“Bonjoor… Bonjoooor… Bonnjore?” Walking around the village, if I’d ever been overheard muttering to myself like this, people would have crossed the street in alarm. Five months in France has brought no change in my pronunciation of this vital word. I don’t mind not sounding like a native speaker, but I’d prefer not to get it completely wrong. My practice is relentless – and useless.
Having an odd accent is not, for me, a new experience. The way I speak English is a mixture of Posh and Northern. Growing up, I was interrogated about imagined Australian roots, London childhood, and private education. “You’re obviously not from here,” remains the rhetorical conclusion wherever I am in the UK.
While all accents shift depending on the company, my pronunciation is not something I’ve previously tried to change. Here, in France, I am obsessed with doing precisely that. Every assumption of my German, Ukrainian, or Norwegian heritage is a win – every “vous êtes anglaise?” a little death.
No one has ever asked if I am American, a fact I’m grateful for. This has nothing to do with prejudice. What I long to be is European.
To be associated with a country that turned its back on the people I now live among is hard. I am shamed by Britain’s lingering political reputation in Europe. And then, there are the kingdoms. At first, I’d explain I was from le Royaume-Uni – the United Kingdom – resulting in a confused pause. Now I wince and say Angleterre. Having lived close to and also within Scotland, I have always found it hard to say that. As in the EU, I want to root for both teams. I want to stand for togetherness.
Perhaps I’d relax if my French were better. My usual stumbling speaking style does not easily lead to bonhomie. Everyday conversations – requests to borrow toothpaste, chats about weekend plans – are a bit awkward.
To my mind, “Bonjour” stands as a neat metaphor for the UK’s language woes. Post Brexit, fewer and fewer GCSE students see the value in learning a foreign language. In some ways, I see their point. At 17, I too dropped French, since it was unwise to rely on such a difficult subject for the A stars required by top universities.
But now, freed from the education system, I pursue French to connect with others rather than stand apart. This happened too late for my basic pronunciation, it seems.
But I haven’t stopped trying – hard. Each new greeting borrows from the person I last met: the old man walking his Westie in the park, the wicked five-year-old at the school gates, the chirpy woman who sneaks me an extra rhubarb stalk at the greengrocers.
People here are patient, and the work pays off. Isère, the region in which I live, is largely untouched by tourism. Few people switch to English when I speak; it’s a relief that my attempts are not just humoured. Departing for a long weekend in Nice, I bought a sandwich at a bakery near the train station, one of the few hubs for visitors. The assistant could immediately tell I wasn’t French, but he tempered this with a compliment of sorts: “It’s strange, most of you don’t bother.”
One day, my French will stand on its own. Right now, there are peaks and troughs. Each time I return to France from a trip abroad, I realise that I have made progress. Back in Isère, a friend asked me when I’d like our book club to meet. I shrugged and pursed my lips, emitting a sound almost like a discreet fart.
“Mon Dieu!” she said. “You’re French!”
Isabella Redmayne’s fiction has most recently been published by t’ART Press
