Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Page 12
Like many of life’s big decisions, it is only happenstance that I mention to Jean-Claude that I am about to search for a local farmer. ‘Non, non, non,’ he emphatically tells us. Unless you make it absolutely clear that it is a one-off arrangement, (which we knew that we would not have the skills to convey by any means), the farmer will assume he has entered into an irrevocable contract with you. This means a number of things. Firstly, that he can come onto our land whenever he chooses to gather grass for his cows.
This arrangement would be fine – except for the second part of the contract – which means that when we come to sell one day, the farmer will be the first to be entitled to buy the land. This sounds not only hugely complicated, but could well have some very tricky ramifications. We are strongly advised not to take this course of action. Instead, Jean-Claude very practically suggests buying a ride-on lawn mower.
36
The Work Starts in Earnest
The sun seems to be a good omen. While Stuart spends the afternoon at le bricolage, Liz and I spend an afternoon under the walnut tree. Last year, she had grave fears that such an afternoon would never again come in her life. She has survived all that life has thrown at her and here we are again; just as I believed we would be.
By now, I am actually ready to work again in earnest. My first significant task is to gather more limestone rocks from the land. The soil has considerably subsided round la piscine, and now all the edges have to be shored up with stones. Five days on end without renovating or relentless working in le jardin, is the longest stretch in our history in our little house.
I have not glimpsed Madame Chanteur for days and have been anxious that she may again be in hospital. Monsieur Chanteur’s voiture is gone for hours at a time, which is unusual in itself. Perhaps too, like it has been for all of us, it was simply the damp days that have kept them inside. Now, as the sun shines, the village comes to life and I see my neighbours in their favourite dîner place under the shade of the spreading walnut tree.
I seize the opportunity to present them with their gift – a photo that I took last summer of them framed in the doorway of their maison.
The contrast between the woman in the photo and the woman at the lunch table, in the space of just a year, is a harsh and stark one. Her hands tremble as she attempts to unwrap the soft tissue paper. Her husband gently takes it from her. That they are clearly touched by my gift is palpable. Monsieur Chanteur repeats several times, ‘Enchante, enchante,’ and gestures at the photo of himself and his beloved wife. As I leave, he says, ‘Merci encore. ’ So few words shared yet gestures transcend barriers of language. The church bell strikes, the birds sing, the sun continues to shine. Life’s rhythms are an ongoing circle. Yet, melancholy also fills me for what I know will soon inevitably follow.
It wraps me in a cloud of sadness as I move from the shade of the walnut tree in to the glittering sunlight.
Days in a French summer seem elongated. They seem to take on an elastic quality – one that only snaps off at the end of a long, long day of bright summer light. It’s hard to comprehend how much one day can possibly hold. At least this year we are not working until midnight and have managed to have more promenades after dîner.
Cuzance is criss-crossed by literally dozens of walking trails and enticing paths that lead next to fields and walnut groves. As the sun sets, a yellow glow is cast upon the wheat fields – now beds of short, sharp stubble and decorated with enormous cartwheels of harvested hay. It is the ethereal light of late summer evenings in France that is the picture I hold in my mind when I am far from Cuzance. The other lingering memory is the utter silence that envelops the countryside. At home, the sound of the ocean is ceaseless so it is never completely still or quiet. In the rural landscape that has virtually remained unchanged for aeons, the stillness is only broken by the sound of lapin scampering home through the fields. The world is far away. A sense of peace infuses my soul.
37
The Summer Heat Surges
With Liz’s departure, the summer heat surges, just as predicted by all. Ironically, this coincides with the return to sheer hard labour – in fact, convict style, for our most pressing task is to continue to glean the land for even more limestone rocks and gather them. We work for three hours straight in the burgeoning heat. I carry bucket load after bucket load of heavy stones. My job today is to carry on filling in the edges round la piscine where the soil has significantly subsided in the past year. Stuart lays out planks of old wood, salvaged from la grange and sets out bright yellow string to delineate where the huge truck will deliver the gravel.
As the church bell reverberates at twelve, it especially seems to be tolling for mad foreigners working in the midday sun. Unlike true French artisans, we don’t immediately heed its note of caution and down tools. If I am honest, we are labourers, not artisans at all. We instead continue working until it’s essential to prepare a hasty déjeuner before the much-anticipated arrival of the next in a long line of le maçons.
As soon as he arrives, I am struck by his beaming, friendly face. Jean-Claude has hastily finished his déjeuner to be on hand to translate. I leave it to the three of them to discuss the important position of the bathroom window. However, I am soon summonsed to the critical consultation and the four of us crowd into the petite salle de bain. There is much discussion of the height of the window and need for privacy from the road and passing traffic. Much hand gesturing on my part, once again indicates what I think will be appropriate and what will most certainly not be acceptable. As the road is often heavy with tourist traffic, I have no desire to be a feature on the tourist trail.
Impatient as always, I of course want the window in now. I would preferably like it before the arrival of our Belgian amis when there will be so many of us sharing an airless box. ‘Non, non,’ it is not possible. Naturally, le maçon is also soon to go on vacances like the rest of France for the sacred month of August. Now, why is that a surprise? The phrase, ‘Non, non,’ and artisans seem to go hand in hand. While disappointed, a skill I have taught myself over the years, is to turn situations around. So, I now think that it will instead be wonderful to return next year to find a nouveau window in our salle de bain. Jean-Claude, the custodian of the keys to Pied de la Croix, will take care of all the arrangements with Monsieur Moreau. The oft-repeated phrase is again reiterated on their departure, ‘What would we do without Jean-Claude?’
Before that point, I gesture again to le maçon to follow me as I have another query.
The four of us troop out into the burning heat. I convey my concern about our crumbling outbuilding, the last in a row of four, starting with our very own pain oven. Now, maybe that’s a skill I should learn and we would never again be without fresh bread. Then again perhaps not. After all, there is enough to do. Besides, I know full well that bakers rise at the unearthly hour of 2.30 am, to ensure that their pain too rises in time for their first customers of the day, the loyal petite déjeuner clients who line up early for the array of breakfast pastries: pain au chocolat, croissants and chausson aux pommes, the delectable light pastry filled with apple. The dedicated boulangerie bakers then bake bread twice more throughout the day for the déjeuner customers and then again in the evening for dîner. There are so many selections, that just the act of buying bread becomes a decision making mission. What to choose today? Will it be brioche, the sweet bread, pain de seigle, rye, pain de campagne, bread in the shape of a ring, a flute, which is twice the size of a baguette, or, one of our favourites, ficelle, which is a long and very thin loaf? To say that the French love their fresh bread is an understatement. It is a daily ritual that is as much a part of them as breathing. Indeed, the tantalising smell of newly baked pain is like no other in the world, as it drifts in perfumed clouds along the streets. To step into a boulangerie is like being wrapped in a layer of aromatic sweetness and fragrant freshness, for the pungency seeps into your very pores.
I quickly abandon my pain flights of fantasy as we examine the dilapida
ted building.
I keep in mind too my well known lack of prowess in la cuisine. Indeed, I have been known to burn toast... Stuart dismisses my desire to preserve our old outbuilding, for all he sees is euro signs flashing before his eyes. I however, am adamant and insist on a quote. It is interesting that my insistence transcends the language barrier. The two French men say that it is just the same in France. It would seem that it is universally accepted that women have the last word. The three men shrug and smile.
My decision is verified when we learn the ancient red tiles on the tumbledown building are in fact rare and valuable. How we can dismantle it tile by tile, to replace in precisely the same pattern as we have been carefully instructed, is something I am not at all sure how to tackle. I am also not sure how we can possibly find the time for this exacting task for now the paving is our consuming focus. It is however, indeed imperative to save this rural relic.
After they leave, we rest for a while under that shade of the gnarled walnut tree. It’s a day to remember. Now into our third week, Stuart has finally and officially, ‘opened’ la piscine and was up to clean it in the coolness of the early morning. Later in the afternoon, we wander down to visit Jean-Claude and Françoise before their family arrives from Berlin, Paris and Lyon for their summer vacances. Once again, Jean-Claude entertains us with a story from his inexhaustible hoard. This time, it is about his elderly neighbours – Georgette and Paulo D’Britte. I wonder about the use of the word ‘elderly’ from a man on the verge of seventy – and then he mentions they are ninety.
So it was that last summer, the D’Brittes were about to depart on their annual vacances to their apartment in Collioure, near the Spanish border. There were cries across the neighbouring hedge, ‘Where are the keys; where are the keys to the apartment?’ They were literally about to leave in their battered voiture but it would seem the keys were lost.
Finally, hours and hours later, at the dîner hour, the keys were found – in the bottom of Madame D’Britte’s bag, the very bag in which they had been placed the previous evening. And, the bag had already been placed in readiness in the voiture. In the last minute relief, panic and confusion, the map that Monsieur D’Britte had been clutching in his hand, was mislaid. Despite the lateness of the hour, they were still determined to set off.
Apparently, as he was once a gendarme, Monsieur D’Britte refuses to travel on the autoroutes as he knows all the speed traps. And so, they choose to travel on the slower, more circuitous minor roads. It is not traffic that overtakes them but bewilderment.
The muddled, delayed start has caused considerable confusion and consternation. They become very lost.
As I raptly listen to the tale unfold, I know precisely what the experience must have been like for them, for this too, has happened to us on the buried back roads of rural France. And I am sure, elderly or not, the longevity of their marriage notwithstanding, I can certainly hear the ‘Merde, merde,’ echo through this story. Oh yes, this has indeed happened to us on more than one occasion. The ramifications are indeed, merde.
By now it is late, very late. Monsieur and Madame D’Britte then called their son for help. He couldn’t assist them at all, for they had no idea where they were. ‘Are you facing south or north?’ he gently probed them. They could not reply. They simply didn’t know.
As too has been the case with us on similar misadventures, the kindness of a stranger saved them. He came across the old and cold couple on a lonely byway and stopped to rescue them from their plight. He drew them a map. The map is for directions to their home. So it is they return to Cuzance, in the early hours of the morning. Jean-Claude only knows all this from Michel in the village. What the D’Brittes tell him is that they decided not to go on vacances after all but come home instead. At ninety, it was quite an adventure. The thought now of a vacances is simply exhausting.
38
Fling Open the Shutters
There is a trick to getting up early. We leave the chambre door wide open so the light filters in like slowly creeping fingers throughout the petite maison from the salle windows. The sitting room is the first room to be filled with the soft dawn. It lights it up with a rosy hue and flows across the ancient wooden floors with a pale pink tinge. Unless we do this, our bedroom is like a dark silent box – much like the bathroom. This strategy is now necessary as we need to wake up when the sun does.
A hasty petite déjeuner, then it’s off to the heavily dew-soaked jardin. One trip across the rough land to empty my wheelbarrow and my shoes, socks and the bottom of my work pants are saturated. It’s hard to believe that within a few short hours, the sun will be burning too fiercely to continue working outside. We now have to reassess our work schedule. There are hours and hours of work to put in before the castine delivery.
And really, we have no idea when that will possibly be. What we do know, is that we have to be ready. The form work has to be in place, copious weeds sprayed – yet again
– the string line adjusted, and the huge expanse of weed mat measured, cut and put in place. It’s a daunting task for two people in a very short timeframe.
Everything picks up speed. The leisurely days are already a distant memory. We now rush everywhere. Even going to the markets in Martel often becomes a race against time before they finish at twelve. The days of sauntering to select the freshest, ripest, most succulent produce are long gone. Now too the tourists are abundant; gazing in delight, cameras slung round their necks, ready to capture the quintessential French market moments. There is none of this for us. We have more pressing demands; for us, rénovation season is in full swing.
What balances the imperative ticking of the clock that now dictates our every action, is the sense of being a part of our commune. Even when we now go to Intermarche, several shop assistants greet us warmly, with the ever-courteous ‘Bonjour Madame and Monsieur’. The same greeting is exchanged with locals when we walk through the narrow, picturesque streets of Martel on our way to the market. Our sense of village life is even more special when we encounter Jean-Claude and Françoise in the supermarché, working through their long list in readiness for the arrival of their large family.
At the end of a long summer day, the shadows subtly soften and now the threads of light creep imperceptibly across the silent fields.
Looking back at the barn
39
To Market, to Market
This year we buy our luscious pêche, cerise and melon from a new young stallholder.
Although he always has an eager queue, it is never an impatient one. There is a sense of solemn, subdued occasion in calmly waiting, breathing in the aromatic, heady scent of fresh, succulent peaches, cherries and melons. No customer is ever rushed. There is a feeling of reverence in a French market for the land and its bountiful produce. The richness of the land seems to resonate through the centuries, for this has been the way of life for hundreds and hundreds of years.
We love the question, ‘Is the melon for today or tomorrow?’ The selection by the stallholder depends on your answer. He picks them up carefully, feels them in the palm of his hand, looks at the colour, assesses its ripeness. Only after this, is the melon handed over. Prosciutto wrapped around golden slivers of melon has become our favourite apéritif accompaniment to serve our amis.
Through these simple, everyday transactions, my confidence in communicating is starting to improve. While I can now manage straightforward requests in the markets, I still stumble with simple numbers and amounts. A demi kilo of cerise is however, a must to know. Half a kilo of ruby red cherries is after all, one of the highlights of a French summer. The waft of pungent lavender, bound in raffia, floats above the smell of fruit picked at dawn. It is the distillation and essence of all that I remember when far away.
As the sun sets in a brilliant golden orb, the black cat with the enormous green eyes, watches us stealthily, crouched in the long grass near la grange. She is watching our every movement. Stuart tells me that he noticed she is slim again. I know wh
at this means. She must have had her kittens. The question is, where? Stuart had seen her earlier, trying to get in to the barn. As we were sitting in the last light on our très jollie steps, she hesitated, not used to the presence of people in our usually empty maison. We finally leave the steps leading to the front jardin and le chat noir pauses to stare at us.
She now imperiously enters la grange. I grab our feeble torch. It seems to only ever be used for investigating disturbing noises and animals. I peer inside the barn. There is the distinctive mew of new-born kittens. Of all the places she has chosen to have them, it is the ancient cow manger, still strewn with straw. The last thing I need is the responsibility for French kittens in a foreign land.
40
French Kittens
My day starts in a way I could never have possibly predicted. In the morning light, I’m able to investigate the litter of kittens in the barn manger. There are four petite tabby ones, as small as my hand. Clearly, they are only a day old. I have absolutely no idea what to do about the unexpected appearance of four French kittens. For the moment, I shelve the dilemma. There is work to be done.
Fortunately, on this allocated work day, the temperature has plummeted by about ten degrees. Ironically, it is a day we fervently hope the sun doesn’t break through the grey, gloomy clouds. My job is still to collect stones to fill in the edges along the sides of la piscine. The gap is so gaping that I’m concerned I have nearly depleted my supply of stones gleaned from the land. Then – and I don’t know how I could have possibly overlooked it before – I find a mother vein. These are the sorts of things that make you jubilant on a day in Cuzance.