Our House is Definitely Not in Paris Page 12

  Jean-Louis will return in a week when his factory shift changes. It means we will have a respite from our break-of-day starts. The timing is perfect for our family to arrive and stay for a week. We will have a petite vacances and go on outings to some of the many les plus beaux villages de France, the ‘beautiful villages of France’. After all, there are so many right on our doorstep and there has scarcely been time to explore any of them. Indeed, our département — le Lot — does have it all. One day we will be able to explore every square inch of its rural beauty.

  All week we have been dreaming of our lunch in Martel, followed by a long afternoon, extending into the evening, under our tree. Non, non. It is not to be. Dominique and Gérard are leaving in a few days and, although we have just had an extended lunch with them, insist on inviting us for a petite barbecue in the evening

  John and Joe Arrive

  We wake, knowing that the cosy little cocoon we have created within the thick limestone walls of Pied de la Croix, far from the world, is about to change completely. There will be a family, the four of us together for the very first time. It is a huge and exciting day for me, as I have not seen Joe since he was born and now he is about to turn twenty-one. I met Joe when he was just a few days old on our return from Turkey, when we had Christmas in England with our family. While Stuart’s brother John has visited before from England, now we are all to be reunited in Cuzance.

  The day starts slowly and in a haze. We were plied with pastis and wine the previous evening. I learnt something new from Gérard about the serving of pastis when he indicated one or two fingers as a measure. You lay your fingers sideways to indicate your preference. I chose one finger. Stuart invariably indicates deux. Gérard then inevitably pours an extra measure anyway. The trick is to keep topping up your pastis with extra water. Well, that is the intention at the outset of the apéritif hour. Oh là là, I think as I sweep the paving in a fog of late night apéritifs and heat. As Gérard had declared, what is a summer in Cuzance without pastis and barbecues? What indeed, I think as I move in slow motion.

  Usually, like all French homes, we leave all the shutters closed to keep the heat at bay. Today I fling them open for John and Joe’s arrival. The crisp, pure light floods in. Our petite maison gleams and shines, complete with a jug of my own roses. I am again filled in equal measure with pride and amazement at all that we have achieved in four short summers. I like to think that our little home is worthy of being featured in the French house magazine, Maison Interiors, with its eclectic assortment of troc and vide-grenier finds. My heart brims with happiness as my eye sweeps each room, all waiting in readiness for Stuart’s return with John and Joe from Limoges airport.

  Our petite vacances week with them could not be better timed. I don’t think our physical boundaries could push through another five days as demanding as the last five have been. We have also been given the ominous warning from Jean-Claude that ‘dog days’ are ahead. This is a term that we became only too familiar with last year, when day after day the temperature soared to over forty.

  Our first evening as a family is all I hoped it would be. Through our emails, Joe and I had established a close bond. Our first meeting after twenty-one years cemented our relationship. To do so on our first evening was more than I could have hoped for.

  The next morning, our vide-grenier outing to Estivals is a momentous occasion, for both Joe and Celeste accompany us. They have both been under strict instructions to be up early and ready or we will leave without them. Nothing stands in the way of our treasure quests, certainly not the penchant of teenagers for sleeping in. To our surprise, Celeste staggers up the road in time, and off we all set. The four of us happily spend a few hours wandering round the pretty village of Estivals, and Celeste is delighted to scoop up petite bébé clothes for Basile. The afternoon is spent in splendour, relaxing round la piscine. The family is gathered at last for a week of French summer.

  A kayak trip is planned to start the petite vacances week on Monday, the day we usually resume our relentless rénovation. These are the early starts no-one seems to mind, for they are the exact opposite of our beaucoup travail weeks. It is a French, Australian and English boys’ day out, as John, Joe and Stuart are to be joined by Maxime and Patrick — our new French family. Celeste, despite her fondness for sleeping in, decides to accompany them. The hours and hours of kayaking hold no allure for me at all. I plan an indulgent day reading and relaxing next to la piscine. This is my idea of nirvana.

  I wish them all bon voyage. As I sit peacefully writing postcards at our French farmhouse table, I decide to take the rare opportunity of solitude to put on a face mask. I need to do something to dispel the clouds of dust that consume my days from working in le jardin. Lost in my own world, I am startled by a heavy knocking at the door. ‘Sacré bleu,’ I fume; my cherished seclusion lasted only a few minutes. It is first thing Monday morning. Who on earth could it possibly be? Is there no end to the constant parade of artisans and amis who drop in? Non. Life could not possibly be more different to our working life at home.

  This time it is two men who convey one word that I instantly seize on: cadastre. I have only managed to wipe off some of my mask in the few steps to the door. ‘Pardon,’ I apologise several times for my unconventional, very un-French appearance. I dash to grab the dictionary. Of course, it is not in our nouveau bookcase where it should be. I rush around our petite maison, searching for it. It is still in my le sac from dîner on Friday night with Gérard and Dominique, for unlike at home, my dictionary usually accompanies me to dinner in France. It is like my favourite accessory.

  The two men present a map of pools in our commune. Ours too must be measured and recorded for the local government département. The word cadastre, having being duly checked, shows me that it means a survey. It would seem that officialdom has found us, even buried in the country.

  After inspecting and measuring la piscine, they give me a card with a website address that will show our pool in a month’s time. It will be a strange experience, to eventually log on at home and see our piscine from the other side of the world.

  An unexpected call from Dave at home is the next exciting interlude, then it’s off to Jean-Claude’s and Françoise’s to meet petite bébé Basile. For a while I cradle bébé Basile all alone in their glorious jardin, while Bénédicte seizes the chance to use la salle de bain. What a moment to remember, holding a new French baby on a splendid summer’s day, surrounded by a garden awash with bright beauty. The only cloud in my personal sky is that a lapin has dug up one of my new plants. Uncharitably, I urge the rabbits to feast upon Monsieur Chanteur’s pines that are flourishing by the day, in their ever-so-strategic positions to completely block our chambre light and vista.

  My afternoon of seclusion is broken by Dominique’s arrival with a metal pannier over her arm to pick plums from our laden tree to make prunier confiture. However, if one more person asks me if I’ve made my own confiture from our fruit, I think I’ll scream. Bonjour, I think. Look around you; look at the work to be done. Look at the scratches and gashes covering my hands, arms and legs. I am trying valiantly to restore two acres of wilderness. I have neither the time nor inclination to don an apron and make jam. Why would I when I can buy it at the markets? It again reminds me of the many times when Jean-Claude has suggested I should be whipping up gâteaux in la cuisine. While I bake at home, in the land of glorious pâtisseries and boulangeries, I see no earthly reason why I would engage in this pastime either. Oh là là, I fume silently on these occasions. It is not just our neighbour who could be deemed old-school at times.

  Dominique tells me that when the walnuts turn brown in October, she will collect some from our tree and save them for us. By late afternoon, when the elated but exhausted kayakers return home, full of their tales of tall limestone cliffs and magnifique châteaux towering over the serene Dordogne, the fat black clouds of an impending summer storm chase the puffy white ones away. They have discovered me behind la grange on my chaise
lounge, with chocolat from my afternoon glacée smeared unknowingly across my face, like a naughty child.

  Thunder threatens, rolling and reverberating in crashing waves like cymbals. The sky becomes an ominous shadow of dark grey and black. A wind whips up; the orchard trees bend down toward the dry, crackling grass, their arms heavy with apples and pears. Sunburnt yellow leaves dance across the now equally yellow grass. Reluctantly, I pack away the chaise lounges and make a hasty retreat to the sanctuary of our strong stone petite maison, while the storm gathers pace and then lashes down in fury. The thunder beats a crescendo on our backs as we race inside.

  Today has been a snapshot of life in Cuzance. So the summer rolls on in a symphony of bright blue days punctuated by sharp storm bursts, artisans, apéritifs, gatherings with amis, vide-grenier treasure and exquisite cuisine. After endless days of rain plummeting relentlessly and the wind ferociously whipping the eaves of our little house, I understand fully the meaning of ‘the calm after the storm’. Once we can venture out again into our own petite country setting, the earth is pungent with the freshness of a world that is renewed and washed clean.

  Cross-Cultural Confusion

  We take advantage of John and Joe’s visit to stroll along the myriad of lanes that criss-cross Cuzance. It is after a very late dîner in le jardin, and their week’s stay coincides with the full moon shining on one side of our path while the sun sinks on the other. I take pleasure in sharing Joe’s introduction to French country life. After a city and nightclub life, he surprises himself by how much he enjoys the remote rural landscape. Such is the charm of Cuzance that all are caught in its magical web.

  Wandering past the illuminated stained glass windows of our village church, John scoops up an enticing bundle of grey and white fur. Le chat then follows us. The sweet kitten follows all the way home. It audaciously walks onto our petite porch. It winds itself around my legs as I sit on our très joli steps. I refuse to look at its adorable face. I will not fall in love with a kitten in a foreign land. Non, non. Memories of last year and the four petite chat born in our la grange manger swiftly return.

  We close the night out and turn off all the lights in our petite maison. Not deterred in the slightest, the bold kitten jumps up onto the windowsill and peers in expectantly at us all. Le chat is your responsibility if it is still here in the morning, I tell John as I make my way to bed. He can take it home across the Channel if it takes up residence at Pied de la Croix.

  On another evening as we set off on a promenade, there is a moment of cross-cultural confusion when I announce that I have broken my second pair of thongs in two weeks. Matters are further confused when I suggest that Joe should be wearing his for the walk. It is implied that they would be preferable to his thin-soled espadrilles for the uneven stony paths. I fail to notice his quizzical expression. It is only much later when we return, and I point out my abandoned thongs by the front door, that Joe feels comfortable about telling me that he had been rather disconcerted that I had apparently shared with him the dramas of my underwear. I had completely forgotten that the English call them flip-flops.

  Another amusing moment of cross-cultural consternation is when I asked Joe if he wants to come to the nursery with me. As with many of our activities, it’s always a mad dash against the clock. The three of them return from a shopping expedition to Martel to stock up on essential supplies. In John’s case, this means bargain French vin from the bottom shelf. We change over like rally drivers as they pile out. I have a mere forty minutes to tentatively make my way for the first time, on the exceptionally winding road with hairpin corners, to the nursery in Les Quatre Route. When Joe is unsure of something I’ve said, he reflects on it for a while before checking exactly why it is that we’re going to a children’s nursery to buy plants. Of course. A nursery in England is where children are taken care of.

  Cuzance Encounters

  la plage and are giving me their cascading purple petunia to hang from la grange. Joe and I set off before déjeuner with the wheelbarrow to collect it from their maison on the other side of the village. There is not a murmur or movement in the midday heat, for all are already seated for the sacred lunch hour, except for Michel, who we encounter hurrying to lunch outside our village restaurant. The banner for our forthcoming vide-grenier proudly declares that it will be a three-day fête. I indicate to Michel that he must be excited about it, as I know he plays a key role in its annual organisation. I ask him if he will keep aside a ‘Je t’aime Cuzance’ T-shirt for Joe, like the one I bought the previous year for our other nephew, Mitchell. In what is a touching gesture, he checks the label size inside Joe’s T-shirt.

  I was a bit anxious about disturbing Gérard and Dominique during the déjeuner hour, but as always, we are made welcome. Their cosy traditional cuisine has a tantalising smell from the garlic, pomme and aubergine that is simmering. Gérard, also the chef in their family, proudly displays many of his cuisine objets to Joe, such as a woven basket hanging high under the eaves, that has a pulley to lower it for the légumes that he stores in it. The old wooden boards hanging on the kitchen wall are also shown to us. I have always assumed these were ancient chopping boards. Dominique explains that in fact they were used in the past to wash clothes in the river. She tells us that she remembers using similar ones when she was five years old, to wash in the traditional way.

  They then give Joe a tour of their maison. We return with four new plastique jardin chairs that we are buying from them. The wheelbarrow teeters under its heavy load as we trudge back in the heat. There is a white van just zooming out of Pied de la Croix; clearly the driver is exceptionally late for his déjeuner. Four years ago, when we bought all our whitegoods in one fell swoop during solde season to set up our petite maison, Stuart insisted on including a television in our purchase. I was totally opposed to it. I didn’t want the outside world intruding in anyway upon the peaceful haven we had created within the walls of Pied de la Croix. For the past few years, he has spent many futile hours trying to set it up himself. He is determined not to miss the World Cup during our next summer sojourn, and so reluctantly he has conceded that a specialist artisan is needed. The antenna is finally set up in the attic. This will not mar Monsieur Chanteur’s outlook in any way, the object of the heated discussion with Gérard the week before that did not involve us at all. If only he too would compromise on his encroaching pine trees.

  These are the concerns of a simple country life: the capricious weather, lapin, antenna and trees. As always, the church bell chases the day away. As the day ends, la grange stone walls are the colour of ripe apricots in the shards of light that illuminate it.

  Dîner in Souillac

  It is Gérard and Dominique’s last evening, so we all gather for a farewell apéritif. The four of us plan to go to Souillac after they leave our petite maison for the last time until next summer. We are thwarted by the weather. Just as the pastis has been poured as we all sit outside around our large mosaic table behind la grange, large, fat drops of summer rain start to fall. We hastily gather everything and retreat inside. Thunders rolls around us, striking the sky in a cacophony and enveloping the petite maison. Yellow leaves swirl and twirl past the windows. The rain races down the road right outside our French windows and twigs tumble in the torrent, as though children are sailing paper boats.

  After protracted fond farewells of ‘L’année prochaine’, ‘See you next year’, there is much debate about our dîner plans. It will be the first time the four of us have ever been out as a family for dinner, and Joe’s first evening out in France. Ever the optimist, Stuart suggests we go ahead with our plans. We set off to Souillac under leaden grey skies, heading to our favoured café for our favourite steak and frits. Its tables are arranged in a cluster in the middle of a pretty square, overlooked by a looming stone church. Usually at this time of evening as you approach, the murmur of convivial voices drifts across the square to meet you. Tonight, there is no-one there. The restaurant is closed due to more impending rain.
This has never happened before.

  The streets of Souillac are all deserted. This has never happened before. Usually there is a lively, promenading summer throng of locals and tourists alike. We set off in search of somewhere else. Down a few cobbled streets we come across a huge covered area that is used for the weekly fresh markets. It is full of tables and people already eating. The menu is both appealing and bon marché — not expensive at all. It meets all our criteria, canard for John, steak for us and pizza for Joe. Yes, pizza in France. Surprisingly, you see it featured on menus everywhere.

  The owner jovially waves us to a table. We wait. He keeps beckoning more customers, all like us, relieved to find somewhere open on this inclement evening. We wait. There is only one waitress for the unprecedented dîner congregation that has swollen in size due to the rain. By now we are all very impatient. Not even an apéritif — and this is France after all.

  I set off in search of yet another restaurant. If they have not ordered by the time I return, we will leave. This has never happened before at a restaurant in France. It is unheard of to wait for an apéritif.

  I find one that is close and full of people. I scan the menu in the window and decide that it is not très cher. At the very moment I return, the waitress is at long last taking the order. By now it has almost been an hour. We wait. And wait some more. She returns. They have run out of red wine. All we have ordered so far is deux bières and a pichet of rouge vin. Incroyable. In France, to have run out of red wine. How on earth can this be possible? After all, house wine in French restaurants is served in a pottery jug and the wine is from a cask. Yes, even in France, wine comes in casks — and large ones at that. When Jean-Claude’s family gathers for the summer vacances, he only buys cask wine as otherwise there are simply too many bottles to take to the glass recycling depot in Martel. It would be a full-time job.