WINDOW ON THE PAST
Tucked away on a side street in a sleepy French town lies a garage that has barely altered since 1917, but all that is about to change…
Walking down the quiet boulevard in the centre of Agen, prefecture of the Lot-et-garonne department in southwestern France, you could quite easily pass by without noticing a thing. From the outside, only the signage reading ‘Garage A-liette’ mounted to a somewhat decrepit façade gives any clues as to what is happening behind those innocuous shuttered windows. But step through into the wide corridor, allow your eyes to get used to the half-light and you’ll discover the first surprises among the grey, dust-covered shapes arranged along the side wall.
The knowledgeable spotter will recognise a Simca Cinq, then a Licorne LR 163, a Triumph TR4 and, perhaps more surprisingly, a BMW 2002 turbo as they walk down the line before emerging into a much brighter hall beneath the large glass skylight. And here it’s hard to believe your eyes, because on the left stands an old house with brick window surrounds and, opposite it, a repair shop topped by a timber mezzanine. If it weren’t for the four modern cars in for servicing, you might have stepped into another age. It’s an impression further reinforced by the decaying advertising signs for Delage, Salmson, KléberColombes – ‘On sale here’ – and Veedol.
In front of the house a staircase rises to an apartment above the porch, and parked beside it are four further cars that add to the period décor: two Traction Avant Citroëns and a large postwar Delage D6 3-litre saloon lurk under a layer of grime, plus a sporty Sunbeam Alpine whose bright-red hue seems almost anachronistic in this faded setting. “Go and look in the workshop at the back,” suggests Michel Liette, current proprietor of this remarkable timewarp.
Beneath the mezzanine, a small door opens on to an astonishing junkyard of scrap metal, odds and ends of all kinds and old tools: a drill, a lathe, a grinding wheel with a belt-drive system and an
electric motor attached to the ceiling. And over in a corner sits a now-silent forge, its hearth still there and intact, and the anvil in front, just visible behind long-forgotten components and boxes. Here you can imagine workers in days gone by busy straightening an axle, machining a replacement part; all noise, heat and flame…
“Have you seen the office?” asks Michel’s wife Christine. She leads us on, through the house and out into a room with bare wooden floors and whose furniture is covered with documents and objects that seem to have accumulated almost since the dawn of time. Underneath all of that, a beautiful glass cabinet is filled with small boxes of coins and there are old clocks, stacks of dusty files, black-andwhite photographs and period advertisements.
Propped against the window, a framed image catches the eye. “That’s my grandfather,” explains Michel, pointing to a well-dressed gentleman in a tie and waistcoat, posing next to a Mathis in front of the entrance to the same garage surmounted by a different sign: ‘Agence Delage - Salmson - Mathis - Rochet-schneider.’ “And that’s my father, André, on the right,” continues Liette, in the process providing an explanation for the ‘A’ in the current workshop sign, “with my grandmother, Nelly, on the left.”
“He was always well dressed,” confirms Christine, “with tailored shirts.” She pulls out a book with a black cover marked Copies de Lettres, the Bible-paper pages of which contain copies of invoices. “We would put the bills in the notebook, cover them with a kind of damp skin, then put it through the press,” recalls Michel. “The ink would then be transferred into the notebook. I saw my mum do it all of her life.”
Remarkably, Liette admits to never having opened certain drawers since his father passed away. Shifting the papers to one side, he opens a box containing metal sockets and explains: “These are the tools my father machined as part of his mechanic’s certificate.” It’s work of real precision, a timely reminder of the philosophy behind the business to this day.
Our tour isn’t quite over, because there’s one more floor left to explore, accessed by a steep staircase that leads up from behind the desk. At the top we discover shelves creaking under the weight of parts and old tools: keys of all sizes, various mysterious components, reamers, extractors, headlights, candle boxes, bearings, seals, electricals… The objects seem to have been piled up, stratum upon stratum, without disturbing the first layers, revealing the history of the garage like the rings of a tree trunk.
Unfortunately, however, that story is soon to come to an end. In August, decades of history will be turfed out and the workmen will move in as this historic setting is turned into flats providing accommodation for nurses. At the age of 70, Michel Liette has decided the time has come to retire and, for the moment, no one else is prepared to continue the tradition. Not even his mechanic, for whom he is full of praise. “It’s difficult to keep a garage such as this going today,” he confirms. “The workloads are heavy and the techniques have become very sophisticated, forcing us to acquire the latest electronic tools and diagnostic systems.”
That kind of gadgetry is a long way from the beginnings of the adventure. “My grandfather, Clovis-césar Liette, opened his first garage in 1912, a few streets from here, before moving and creating this one in 1917,” Liette explains. “There were several houses here then, and he designed this whole arrangement, with the office and the apartment above the porch. It was a great set-up for the time.” So great, in fact, that almost
nothing has changed since then, aside from the addition of a bit of modern tooling. “My grandfather had toured France with his friends, and had found his future wife along the way, near Périgueux. Once settled in Agen, he represented Delage, Salmson and Mathis, and also took care of Rochet-schneider trucks.
“When he sold a Delage and the car was ready for collection, he would take the train to Paris on a Friday with his client, whom he then invited out in the evening to the Folies Bergère or the Moulin Rouge,” says Liette. “The following morning they would go to the Delage factory, where a meeting had been arranged for them, a small reception for the delivery of the car, then they returned together to Agen by road.”
“It’s difficult to keep a garage such as this going. The workloads are heavy and the techniques have become very sophisticated”
With his forge and wide array of machine tools, Liette Snr could attack virtually any job and find a solution to every breakdown. “There was also a cabinet-maker on the team,” says Michel, “to repair the wooden body frames.” Early on his grandfather even made a pretty tricycle, poetically called ‘La Va Bon Train’.
The second generation of the Liette family to run the business was André, Michel’s father: “He was born in 1913 and worked in the garage for his whole life. My grandfather gave him the reins in 1960 and I followed suit, starting work here when I was 16.” There were busy days, long working weeks and few holidays, and as cars became more complicated Liette noticed that they developed more inherent defects.
In an uncharacteristically unpatriotic turn, Michel’s favourite brands are Alfa Romeo and BMW. “I was able to acquire a damaged 2002 that I reassembled,” he explains. “My father let me use a corner of the garage to tinker with it and later, during the 1960s, we attracted plenty of BMW customers as a result.” So much so that officials from the Bavarian giant paid a visit to Agen, to offer André the local concession. “He refused,” recalls his still crestfallen son. “He preferred to keep his freedom. At the time, I was a little disappointed.”
Michel took over the family firm in 1991, when his father – by then the ripe old age of 78 – was ready for retirement. The years and decades since have ticked by smoothly, like oil flowing from a can. “We have barely noticed the time passing,” confirms Liette. “There was always plenty of activity, and we had a good group of clients who trusted us and simply said: ‘Here is the car, do whatever you need to fix it.’ We became a real institution here in Agen.”
But what about all those abandoned classics: has he never been tempted to move into the restoration business? “It’s more complicated,” says Liette, “and it’s a different pace to modern maintenance. For example, the Sunbeam that’s here hasn’t moved for 15 years. The owner said to me: ‘Take care of it in your spare time.’ But we never have any spare time! So we got the engine back into shape, and that was it…”
Liette shows us one final detail: beside the desk, in a small cubicle where the oil cans were once stored, he points his finger at the ceiling.
“Those are my grandfather’s rods,” he says, referring to the neatly arranged set of fishing tackle hanging above our heads. “He had our retirement all planned out!”
Soon those historic garage doors will close for the final time, and the unique atmosphere of this miraculously preserved place will disappear. “I’m going to set up a personal workshop at home, and keep some of the old tools,” says Liette. But he won’t be able to take everything. Although it’s bound for a change of use, we can only hope the new owner recognises the heritage of this building and preserves its unique configuration. The cars will be sold – “except the 2002 turbo, which I’ll keep!” – and perhaps the dusty parts, tools, signs and documents will find a new home where they can stand as testament to the old techniques, or even be used in the restoration of other machinery.
Instead of cars, Liette plans to devote his retirement to another mechanical passion: aeromodelling, in particular of jet aircraft. It’s an elegant way to get away from the automobile, by simply gaining height.
Thanks to the Liette family, and to Bernadette Mesplet for the introduction
“The Sunbeam hasn’t moved for 15 years. The owner said, ‘Take care of it in your spare time.’ But we never have any!”