a very special French lady

I met the elderly gentleman at a brocante fair, he was selling hand made fishing flies.  Works of beauty, exquisite knots of thread and feather and beads, designed to lure and to deceive.  But it wasn't the boxes of flies that drew me in, it was the old piece of fabric thrown across a trestle table and used to create his stall.  A length of pale grey ticking, a most unusual colour, beautiful.

I so wanted that fabric.  My eyes swept along the table, piled high with dozens of boxes, and also crockery and glass ware, the sort of strange mix you only see at these country brocante fairs.

He came up to me, wanting to know what had caught my eye.  " Bonjour mademoiselle".   I smiled.  We chatted about fly fishing, about his dying craft, about how cold it was for selling outdoors, until finally I broke it to him: "Actually, it's your old piece of fabric I'd like to buy".  A raised eyebrow, discreet cough, shrug of Gallic shoulders and a quick pursing of moustached lips as he tried to put a price to the unexpected trophy.

He bought himself some time:  "I have to ask ma femme", and wandered a few steps away, talking into his mobile phone.  He came back looking concerned.  "I'm so sorry...., but my wife doesn't really want to sell that .... it's very useful to her.... she has more at home ... they aren't in very good condition ....  come back this evening when I pack up .... or you could call ... here's my telephone number ... then that's settled, we'll see you tomorrow...."  !!

I left the fair pleased with a few other purchases, but in a total muddle about the fabric.  Did they want to sell at all?    The next day we spoke on the phone and after a few very searching questions, the rather intimidating lady gave me her address and I jumped in the car and headed off across the valley.

As I drove to their small village, I had no idea whether the trip would be worthwhile.  She had insisted on the phone that she didn't want to sell, but at the same time, for a non-seller, she gave me a load of appetite- whetting information.

I finally found their tiny house, very modest, with a happy dog in the small scruffy but flower filled garden.  A lady came out to greet me.  Beautiful.   Walking tall, her elegance strangely out of place in such a modest setting.

She must have been about 75 years old.  Smooth pale skin, well cut grey hair and clear blue eyes that looked right through me.

The piece of grey ticking I had seen at the fair was draped over a garden chair - even better than I had remembered it -  on the table was another piece of red and beige striped ticking, my heart missed a beat.

When you handle old textiles as much as I do, you can recognise a special find just by it's fold.  Linen folds in a soft, supple, heavy manner, like no other fabric.  Pure linen ticking is very unusual today, it hasn't been made since the late 1800's.

But we weren't going to talk about the ticking straight away.  First there were questions.  She wanted to test my credentials:  did I know anything about fabrics?  did I know how to care for old textiles?  how did I iron my sheets (I kid you not!) ? where was I from?  "Ah England .... (she broke into perfect English)... I used to have some very good friends in Kent" she said.

After the  ten minute interrogation I was finally allowed to touch the ticking. "So, as I told you, I can't possibly sell these, they are so useful to me, and they are part of my past life, before I came here ....( her arm lifted and swept around to show the little house and garden)  and they aren't even in good condition any more,  look ..."  She showed me the tiny holes at one end of the grey ticking and several tears in the other piece.

Yet, despite, all her words about wanting to keep them, I was sure she wanted to sell.  For the first time she let me talk:  I smiled,  "Your fabrics are stunning, I have quite a collection at home, but I haven't often seen any this beautiful"

She looked me in the eye and named her price.  I agreed without hesitation and she suggested I step inside to see 'the rest'.

The tiny house was more than cramped.  It looked as if the contents of a large château had been fitted into a garden shed.    "Excusez-moi" she fussed, I know I have kept too much, but when I had to leave my last home for unfortunate reasons, I couldn't leave it all behind.

And then it really started.  From cupboards and from behind doors came a steady flow of monogrammed  porcelain, of crystal, of fine linen and shining silver.   In between each new box that was opened she told me more about her family, her former splendour and her misfortune.



I didn't take any photos while I was there and I can't tell you everything she shared with me; that would be disrespectful to the confidence she showed me.  But I can say that I was fortunate to meet this woman.  She grew up in the lap of luxury, she married well, she was widowed, and through a tragic turn of events she lost everything.

 Today she has created a new life with a charming gentleman who makes fishing flies.  They live simply but they are happy, and she still insists on only using linen bedsheets and silver cutlery.  Now and again she meets someone like myself, and takes pleasure in getting out the treasures she has kept, in remembering easier times, and in a quality and handwork that has now disappeared for ever.

"And the ticking?" I hear you say.  Well yes, I did come away with both pieces of ticking and also with a couple of paintings she didn't have the space for.  I am thrilled to bits with my afternoon and with the treasure.  I hope you have liked hearing about it all.