To Bounce or not to Bounce, that is the question....

Many of my readers have asked me to elaborate on one of my occupations before becoming a writer, namely on how I became a bouncer in a disco on the French Riviera. This is the abridged version.

 May 1971, Montpellier, South of France

“There are no summer jobs in Montreal”. After a winter spent on a shoestring budget in Montpellier studying law, the news from my friend Jeffrey is disappointing, to put it mildly. I’m about to run out of money and  been counting on finding work back home, in order to continue my law studies at University of Ottawa.

My landlord Albert Legrand, the restaurant owner over which I rented a room, had just hired a dishwasher, his nephew, so my temporary services are no longer needed.“There’s that new place Tiffany’s, a disco in Palavas. Why don’t you try there?” said Albert  while stirring a pot full of his traditional bouillabaisse.

 I splurge for a bus ticket and head for Palavas, a quaint fishing village on the Mediterranean, a dozen kilometers south of Montpellier. Just before reaching the village, the bus stops at an intersection and to the right I see a modern structure in white stucco and cement.  A garish sign on the left side in huge red letters reads “Tiffany’s”. I get out and walk towards the long flat white building with a slightly undulating roof, its red tiles retaining a hint of the traditional.

At the front, two large wooden doors adorned with bronze knockers form the entrance.  I knock.
After a moment a petite brunette appears, leaning against one of the half -opened doors.” Oui?”
“I’m looking for un job”.
She looks me up and down, turns and yells. “Mario, someone here pour un job.”
A voice back in the room yells back : “ Pas besoin.”
“Dommage,” she says, hunching her shoulders in powerlessness. She looks genuinely sorry.

I take in a deep breath and start to walk back towards the street, when she says: “ minute. I’ll talk to Mario.”She turns, and moments later, Mario and she appear. Mario is tall, thin, has a pallid complexion and a head full of unkempt, frizzy black hair.

“Tu veux un job?”

“Oui.”

“Come”. He signals for me to follow him, and we enter the discothèque.  Before us, a wide open room in an undulating shape, at the right of which is a bar. To the left, down a couple of steps the dance area, where workers are sanding the wooden floor.
We cross the main room, enter a small office where Mario goes behind the desk and sits down. He gestures me to the chair in front.
After a brief exchange, he says: “We open this Saturday and we need a cashier.”
My mood brightens, but I try not to look too eager. “How much does it pay?”
“500 francs per week. 6pm to 3am. Mondays off.”
“Sounds good.”
“Fine. You’ve met Annette. Come meet my brother.”

We go to the adjoining room, and Mario introduces me to Sergio, a man with an easy smile, probably early thirties, tanned complexion and shoulder- length wavy brown hair. After I tell them I’m a Canadian law student at Université de Montpelllier, their interest in me increases.  I learn that Sergio and Mario Ganzoni are Swiss entrepreneurs who are developing disco franchises. Montpellier is their third, after Tel-Aviv and Torremolinos.

I’m hired, and my spirits soar. A summer in Montpellier presages busloads of Scandinavian blondes coming to learn French at the University, and develop their tans on the sandy beaches of the French Riviera. As a bilingual Canadian, I am the perfect interpreter cum teacher. Yes!
(As it turns out, the blondes turn out to be more Dutch than Swedish, and I take a liking to Jolette from Amsterdam, whose French improves dramatically by frequenting yours truly.)

Weeks turn into months and the long white nights take their toll, and by the time 3 am, (read more 5 am) rolls around every morning, I’m completely wiped and looking forward to a day’s rest. By the end of July, I know every song played by the disco guy, and can’t wait till he plays “Satisfaction”, signaling the close of the night. My little cashier’s cubicle next to the entrance is hot, stuffy and very uncomfortable. Plus I’m bored out of my mind.

That’s when it all changes. So far, next to my cubicle at the entrance stand two Brits from Leeds, bouncers Alan and Dave. Dave says he’s spent four years in the Marines, and I have absolutely no reason not to believe him. He’ll routinely lift a boisterous drunk with one hand and toss him out onto the pavement. End of commotion. Thin but wiry Alan is there for good measure, or when a fight breaks out inside the disco, which is not infrequent. Unfortunately one day Dave doesn’t show up for work, never to be seen again. Instantly rumors abound.  Did he piss off the wrong people? Remember, Montpellier is only a couple of hours away from Marseille, the crime capital of France at the time. He is replaced by Jean, a weight lifter built like a Panzer tank and a Judo specialist.

But there’s a problem. Every time there’s a commotion or a brawl, Jean isn’t there. Coincidence at first ? Until someone notices that every time there’s a fight, Jean’s in the toilets.
End of Jean. The next evening, Mario calls me to his office. “How would you like a promotion?”

I laugh. “How much?”
“750 francs, plus free suppers.”
“1000.”
“D’accord. You start tonight.”

The first week is relatively uneventful. Alan and I get along well, and we get rid of some undesirables without too much fuss. A bit of strong-arming, not much more. But then one night, while standing guard outside at the entrance, we hear gunshots coming from inside the disco.

“Shit!” yells Alan.

We peer cautiously inside the disco hall and see Roger, a regular but consummate hothead and alky, tottering out of control, waving a pistol at the ceiling. More shots, as everybody panics and makes a run for the exits. We realize he’s trying to shoot the small flashing lights of the disco’s ceiling. Finally he collapses in a drunken stupor, murmuring incomprehensibly.

I grab Roger’s pistol from him, while Alan pins him to the floor. After a moment, we carry him to his car, and a couple of friends drive him home. Mario, who has seen all this, tells his friends to tell Roger he’s not coming back.
Now you must understand the Southern French culture. These guys are all buddies from Marseille, grew up together, know each other inside out, their families, their friends. It’s one thing not to hold one’s liquor, but way worse to be ostracized, banned from the best watering hole in the area, the “in” place to be and to be seen every weekend. Suddenly you’re no longer part of the crowd.
Roger comes back the next day to apologize, but Mario and Sergio are implacable: no.

A few days go by, until one night I think I recognize a car coming to a stop in the parking lot, a couple of hundred yards away.
“Isn’t that Roger’s car?” I say to Alan.
“Yeah, think so.”
The driver gets out slowly. It’s Roger.
“Not good,” says Alan.
Roger sees us and waves, then slowly goes to the back of his car and opens the trunk.
He pulls out what looks like a duffle bag and sets in on the pavement, next to the car. He opens the bag and pulls out a tripod, then the business end of a machine gun.

“Jesus Christ !” says Alan.
We enter the disco, close the doors. Alan runs to the office, and tells Mario who rushes to the cashier cubicle to see for himself. Roger is now preparing the ammunition box next to his machine gun. “Il est completement fou.”
I turn to Mario :“Time to call the cops.”
Mario chuckles. “They won’t come unless there are dead bodies. For them, this is gang warfare, out of their jurisdiction.” Mario turns to Alan : “is Néné here?
“I think I saw him at the bar.”
“Get him here quick.”

Minutes later, Néné Azais, a 5 ft 2 inch Gitan, successful Marseille restaurateur and respected patron of Tiffany’s, is peering through the cashier window.

“Merde. ¨Ça, c’est trop!

Néné, long black mane, wearing a white open blouse, gold bracelets and fitted bell bottom pants, imposes respect by his presence, and a look that could cut through tungsten steel. He goes back to the bar, gets a pistol from one of his friends, and tucks it in his belt behind his back.

“Open the door,” he tells me.
“Are you sure?”
“Oui.”
I open, Néné walks out, very slowly, hands up in the air. He stops about 20 ft out. I close the door.

We watch from the cubicle as Néné talks to Roger, who is sitting behind his gun, ready to open fire. After what seems like an eternity Néné lowers his hands slowly, takes his gun from behind him and deposits it slowly on the ground. More interminable minutes go by, more talk and finally we see Roger get up, start dismantling his weapon, and putting it back in the duffle bag.

A few days later, Mario calls me to his office, thanks me for keeping my cool, and makes me another offer: to become part of their organization on a permanent basis, and help develop other franchises. He and Sergio are planning to expand into North America and he thinks Canada, particularly Quebec, would be the perfect place to start.
I say I’ll think about it.
I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I’d accepted his offer.

.

Queen Anne Stuart Part Three The Cinderella Princess by Rosemary Morris

To find out more about Rosemary Morris' books please click the cover above.

Queen Anne Stuart
Part Three
The Cinderella Princess

Princess Anne’s relationship with Sarah Jennings, the future Duchess of Marlborough would last into her middle age.
Sarah, a year younger than Anne’s fifteen-year-old stepmother, was the daughter of a landed gentleman and the younger sister of Frances Jennings, a maid of honour, appointed to serve Anne’s mother.
At the age of twelve, Sarah, who would play such a crucial role in the Cinderella princess’s life, was appointed as one of her attendants. Years later Sara wrote: ‘We had used to play together when she was a child and she even then expressed a particular fondness for me. This inclination increased with our years. I was often at Court and the Princess always distinguished me by the pleasure she took to honour me, preferably to others, with her conversation and confidence. In all her parties for amusement, I was sure by her choice to be one.’
Kneller’s portrait of the teenage Sarah reveals a pretty girl with an oval face, broad forehead, fair hair and confident blue eyes. Yet no portrait could reveal her vivacity and charm.
It is not surprising that the motherless, Cinderella princess living in the shadow of her older, cleverer sister, Mary, and the daughters of her governess, Lady Frances Villiers, became deeply attached to Sarah.
Anne was pretty with plump features, red-brown hair and her mother’s elegant hands of which she was very proud. However, she was shy, easily ignored and all too aware of her short-comings – her poor education did nothing to boost her confidence. As Sarah said years later: Your Majesty has had the misfortune to be misinformed in general things even from twelve years old.
Undoubtedly, there was no reason to provide Anne and her sister with a better education because it was not unlikely that the Queen would provide an heir to the throne. In her day few women could read and write – perhaps as few as one in a hundred. For Anne it is likely that little more than dancing, drawing, French and music were required to prepare her for life at court. Her general education was neglected but not her religious education which was rigorous and the foundation of her belief in the teachings of the Anglican faith.
Anne and Mary lived apart from the court at Whitehall and their indulgent Roman Catholic father and step-father. Expected to be virtuous, the sisters could not have been totally unaware of the licentiousness of their uncle’s court and that both their uncle, the king, and her father had acknowledged illegitimate children. Indeed, their governess, Lady Frances Villiers, wife of Colonel Villiers, the nephew of the ill-fated Duke of Buckingham, a favourite of James I and his son, Charles I, was the daughter of the king’s notorious mistress, Barbara Castlemaine.
Lax though King Charles II’s morals were, he took some interest in Anne who would be one of the best guitar players at court. She also had a pleasing voice and he ordered the actress, Mrs Barry, to give Anne and Mary elocution lessons. These stood Anne in good stead when, as Queen, she addressed Parliament and no doubt when she and Mary took part in some of the masques and plays popular at Charles II’s Court.
‘Cinderella’ and Mary grew up in the company of clerics and women, secluded from Whitehall with little to entertain them. One can imagine the boring conversations, stifling closets (small rooms) and endless card games. Sarah declared: I wished myself out of Court as much as I had desired to come into it before I knew what it was.
Despite boredom and whatever storms lay ahead, Anne dearly loved her sister. So much so that when Mary married her Dutch cousin, William of Orange, in 1677 and Anne lay in bed suffering from smallpox, her father, who visited her every day, ordered that she should not be told her sister had departed for the Continent. The charade went as far as messages, purported to be from Mary asking about her health, were delivered to Anne.
While Anne’s tutor fretted in case her fanatical Roman Catholic nurse influenced her when Anne was ill, as soon as she recovered, Anne had to cope with the death of her governess. Fortunately, she still had Sarah’s companionship and enjoyed the vast grounds of Richmond Palace, leased by the king for his nieces. This tranquillity would soon be disturbed by the so called ‘Popish Plot’. And it is not unreasonable to suppose that her mind would be occupied with thoughts of who she would marry.

Extract from Tangled Love
1693

Nine-year-old Richelda Shaw sat on the floor in her nursery. She pulled a quilt over her head to block out the thunder pealing outside the ancient manor house, while an even fiercer storm raged deep within. Eyes closed, she remained as motionless as a marble statue.
Elsie, her mother’s personal maid, removed the quilt from her head. “Stand up child, there’s nothing to be frightened of. Come, your father’s waiting for you.”
Richelda trembled. Until now Father’s short visits from France meant gifts and laughter. This one made Mother cry while servants spoke in hushed tones.
Followed by Elsie, Richelda hurried down the broad oak stairs. For a moment, she paused to admire Lilies of the Valley in a Delft bowl. Only yesterday, she had picked the flowers to welcome Father home, and then arranged them with tender care. Now, the bowl stood on a chest, beneath a pair of crossed broadswords hanging on the wall.
Elsie opened the massive door of the great hall where Father waited at one side of an enormous hearth. Richelda hesitated. Her eyes searched for her mother before she walked across the floor, spread her skirts wide, and knelt before him.
Father placed his right hand on her bent head. “Bless you, daughter; may God keep you safe.”
He smiled. “Stand up, child. Upon my word, sweetheart, your hair reminds me of a golden rose. How glad I am to see roses bloom in these troubled times.”
Richelda stood but dared not speak, for she did not know him well.
Putting an arm round her waist, he drew her to him. “Come, do not be nervous of your father, child. Tell me if you know King James II holds court in France while his daughter, Mary, and William, his son-in-law, rule, after seizing his throne?”
“Yes, Mother told me we are well rid of King James and his Papist wife,” she piped up, proud of her knowledge.
With a sigh, Father lifted her onto his knee. “Richelda, I must follow His Majesty, for I swore an oath of allegiance to him. Tell me, child, while King James lives, how can I with honour swear allegiance to his disloyal daughter and her husband?”
Unable to think of a reply, she lowered her head, breathing in his spicy perfume.
Father held her closer. “Your mother pleads with me to declare myself for William and Mary. She begs me not to return to France, but I am obliged to serve King James. Do you understand?”
As she nodded, her cheek brushed against his velvet coat. “Yes, I understand, my tutor told me why many gentlemen will not serve the new king and queen.”
“If you remain in England, you will be safe. Bellemont is part of your mother’s dowry, so I doubt it will be confiscated.”
If she remained in England! Startled, she stared at him.

Sil’s Five Star Review of Tangled Love
A Superb Page Turner

Rosemary Morris has crafted a superb novel set in the Queen Anne time-period in London. The historical details are accurately researched and artfully presented, making excellent use of vivid sensory details. Further, the characters spring to life, each fully moulded into his or her unique personality.
Bound by a childhood promise made to her father, protagonist Richelda faces tough challenges nearly a decade later. Poor and now orphaned, she dreams of a better future with all the trappings of the good life. But, to keep her promise, she must regain the ancestral home, Field House, which is said to contain hidden treasure. Her vow to her father is sealed by a ruby ring that she wears on a chain around her neck--a constant reminder of her promise.
Dudley, her childhood sweetheart, plus the charismatic Viscount Lord Chesney, her suitor in an arranged marriage by her wealthy aunt, set the stage for Richelda's doubts and uncertainties. Dudley won her heart years earlier, but is he all that he appears to be? Chesney, on the other hand, is the owner of Field House and could offer her the life she dreams about in her ancestral home. Further, Aunt Isobel has promised to make Richelda her heiress on the condition she does indeed marry Lord Chesney. Yet are her push-pull feelings for Chesney strong enough to merit a marriage vow? Throughout the story, Richelda never disappoints. She is spirited, fiercely independent, sweet, and loving--truly a three-dimensional character.
Author Rosemary Morris takes her readers gently by the hand and leads them down a highly entertaining pathway filled with love, intrigue, deceit, and mystery. Highly recommended. A 5 Star winner!



About Rosemary Morris

Writing a novel is a solitary occupation. Every day, I am alone with my desktop working for at least eight hours, When I’m not writing, I read and post e-mails, write blogs, deal with business and study historical non-fiction to research my new romantic historical novel. The protagonists in my tales of times past are not twenty-first characters in costume.
As a historical novelist I don’t think it is possible to portray every minute fact about the past accurately, but I have a responsibility my readers to thoroughly research the eras in which my novels are set. In addition to reading non-fiction and making detailed notes, I visit libraries, museums, stately homes and other places of historical interest.
When my words flow well, I am tempted to work for many hours without a break. That would be detrimental. Writing is mentally and physically tiring, so I have a five-minute break every hour, during which I stretch and exercise my eyes. If the weather permits, I work in my organic garden. I also visit the health suite at the leisure centre to swim and enjoy the jacuzzi, steam room and sauna.
I don’t want to be a writer in a garret but sometimes I wish I lived in an ivory tower with nothing to distract me from my imaginary companions. However, the daily chores, cleaning, washing clothes, shopping etc., keep my feet on the ground, so does time with family and friends.

Novels by Rosemary Morris

Early 18th Century novels: Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess
Regency Novels False Pretences, Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child and Thursday’s Child. Friday’s Child to be published in June 2019
Mediaeval Novel Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

More Dirt and Foulness in 17th Century London by Katherine Pym

Buy Here

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Later model of Coach with Seat-Box higher & safer

Riding in a coach sounds romantic. I certainly would like to climb into a 17^th century ‘chariot’ as Pepys says on occasion. It would be cool. 

I’ve read a few historical fiction novels where the hero seduces the heroine in a carriage as it rolls down a neat cobblestone lane, the coach lanterns slightly swaying. The visual is pretty. It is clean. Flowers scent the air. Unfortunately, some things in these novels aren’t quite correct. 

Most of the middling sort of society did not own horses and until the latter half of Queen Elizabeth I’s reign, my sources say there were no coaches (carts, yes). Everyday folk  foot-slogged wherever they wanted to go. When they finally came onto the scene, you had to be rich to own one. 

Coaches of the late 16^th & early 17^th centuries were not like what we see in movies and television. They were heavy, cumbersome boxes attached to solid frames with wheels. They made for a teeth rattling trip.  

Sometimes leather flaps covered the windows. When doors were attached, they were generally ill-fitted. Cold, rain and dirt found their way inside. Travel was uncomfortable and unwieldy. Eventually, the heavy coach was suspended by great leather straps but the swaying this produced caused terrible motion sickness.  

17th century Coachman

During most of the 17^th century, the coach had no box-seat. The coachman was forced to sit or stand on a low platform attached to the coach pole. If he sat, there was no place to rest his feet. This put his head very close to the horses’ hooves where a coachman could easily be kicked or splattered with mud and waste. The coachman’s foot could snag a root or an object and be pulled under the chassis, breaking a leg.

If you think of a coachman and postilions in plush livery with lace and shiny boots as they jaunt down a country lane, don’t. They would be mud splattered, the lace, their faces, hats and clothes fouled by the time they reached their destination.

The old Roman roads were in disrepair. Other highways were mud tracks or scratched paths. In springtime, farmers plowed across roads then people, carts and horses brazenly trod over this, crushing seed and new growth. Wheel ruts were deep. Great holes pockmarked thoroughfares that could break a horse’s leg, do irreparable damage to a cart or coach. 

Coach with low, unsafe seat-box

The actual city of London resided within its walls, an area of approximately one square mile. Everything beyond was considered the Liberties or suburbs. City lanes were narrow. As years went by coaches were built taller, wider. (Seat boxes were placed higher, equipped with foot rests.)Their sides and roofs scraped along cantilever houses, destroyed the edges of jutting eaves, knocked off butchers’ displays of hanging meats, pushed over vegetable stands. In London, iron clad wheels were outlawed due to the ear splitting noise and road destruction, but for the most part, this law was ignored.

By 1636, it is suggested upwards to 6,000 coaches rumbled up and down the lanes of London, (which seems excessively over the mark). Gridlock! Another source stated 300-700, which is still pretty darn crowded.  

Coaches fought with pedestrians, merchants with loaded carts, sedan chairs and men and women on horses. They rolled down lanes that were a combination of pavers, cobblestones and dirt, piles of muck and filthy mud running down center kennels. [Men were allowed to urinate on fires and empty their bladders in the street.] Cattle and sheep were herded through town. There were no fenders on the coach wheels. This allowed mud and other foul substances to wash onto the coachman and passengers.

Waterman plying his trade on the Thames

Another mode of dirty travel:

Watermen plied their boats for hire up and down the River Thames. They had a strong guild. They were tough and ornery. You never wanted to cross a wherriman. When they were pressed into service during the 2^nd Anglo/Dutch war, soldiers were sent to keep them subdued. Considering the crush of coaches in London, taking a wherry where you wanted to go probably proved to be much faster.

But there were issues. The Thames is a tidal river. When the tide was out, oftentimes you had to walk to the boat on planks of wood spread over mud that held centuries of filth.  London Bridge on the Southwark side of the river held heads of beheaded traitors on pikes. Once the flesh was eaten away, the caretaker would fling the skulls off the Bridge where they sank into river mud.  

The river was used for suicides. Men and women jumped off the Bridge to land willy-nilly on anything flowing beneath. Bodies would bloat up and float for days before the city scavengers could retrieve them. Dogs and rats had a tendency to find their way there, too, where they’d be left to rot.  

The Thames was also a dumping ground, from the Fleet River that was a sewer to anyone who wanted to get rid of something. Your wherriman guided the boat through this sludge to your destination.

Then there was the sedan chair.

Like a fly or a gnat, these little guys buzzed underfoot and added to the congestion. Cramped and closed in, it was a cleaner way to travel once you got into the chair.

Attached by two hefty poles, men at each end of the chair carried you to where you wanted to go. They were the ones who got dirty during the journey, not you, unless somehow a man tripped and the whole chair fell to the ground. I don’t want to go into all the hazards this would cause especially if it had been raining. 

Sedan Chair carried by mules. Nifty way to go.

So, no matter what you did in the 17^th century, where you went in London, prepare to get dirty. If you go back in time, go with an open mind.

You’ll find yourself in a rollicking loud place, filled with all sorts of people. Your mind will stagger from the myriad of visuals and powerful scents. Just hope you can safely return to the present where you can take a bath in warm, clean water.

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Many thanks to:

Wikicommons, public domain for sedan chairs

Other pictures taken from the book Travel in England, 1925

Travel in England in the 17^th century by Joan Parkes, Oxford University Press, London 1925

Old and New London: Westminster and the western suburbs By Walter Thornbury, Edward Walford, Vol IV, London 1891