Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Jacques could have been an extra in a film. When I first met him, he was dressed as the perfect French peasant - old baggy trousers, blue farmer's jacket, battered bargee hat and boots that had probably gone right through the Second World War with him.

   His face would have been a make-up artist's triumph but it was all his own - leathery skin, scuffed and creased like his boots, small watery eyes red-rimmed from too much wine, and at one side of his thin mouth, like a tattoo gone wrong, a brown indelible stain from years of smoking.

   Actually, I never saw Jacques really smoke, I mean inhale, take the cigarette from his mouth and blow out the smoke with a certain amount of pleasure or satisfaction. Instead, the misshapen roll-up, that was never more than a stub end, just hung on his bottom lip, glued by saliva and nicotine tar. Even when he spoke or laughed, or as he frequently did, coughed as though his lungs were turning themselves inside out, it stayed fixed to his lips. From time to time, he spat it out but not before first using it to light another that seemed to have been lit several times before.

   Ever since he was knocked down by a cow, he has walked with a limp which only adds to the authenticity of his role as the quintessential paysan. He daily hobbles up my lane, resting from time to time on a roughly cut hazel stick that seems grafted onto his hand. The stick is very versatile. Firstly, it's essential for herding the huge Charolais cows that can so easily shove you into a ditch, as Jacques knows to his cost. It's also handy for poking under damp bushes in autumn when foraging for snails. He offered me some once but I declined, having looked into the plastic bag that he held out to me. The foaming mass inside put me off trying this particular French delicacy. And it's useful for something that seems to give him the most pleasure - checking the solidity of structures - particularly mine - with a hefty whack. Whether this is to reassure me that my house, barn or shed is not about to fall down or to brag about the superiority of French craftsmanship, I will never know because the thing about Jacques is that I don't understand a word he's saying. Well, that's an exaggeration - perhaps one word in five. The rest are in a language I don't understand - Berrichon. Think broad Geordie or Glaswegian, and their similarity to BBC English and you will have Berrichon's similarity to the French I learned at school.

   When I moved into the hamlet where I had bought some land, Jacques came by often, usually when I wanted to enjoy the peaceful solitude of early evening by myself. I indulged him at first, wishing to be polite and respectful to my newly adopted neighbours. So I stood, listening attentively as he rattled on in this unknown language, nodding my head from time to time - more out of politeness than comprehension. Sometimes, I was bold and said in my best 'A' level French 'I'm sorry, I don't understand. Please say it simply and slowly.' He would look at me astonished, slap his hands on his thighs with exasperation and repeat what he had said in exactly the same way, only louder. (A trick he might have learned from the English had he met any before me.) Then he would soften his voice, pat my arm and chuckle - but at what? At my incomprehension, or at the funny thing he had just said to me knowing I would not understand?Finally, my frustration would overcome my desire to be polite and I would threaten to speak to him in English and see how he liked that!

   But it was hard to get away from him. Jacques doesn't seem to understand the concept of personal space. Sometimes, he comes so close, I find myself breathing in the air he has just exhaled. Not a pleasant experience! I've found ways to widen the gap between us. I slide one foot backwards and then shift my weight onto it, or I'll take a few steps towards the door, pretending to listen to a phone that might be ringing. Jacques never notices these subtle and very English ways of dealing with uncomfortable proximity. In fact, it only makes him advance as he senses that he is no longer close enough to say what he wants to tell me.

   One of the things that people do when they are cornered by someone whose conversation is uninteresting or incomprehensible, is to nod their heads and make little polite 'hmm' sounds to reassure the speaker - falsely of course - that they have their attention. At first I practised this deception on Jacques, until I came unstuck.

   One evening when he had come round angling for a 'petit rouge', I tried to make the conversation less one-sided by asking him what happened in our commune to mark Bastille Day, the most important day in the French calendar. I picked out odd words from his reply and pieced together that there would be a dance in the main village and fireworks. Finally, I made it clear that I was going inside and that it was time to say goodnight. Jacques bid me 'Bon soir' and wobbled off down the lane.

   On the evening of the fourteenth of July, there was a knock at my door. I opened it to a Jacques I had never seen before; clean-shaven, hair washed, and wearing what must have been his best clothes. He looked askance at my tee-shirt and jeans, and even without the benefit of a translator, I realised in a flash what it meant. He had come to take me to the dance. Or, more accurately, for me to take him to the dance since the only transport Jacques owned was an ancient tractor and I had a car.

   In our previous exchange, he had obviously interpreted my query about Bastille Day as a hint that I would like to be invited to accompany him to the dance.No doubt, he had suggested it quite openly and taken my politely nodding head as confirmation of our date. I felt mortified. I had absolutely no desire to go anywhere with this old bachelor. And anyway, how would it be interpreted by him or my neighbours if I did? Was going to a dance with someone a sign that you had an 'understanding' or a promise of something more to come? Would it be considered scandalous or pitiable? Would I find myself engaged to be married?

   'No, I am not going to the dance,' I said in a clear and assertive tone and immediately felt shame and pity at his crest-fallen face. Not only was he not going with the 'little Englishwoman' but he might not get to the dance at all since his tractor was very unreliable. He blew out his cheeks and shrugged his shoulders, this time not in exasperation but in uncomprehending disappointment. I closed the door and he, no doubt, went off to crank up the fifty-year-old tractor.

   Jacques has since forgiven me, I assume, because he continues to come round to chat away in his obscure language. But these days, I keep my head perfectly still.