Chapter (4) A comedy of errors.

  It was obvious that madam still had faith in Khanchouf's ability to solve any problem. He had been her rock, her point of continuity since the passing of her husband Gerard. From first thing this morning when Khanchouf had begun to panic, I'd had doubts. It was not my place to interfere.   

Khanchouf had reached the tractor. He stooped low peering underneath. Madam and I neared the front of the tractor just as Khanchouf stood up.

"Qu'est-que vous aller faire?"  "What are you going to do?" Madam's voice was a little anxious. Her eyes searched his face for a trace of reassurance. Khanchouf gave a gentle half smile.

I let go of her arm and started slowly away to the edge of the field half expecting one of them to call me back, but they didn't.

A few minutes later I heard the familiar sound of a tractor approaching. It was Sabatiers' old Moroccan on the new Renault with the big wheels. He took the tractor to the end of the field and without hesitation turned and straddled a courgette ridge, slowing only slightly, the large orange tractor continued on towards the stuck tractor and when it was level with it the old Moroccan stopped.   

I couldn't hear any of the conversation between Madam Sabran and Khanchouf. They talked as they walked around the half-buried antique farm vehicle.  Their body language seemed more relaxed, Khanchouf had obviously convinced his employer that all would be well.  Khanchouf stood upright and shouted something in Arabic to the old Moroccan who got down from his tractor and made his way off the field towards the workshops alongside the big barn. Madam Sabran then turned and carefully made her way over a couple of rows of courgettes. She turned back to face the scenario, folded her arms in front of her and waited. Sylvianne was still stood on the track smoking a cigarette seemingly uninterested in her heritage. Happy to let her mother deal with all any problems.

The old Moroccan returned shortly afterwards with a small straight handled shovel. The normal vine shovels had long handles, the old Moroccan had managed to find one his size with a broken shaft. The work end was made in the shape of a 'spade suit' from a pack of cards. It would be interesting to know if this was the origin of our Garden Spade. I often wondered which came first, the cards or the tool.

While Khanchouf proceeded to remove some of the soil from beneath the tractor with the shovel, the old Moroccan once again left the field a disappeared in the direction of the small workshops at the far end of the château buildings.

I shouted to Khanchouf. "Tous va bien Khanchouf?"

My colleague rose up with a cheery smile and waved. I took this to mean he was in control.

He continued to dig and as a slit of day light showed beneath the engine block, I couldn't help thinking that it might make more sense if he dug the soil away from in front of the wheels.

The day was hot but a slight breeze had started blowing. This was the start of the 'Mistral' season. A cool wind that blows down the Rhône valley at this time of the year. It was also the time of year when the hot North African 'Sabacan' blew across the Mediterranean carrying fine sand particles with it. These two winds blew from opposing directions. One or the other could last for a week or more. Clothes left out on lines at night to dry would be coated in a powdery mustard coloured dust in the mornings. The Sabacan brought hot dry weather and the Mistral delivered rain and cool nights. A few wispy clouds were forming over the mountains.

Khanchouf now concentrated his digging on the opposite side of the tractor. I had positioned myself on the little road running alongside the field. The road was about 3 feet lower than the level of the field, which was supported along this section buy a substantial stone wall. A very handy height to rest my arms on to observe the proceedings. Also enjoying the morning spectacle were a young Portuguese couple, Dominique and Clara, who where here for the grape harvest, the old Spanish chap who lived a hermits life further down the lane and Hammed Lazarak another of Sabatier's permanent work force and a good friend of Khanchouf.

          We the observers stood in silence. I think we had all worked out that this was not looking like a start of a good plan, but we waited and watched anyway. It was strange but it seemed eerily quieter than usual as if nature knew something that we did not.

After a few minutes the old Moroccan returned dragging clanking chains with him. Slowly and with some effort he managed to drag the chains to the front of kanchoufs' tractor.  I turned to Hammed and moved my shoulders upwards, turning my hands towards him, in the traditional french style that asks the question. "Do YOU understand what's going on?"

I think we had all expected the towing tractor to be arranged in front of the stuck tractor.

However, Khanchouf seemed happy with his efforts. He removed half a dozen shovels of soil from under each of the front wheels, threw the shovel to one side and helped the old Moroccan to fasten the chains onto the front linkage of the tractor.  To my amazement they then took hold of the ends of the two chains and dragged them to the rear of the Renault across the intermediate rows of courgettes. This side-by-side arrangement didn't look like a brilliant idea to me.

Hammed shouted to his friend "Remorque"  "Trailer" and pointed.

Khanchouf raised an arm to signal he'd heard, and then carried on with his task at the rear of the Renault.

Hammed turned to me his eyes wide. "Ill a entendu?" "Did he hear me?"

"Je croix" "I believe so" I replied.

"Qu'est qu'il fait la?" "What's he doing then?"

"S'ai pas" "don't know."

Surely Khanchouf wasn't going to try and pull the tractor free with the trailer still attached and half buried.  Khanchouf obviously had more faith in the power of the big tractor than the rest of us.

Although I could hear their conversations, little or nothing made any sense to me. I understood very little Arabic and even less of the Moroccan dialect they were using.

Khanchouf, happy with the chain arrangement returned to the little farm tractor and Sabatier's old Moroccan mounted his shiny new monster. 

 

          Lying between the two tractors in the middle gully between the courgette rows was a 4" irrigation pipe running the length of the field. This pipe was made up from 3-metre long lightweight alloy tube sections and was designed to be easily dismantled and moved from field to field. However, no one had thought to move the pipe as a precaution and so it lay, long, dull grey and inconspicuous. BIG mistake on the part of the pipe. 

The two tractors were now lined up side by side with three rows of courgettes between them. The chains that joined them lay quite loosely across this gap.  

          As the two tractors built up revs, madam Sabran had second thoughts about how close to get to them. She stepped carefully to the side over two rows of courgettes and stood proud in her faith and knowledge that Khanchouf had once again come to her rescue. 

The old Moroccan stood holding the steering wheel of his tractor with his left hand while holding the front roll bar optimistically with his other. He looked across at Khanchouf, and, then let his foot sharply off the clutch pedal.

   The powerful modern tractor lurched forwards, the old Moroccan lurched backwards letting go of the steering wheel in the process. In its rapid progress forward the new tractor dragged the old rusty chains, which immediately started to tighten, and then the 750 horse power tractor reared its head like an angry stallion. The deep treads on the rear wheels now gripped hard and as the front wheels lifted then touched down again the powerful tractor started the inevitable arcing slide to bring it in front of Khanchouf and his stranded tractor.

      Not exactly the result either of the tractor drivers had anticipated. In the process the new tractor crossed the three rows of courgette plants between them, churning up at least eight more plants from the ground and releasing shrieks of despair from madam Sabran. Bits of leaf, stalk and mashed courgette flew into the air and then rained down all around. Landing on the tractor, Khanchouf and decorating Madam Sabran's black hat.

          The poor irrigation pipes fared no better and at least three sections were crushed, twisted or damaged as the large heavy wheels found no resistance from their light alloy material. As the heavy rear wheel of the tractor landed squarely on one of the pipes, it immediately doubled over into a giant V.  Sensing it was now free from its neighbours the newly designed pipe shot out from under the wheel. It skimmed the ground and reaching the adjacent courgette ridge it launched upwards like a delta wing airplane and, for a short second, was free from gravity. It flew a few feet and crashed atop the next ridge of courgettes and into the soft sandy soil; another courgette plant softened its landing. As the section of pipe lay amongst broken leaves and mashed courgettes, its brief new life ended, a single drop of water fell tearfully from one end.

           In that instant the smaller front wheel of the tractor crashed down catching the end of a second section of pipe. The end immediately buckled under the weight and the pipe stood bolt upright and looked over the tractor just in time to see its friend take to the air as a whoosh of water droplets spouted upwards from the top end. Hundreds of droplets reached the top of their trajectory, became weightless for a microsecond and formed into perfect spheres. Each tiny sphere sparkled in the bright sunlight as they formed tiny lenses, each one capturing and reflecting the scene of mayhem all around them. In only moments they had crashed to the ground. As each droplet hit the sizzling soil it made a brief stain on the sand, which dried, shrank and died. The pipe fell sideways and hit the ground with a dull clunk.

           Madam Sabran was now screeching even louder.

"My pipes, my pipes" she wailed, her hands waving frantically in the air. This was intermixed with more abusive pronouns.

 

          Behind the little wall we had been joined by Ahmed Lazarak, Hammeds' brother who was another of Sabatier's workers. He was probably the best friend of El Khanchouf and had known him for fifteen years.

Martine Durier, a lady in her mid thirties had been out walking her little dog, as she did every day, when she had noticed our little gathering. Curious, she had made her way across from her walk and stood by us. I turned and acknowledged her.

  Her little dog, a black white and brown animal of various ancestry, sat by the edge of the road and started licking those parts of its body that only a dog can reach, Happy in his grooming and quite oblivious to the saga being played out on the field before us.

 

          The old Moroccan had not had time to notice the carnage he was causing and he was still reaching for the steering wheel. His tractor came to a juddering, shuddering holt, just for a micro second, whilst straining to move forward and trying to take Khanchouf's stuck tractor with it.       

With the very brief interruption in forward motion, centrifugal force sent the old Moroccan very slightly forwards and his fingers came within millimetres of the steering wheel. At the very instant his finger ends touched the edge of the steering wheel the first chain snapped. The growling machine found some grip, dug its deep treaded wheels firmly into the ground and reared up again. The old Moroccan fell backwards for a second time.

 With a loud snapping crack the first chain had parted. It separated about half way down its length and whipped back with frightening speed. In that fraction of a second the pulling tractor managed to move forward just a few centimetres but the strain on the second chain was now overwhelming. With another loud crack, the second rusty chain snapped and whiplashed back faster than the first.

While this was taking place, Khanchouf was sitting assuredly quite expecting the two tractors to move forward together.

     The speed at which the chains whiplashed back towards him took Khanchouf completely by surprise. He ducked just in time as the first chain came back and clouted the rusty hood of his make shift door less tractor cab just in front of the non-existent windscreen. This had the effect of throwing bits of plant and sand, which had landed there, up into the air.   

The second chain had broken about a metre from the front tractor and was longer than the first. It made a sensuous snake in the air before it too lashed the side of Khanchouf's stricken tractor with a loud metalic whumpff. Khanchouf, obviously surprised, had shot to his feet and stood rigid with the back of his head pressed against the cab roof. He was staring at his colleague who was still trying to get control of the new tractor.

     With both chains now broken there was nothing restraining the old Moroccans' powerful machine, and realising it was now free the beast once again reared slightly, snorted,  and as the deep tread on the tractors'  4 large new wheels suddenly found grip in the damp sandy soil the animal shot forward with the old Moroccan holding on for dear life.

   Careering completely out of control the wheels tore into the ridges of plants making bits of leaf, stalk and mashed courgette shoot into the air once more. Many more valuable productive courgette plants were destroyed before the old Moroccan got both hands back onto the steering wheel and the tractor was once again under partial control.

     Sensing this was not going well the old Moroccan didn’t stop to face the wrath of Madam Sabran. He just bounced straight off the end of the field with the remains of the broken chains clattering behind him and disappeared down the road. With sand and bits of green flying high into air from the tyres, the tractor continued to accelerate away.

Shrieks of abuse and despair bellowed from madam Sabran as her words chased after the old Moroccan. They followed his escape route and rang loud in his ears. He never looked back.  

Author's Note

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Reviews

[Kathy Van Kurin]

MAD ENGLISHMAN,
"Chaper (4) a comedy of errors"
The story is a sunny brilliance of farmland beauty. Who expects it to begin rolling in the wrong direction, (pun intended.) Plants and rich loamy soil flying with the dislodging of your tractor, which feels like one of the characters of your story before Iv'e finished reading.
A thouroughly enjoyable experience this was!. French words challenged me. Khanchouf was a brave hearted soul and I was sad to see him flee the humiliation of a thwarted job. Poor guy.
Irrigation water spraying down in tiny lenses catching the whole predicament below was a great word necklace. "Pipe stood bolt upright" and another one flies into the air. The process is set well with yourself, Madame, a neighbor lady, her dog all watching. What a story. It is wonderful!!
Bless you. I wish you could publish this. It has a few words that could be changed; there-their. I think. Anyway, It was a joy to read as the others were before.
Blessings,
Kathy

[MAD ENGLISHMAN]

Thank you again Kathy for reading. If you spot mistakes please tell me. I enjoy writing about my adventures. I've not had much time to continue that particular project but hopefully things will change in the near future. Who knows one day I may get to publish my life stories.

[Kathy Van Kurin]

Oh that would be wonderful. I wish more people would read them as they are just wonderful!
Bless you muchly!
Kathy