The Long Hot Summer by Mary Moody Page B

convinced he would be dead on arrival and was therefore amazed when he returned the following day to visit Jock only to find him sitting up brightly in his bed tucking into the substantial regulation hospital lunch that includes a small bottle of red wine.
    Mentally, Jock is as sharp as ever and his wit and comic timing remain unchanged, making him one of the most sought-after dinner party companions in the region. He has, however, become a bit vague about details and sometimes forgets if an invitation has been issued, especially if the request has been made in the middle of a lunch or dinner when the wine is flowing. A lot of us fall into the same trap. The social scene is so casual that engagements are not written down and therefore are often not remembered. It’s not that uncommon for Jock not to show up and the host or hostess to call and ask, ‘Where are you, Jock? We are about to sit down.’ And for him to reply, ‘I wasn’t invited.’ Then quickly pick up his car keys and head for the door.
    Jock’s performance with cars and driving in recent years has also been somewhat alarming. A year ago he totalled his trusty Peugeot driving home after a long lunch when his foot slipped from the brake onto the accelerator while he was parking outside his ancient stone cottage in the late afternoon. His version of events was that ‘the house reared up in front of the car’, and the result caused much mirth among his circle of friends, although for Jock it meant forking out for a new (second-hand) Peugeot, as he was not covered by comprehensive insurance.
    This year’s incident involved my house and the car of our mutual friend, Anthony. It was the first night of the Frayssinet village fête – a four-day extravaganza of music, food and family fun. The first evening event was moules frites (meal of musselsand chips) in the salle de fête (community hall) behind the mairie (town hall) opposite my little village house. I was in Australia at the time and so have to retell this tale second-hand from those who were witnesses.
    A table of more than twenty had been organised by Miles and Anne, who live just up the road from the mairie in a substantial old farmhouse, Le Clos, set back from the road in a large rambling garden. The plan was for people to leave their cars in the mairie car park and walk up to Le Clos for an aperitif or two prior to the meal. Jock arrived on time and left his car outside the mairie. Anthony arrived quite a bit later and, finding the car park full, decided to tuck his Land Rover safely into the narrow space between my house and the derelict house next door. I often park my own car in this handy spot when in residence.
    At eight o’clock the group walked down towards the salle de fête and noticed Jock’s car parked at an awkward angle outside my house. More than awkward – indeed, it was sticking precariously out into the road. On closer inspection it was discovered that the car had escaped from its original parking spot and careered across the narrow but always busy road, where it had crashed into Anthony’s smart vehicle, removing the bumper bar and numberplate, before bouncing unceremoniously into the corner of my house (only a fraction away from my newly planted deep purple clematis). The back of Jock’s car was quite badly smashed about and both lights were wrecked – another huge garage bill to add to the ongoing expense of the summer. His new car was an automatic and the general consensus was that Jock had not managed to put it into ‘park’ or had forgotten to pull on the handbrake. He insists that there must have been some outside intervention – perhaps he had parked in the wrongplace and some irate local had let off the handbrake to teach him a lesson.
    When I phoned from Australia the next morning, having heard the bad news on the grapevine, he simply reported, with his usual wry delivery, ‘It hasn’t been a