FIDELMA COOK

WHEN I was a very little girl I became fascinated by the silent women who often came to afternoon tea with my grandmother’s friends. As my grandmother poured from the silver teapot that now sits unused on my side table, these women were served last and settled back into a contemplative state.

When ready to leave, they would pat down scarves and gloves on their particular friend and head off around the county.

“Are they your friends too, Granny?” I asked.

“No,” she said, rather amazed at the idea.

“Do they come because you like them though?”

“It’s not a question of like or dislike,” she said in exasperation.

“They just are. They’re companions.”

In time, as death claimed that generation it claimed their companions too, and the whole idea of a lady’s companion drifted into history.

The last one I met was the sweet, gentle cousin of the widow of a Methodist minister who rented out half a house to my mother and me.

Although, like Pinky and Perky, the tiny duo did everything together and sat side by side each night on the sofa, the widow never ceased reminding others exactly where the cousin’s place lay in the house.

A spinster, one of the many home casualties of the Great War, she was left with little after her father died and homelessness beckoned. As an act of charity, no doubt, she was taken in by her cousin, given a small allowance and full board.

In return – as did all companions – her role was to amuse her “employer” (although the word was never used), keep her company and accompany her on shopping trips.

Common among the upper middle and upper classes, the companion was usually of relatively high birth herself, and although not considered an equal in the house, neither was she considered a servant. She spent time with her lady – more often a widow – went with her on visits, helped entertain her guests and dined with her every day.

My grandmother’s generation was the last to have such companions. Thereafter, women of that class could work, look after themselves and be beholden to nobody.

Now, you’re wondering why in a column about France I’m babbling on about companions.

It’s quite simple. I’ve decided that life as an ageing woman alone in La France Profonde would be immeasurably better if I had a companion of that ilk.

It came to me in the early hours, which I see more and more frequently these days. It came as Cesar growled and barked at windows and doors; as I contemplated the present political horrors; cursed Jonny Wilkinson, whose TV ads assured me a roll-on herbal stick would solve nightly cramps; and as I pondered whether I had acid reflux or was having a heart attack.

How nice it would be, I thought, to tinkle a little bell placed on my bedside table to summon my companion.

Unlike me she would find no drama a crisis and would sit on the end of my bed and listen to my thoughts of armageddon, potential diseases coursing through my body, the fat at my waist that could be a tumour, the grey hair that had suddenly erupted in my eyebrow, and reassure me, in general, that all was well with the world, my world.

And then off she’d glide until her next summons, ideally mid-afternoon when I’d had enough coffee and read enough news to be able to face another person wanting to talk.

Of course, with daylight the idea seemed less appealing. Looking after the dog is burden enough for me. The idea of being responsible for another person’s welfare and future is just another entry on the list of the early-hours worries and fears.

And to be honest there would be a slight sense of shame in tying another person to me who had no means to do anything else in life.

Actually, forget the lady’s companion, what I do need, after what has seemed a longer, darker winter than usual, is a combination of personal trainer and life coach. Someone who every few hours would drag me off the computer to walk, exercise, breathe in the air and then, over herbal tea, discuss my goals.

Someone who would remind me of the person I was before I rocked up here in some mistaken belief that living in a field in Hicksville would enrich me. Someone who would kindly tell me that I’m becoming a boring hypochondriac, getting old before my time and have already become a lazy slut. I use that word in its old sense, of course, speaking as one who walks around in holey jumpers, battered jeans, too-long hair, no makeup and chipped nail varnish. Someone who would say: either sort yourself out or call in the estate agent and stop whining and moaning.

So this is where I am as another summer prepares to unfold in France.

Actually, I don’t need a companion or a trainer. The only person who can sort me out is … me.