own deepening, and knew now that Annie was as turned on by this strange hot journey as I was.
After a trip of nearly three hours the car turned off the road and onto a farm-track. Annie excitedly pointed out trees, burns, henhouses; landmarks of her childhood; her enthusiasm, fragrance and warmth melting me. The car stopped in the yard: a south-facing low two-storey farmhouse, maybe eighteenth-century, flanked by barn and byre. We were welcomed effusively by Annie's parents and entered a cool low-ceilinged kitchen, long table spread with bread, cheese, cold meats, artichokes, olives, and bottles of wine and cider. Fragrance from fresh-baked bread, and gentle scent from dried herbs hung at windows.
I was introduced properly to Annie's parents, small, sunbaked, dark-clothed, and looking older than I thought they should be. Beside the Samuels they looked like peasants, though I understood they were in fact well-off farmers who owned their own property. Hands were washed at the kitchen sink, a lengthy grace was said, hands graciously took food to mouths though as the conversation built, the food often remained suspended for minutes at a time. Of course I was deluged with questions, but in a coarser French than the clipped Parisian I was growing used to, so at first I had to ask, 'lentement, s'il vous plait?'
Gradually I began to absorb the conversation unthinkingly, and to speak faster myself. Annie on one side, and her father opposite me, ensured neither my plate nor my glass were ever empty, and the whole room glowed warmly. Annie pulled the cheeseboard toward me: 'You must try this one Ecossais: fromage paysan, I made it myself.' And she cut me a wedge of ripe semi-soft cheese, spread it on bread for me.
Annie's folks were tu-toi-ing from the start, in contrast to their stiffer city relatives. I felt I was absorbing the heart of rural France here; surrounded by this warm hard-working family. Remi and Annie's wee brother Pierre soon disappeared through the door. Annie was less formal than when I had met her in Paris, and she too was now using the familiars rather than the stiffer formal verbs and pronouns of our city meetings.
Rich tangy apples followed the farm lunch, and Annie's father announced that there was work to be done. Annie was allocated to the orchard, where the first crop of apples was ready: 'Douglas, veux-tu m'aider?'
We collected baskets and wandered across the yard between fat clucking chookies and Muscovy ducks, then down a lane between wheatfields. I tentatively reached for her hand once we were out of sight of the farmhouse, and my touch was returned warmly. I had had girlfriends in Edinburgh, but this careful flirting with sweet Annie had my heart pumping hard. I knew it was part of the strangeness of exploring this beautiful new world, but I also felt myself incredibly drawn to this bonnie girl, and was flattered and excited that my interest was so warmly returned.
The orchard was beside a river, at some distance from the farmhouse. I asked Annie what we had to do, and she looked at me wistfully: 'I wish we didn't have to work on a day like this! My dad is awful' but her warm expression belied this. I put my basket down and with fingers trembling, placed my hands on her shoulders. She moved slightly towards me and looked up at me coyly, brown eyes wide, inviting...my head moved toward her and we moved closer...and kissed lightly. The soft pliant gentling of her lips on mine was electrifying: my whole body was trembling now. But I dared not overstay my welcome and pulled back. I said: 'Shouldn't we get to work?'
