by David Seymour

The Rochelle family, given to bouts of conflict over where their home should be, had never settled in Sheffield. François, as John called himself, with the certainty that his parents should have given him a French Christian name, had hauled his family north from Sussex at the behest of his boss. Not a considerate man, who was not given to negative answers when it came to relocating his chosen victim a hundred or so miles away from his extended family. John is in the construction business. His employer 'Alfco Consolidated' build houses for the socio-economic group 'C'. Inevitably in these times affordable homes had to be smart terraces of small homes with every modern convenience.

John turned the pages of a glossy magazine, marvelling at the pristine picture of an environment that bore his family name. Just think of it, he fantasized, a Rochelle, me, staying at Le Chateau Rochelle in La Rochelle, France! John, a lifelong dreamer had always fancied the French heritage that he thinks must exist with such a dignified French name as his. He concludes, quite illogically, that he must be heir to whatever the rebellious and beautiful Rochelle himself must have handed down through the centuries. So superficial is John's daydreaming, the fact that the statue pictured on the cover of his magazine, though a famous landmark in La Rochelle, does not represent a great family but is the image of the mayor of La Rochelle from 1585 to 1694, who was in fact Jean Guiton. Not that it matters in John's fantasy. For John Le Chateau Rochelle is real enough as is 'his' supposed lineage that goes with it; such thoughts soothe him into a state of euphoric happiness.

The telephone is ringing; reluctantly John urged his mind back to reality and picked up the receiver. The voice on the line barked at him; 'Rochelle! Is that John Rochelle?' John pulls air sharply between his teeth; he doesn't like rude people. Selling houses requires a little finesse and decorum, and John has plenty of that. 'Eh..yes; Rochelle here, may I help you?' There is a pause; telephones are ringing in the background; 'Hello Mr. Rochelle, you still there? Ah! Good. Good, your Chalet reservation at the Happy Days holiday Camp in Skegness is confirmed'. Now only the dialling tone persisted and so increased John's irritation, he hated those yuppies and their phoney accents with repeated words. John is a 'Homes' man with dreams of Châteaux in France and posh neighbours. The confirmation should have pleased him, John doesn't like loose ends. But it didn't, John's mind is back in La Rochelle with quaint houses dating back to the middle ages, its canals, beautiful villages with wonderful cottages, gites with ivy-clad stone walls and gardens full of flowers at the height of summer. Nearby his neighbours-to-be are farming the well-kept countryside and beckoning him to join the community and build homes for well-mannered, welcoming French families.

John doesn't want to go to Skegness, and sit out two weeks in a marine ply clap board built chalet. Yes, such a holiday is good for the kids, all those competitions and activities that they scramble for, but for John it will be purgatory by the beach. All Lucy's idea of course, she always puts the kids first when it comes to Christmas and holidays.