Jeannette is 97

I’d been investigating the country roads behind Argelès and quite by surprise found myself behind the cemetery as she emerged. She had been visiting her husband and a woman, who was always at Francks with a respirator and oxygen tank, whom I hadn’t realised died.

Tears were streaming down Jeannette’s cheeks as she told me about how many flowers were on the woman’s grave. The two had often talked. Jeannette kept a bench outside her house so if the woman lacked the energy to walk up the hill, she would have a place to sit.

Jeannette is always Madame to me as I am to here, no tuing, just vousing. I tower over her, this former worker in high fashion in Paris. Her profession shows. She is always dressed to perfection with nylons and slight heels, her white hair framing her high cheek bones. She walks everywhere.

We talked about life, death, good times and bad times. Although this woman walks over a several mile radius, I did need to slow my speed, but only slightly, more for her shorter legs than her energy.

As we approached Franck’s, she invited me for a beer, but after we ordered, she realised she had no money. “I’ll pay,” I said. Even Patricia, the waitress, said Jeanette could pay the next time she came, it was absolutely not. She bolted out of the chair and was back from the bank in minutes with a crisp 20 Euro note.

We continued talking about her daughter, her Italian origins, how welcoming her in-laws had been, her life in the 13th arrondisement. In between her stories, she asked me about my life.Her earlier tears were memories as we built a new memory on a warm day sharing stories over a beer in an Argelès café.