When I first came to this village, I was told that one of the bars was a ‘communist’ bar and the other ‘fascist’. The information was appended with vague mutterings about the Nazi occupation being a live rail in the collective village memory even after 60 years and that it was probably best not to enquire too persistently or deeply into the subject.
French bars are great for getting very drunk very quickly while standing up on a tiled floor, but are not comfortable or cosy like a British pub. Therefore I haven’t yet made a habit of patronising either of the village bars except occasionally during the busy summer holidays to meet friends who are staying in the area.
Under these circumstances, I’ve always preferred the atmosphere of the communist bar. Obviously no one political idea is better than another. But those rare few true British communists I have known as friends I have greatly admired for their childlike faith in the coming new society; for their loyalty, obedience and discipline to their organisation, and for their willingness to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. It helps that I was brought up in a Christian household and feel at home among religious zealots, whose pettinesses are only to be expected and whose largenesses are a constant source of wonder.
‘Communist bar, this,’ I say to our English summer visitors as we draw up our metal chairs under the flourishing plane trees and sit and look around us, perhaps hoping to identify the characteristic among the surrounding people that might be said to constitute a left-wing face. And perhaps those of us not transfixed by what’s not included under her pole-vaulter’s pants are already inwardly remarking the refreshing absence of deference in the waitress’s manner.
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