Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Read online

  I do however, have to constantly remind myself, that only two years ago, when we first arrived at Pied de la Croix, while the garden may still be wild, nevertheless it is already hard to believe that on our first visit, it was so rampant that I left that first year without even seeing the orchard properly or even knowing the full extent of our garden.

  So, I do need to remember that in fact we have already come a long way. It just may not always feel like that.

  As I claw the clambering weeds back, to rescue three baby oaks that have self-seeded, I wonder about future generations who will see them at their full height. It takes around 150 years for an oak to reach middle-age. It is unlikely that those who live one day in Pied de la Croix, will ever know about the Australians who once lived another life in Cuzance.

  We discover one day over apéritifs under the walnut tree with Jean-Claude, that our middle outbuilding would have been used to hang out corn to dry and then feed to the cows during the long winter months. That accounts for the odd piles of dried corn husks lying in the barn. Another piece of the jigsaw to add to the layers of history of our petite maison. I had also discovered that the most recent concreting of some of the gaps in the limestone in the walls of the barn, was inscribed La Croix, 1977.

  As we wander down the meandering lanes in the late twilight, the full moon hangs in the fading blue sky on one side, while on the other, the sinking red sun illuminates our rural stroll. The fields dip away, the hills roll into infinity, the brindle cows graze and Brigitte Dal passes with her chien on her nocturnal promenade. We fling the windows open on our return to let the cool, hay-scented night air fill our petite maison; the classical music flows out softy into the stillness of a tranquil Cuzance country night. The full moon peeps in our chambre window – the picture is complete.

  52

  The Unfolding Weeks

  The days roll out in a haze with nothing to differentiate them except market days and the variables in the weather. Puffy clouds scud swiftly across the sky one moment and draw a dark curtain down. The next, the sun bursts through again in blaze of unexpected heat. It frequently looks like a storm is imminent yet Jean-Claude assures us they will be headed for the Masiff Central département. The darkness lifts and the pale wispy clouds seem like they have been painted on the sky with a thin artist’s brush.

  We find out that Wednesdays are a public access day to the gendarme. It means that they are available to answer any questions you may have relating to the intricacies of the law. As we drive home through Martel after our visit to the markets, I see a cluster of gendarme at the roundabout. As I peer curiously out the voiture window, I glimpse our neighbour, Monsieur Chanteur in his distinctive cream waistcoat. He is deep in an earnest discussion with them. Jean-Claude later confirms that he was indeed seeking their advice on family matters. It is on these matters that he has insisted that my lips are sealed. In my respect for our acceptance into our other life in Cuzance, I will never breathe a word of what I have been told.

  For weeks, I again avoid driving alone. When I finally do, it’s because circumstances foist themselves upon me. This time it is because of Stuart’s new relationship with the compacter for he cannot leave its side. As long as I repeat my personal mantra learnt from Liz, ‘Stay on the right, stay on the right’, I will be alright. It all comes back to me and I am fine. Soon the petite Renault Scenic is zipping along the country roads. I am armed with a long list. Oh yes, the lists are still a dominant presence in our lives. Today: Bank Populaire, la pharmacie, la boulangerie to order a gâteau, the beautician to make an appointment, and le bricolage for wasp spray as wasps are invading la piscine. As always in France, the list is an eclectic one.

  My first encounter on my solo voyage, is an interesting one. I park with success and walk along the narrow lane, bordered by medieval houses with bright containers of fleurs, to the main square in Martel. There is a voiture crawling slowly through the narrow space. An American pops his head out the window to ask directions. I direct him to my ‘secret’ parking space and wish him ‘Bonne journee.’ In reply, the American, says, ‘Have a beautiful life.’ And so, I swing my basket over my arm, smiling to myself at his words and the encounter, as I trip along the ancient cobblestones.

  Once again, what is commonplace at home assumes a different resonance while in France. As I queue to buy my pêche blanche – the prized white peaches – and warmed-by-the- soleil, Quercy melons, I watch the bent old man in front of me. He ends his buying by handing over his battered leather coin purse to the stallholder. Obviously used to his weekly practise, she patiently counts out his coins and hands back his worn purse. It is the simplicity of such acts that speak of many untold stories.

  As always, a visit to the boulangerie is full of potential delight. It has been made even more so after discovering that the baker is an award-wining one. Fifteen years ago, Jacques et-Fabrice Bottero won the prestigious best-baker in France award. No wonder my tastebuds always tingle in anticipation every single time I set foot in the boulangerie and breathe in the tantalising aroma. It is always a difficult decision; to stick with tried and true favourites or branch out into tempting new choices. Perhaps today I will buy for our afternoon café, petite strawberry tarts, glistening in their glossy glaze or choux pastry éclairs, gleaming with their shiny chocolat icing .

  The mown fields of hay shine like burnished gold in the glowing light of late afternoon. We are just a few minutes off the autoroute to Paris and yet in Cuzance, we are in the depths of the countryside. It’s like a landscape lost in time. The farmers work to the rhythm of the sun and the seasons. Each tight turn in the narrow lanes leads to a new perspective of the rural landscape. A swaying field of verdant corn, a grove of ancient walnuts, a petite hamlet of stone maisons, with shutters in shades of chestnut brown, moss green, crimson and white. A border collie darts energetically across the road, herding a flock of reluctant sheep from one pasture to another. The leaves – yellow from the heat – twirl and dance and fall upon the fields to decorate them in a crisp carpet.

  As we promenade through the village at the close of another day, the quintessential sound of shutters creaking closed, signals that the day is over for all in Cuzance. The sunset streaks crimson splashes across the fading sky. The full moon tugs a dark-grey velvet blanket over the village. The new day will start again with the drawn-out chiming of the church bell at seven.

  Bales of hay in Cuzance.

  53

  History Lessons and Stories

  Jean-Claude is an endless source of all that is both fascinating and informative. He provides a window into French life that I would not otherwise have a chance to glimpse through. On a rare luxurious afternoon relaxing at their piscine, Françoise plies me with espresso and homemade crème glacée. It is my idea of heaven. As the three of us chat, Jean-Claude tells me that after the Revolution, maisons were taxed on the number of windows that they had. So it is to his regret that a number of windows in their magnifique maison were filled in with stone. We glance upwards at the towering levels of their house and sure enough, there are the imprints of old windows, distinguished by the stone that stands out in slight relief from the surrounding stonework. He goes on to tell me that next it was the turn of the piano to be taxed, for just like windows, pianos were the province of the bourgeoisie. Later, with the advent of technology, televisions became the source of additional revenue. And so, aerials were hidden in attics.

  When I arrived for my afternoon of freedom, Françoise was in the garden, polishing a long wooden cross for the church. After she is fin, I carry it across the road to the church for her. Once inside, under her instructions, I place it against the wall. She tells me it is used for fetes – ceremonies. We have had our own as I carried the big old cross and Françoise carried Henriette. Françoise is devoted to the church. Next, she is about to go and collect fleurs for the High Mass on Sunday. She asks if I would like to go with her and then help arrange them. I decline both offers. I have declared it to be a self-procla
imed holiday after shovelling castine until very late the previous evening.

  Church duties complete, we return to Françoise’s petite cuisine. The three of us squeeze into the tiny space as she squeezes us fresh juice with oranges from Portugal.

  Jean-Claude announces that it is the fiftieth anniversary of Marilyn Monroe’s death.

  He starts to sing Happy Birthday Mr President and Françoise joins in the duet. Later, as I relax next to la piscine I flick through a copy of le journal, Mademoiselle. There is a captivating black and white photo of a young Mick Jagger, taken in front of an Aston Martin in 1962. Jean-Claude shares yet another fascinating fact with me. He tells me that President Sarkozy apparently refused to buy an apartment in Paris as it was too near Mick Jagger’s apartment. I was very surprised to hear that he and Carla Bruni had once been in a relationship in her heyday as a young model. Now as the recent President’s wife, Jean-Claude declares she is the picture of decorum, indeed, she has even had lunch with the Queen. I wonder if President Sarkozy would have bought the apartment if it had been near Freddy Mercury’s?

  Whenever I descend the stairs to their piscine and lower, park-like jardin, I always pause under the stone archway, wreathed in mauve wisteria. I breathe in the beauty. I let the tranquillity seep into me. A visit to their garden never fails to restore me. I let the peace wash over me. Momentarily, until my renovation resumes again, I am replenished.

  When we return home to the other side of the world, Jean-Claude keeps the spirit of Cuzance alive for me, by frequently sharing stories with me. I never cease to be astonished by the full extent of human drama that is contained within one petite village.

  Indeed, it would seem that Cuzance is a microcosm of the world’s stage; all its richness, drama, sadness and amusing incidents.

  One day after school, this tale is in my Inbox.

  Thirty years ago when we arrived in Cuzance we were astonished to see a file of three people going east every morning and afternoon and we learnt that it was the Delpech tribe who was mourning the father’s death. First, invariably came the mother, then the daughter (Thérèse) and then her younger brother who was mentally challenged (like the Dédé Mabit you already know)... and we discovered in the churchyard, by the entrance, a tomb covered with mementoes and artificial flowers. The mother died a few years after but it was possible to communicate with the son (better than with Dédé), whose godfather is Paulo, my neighbour, and who was sent by Thérèse on errands like buying her cigars. Then we saw this man becoming paler and paler; he had got leukaemia and died of it after two years... and I learnt through Paulo that he complained to him that he was beaten by his irate sister, in spite of the fact that his invalid pension went to her.

  Another day, Jean-Claude reveals that:

  Of course this story is about Bernadette, just as the other sad story I will tell you one day is about Pascal; and you can use all these stories by changing names – that is no problem. ( Which I have duly done.) As for getting a new char, wait until we are in Cuzance! But it will be hard since Bernadette was introduced to us by a woman from Cressensac, who did the char for us for three weeks to our greatest satisfaction, two years ago... but then broke her ankle by falling from an apple tree she was picking from on her farm — she still limps and anyway, confided recently to Françoise that she found our house difficult because of its age and numerous storeys!

  I now remember I had promised to you other publishable (but sad) stories: here is the one about our charwoman who had found happiness with a man in Cressensac.

  After divorcing her husband; they had a house built, the garden organised and the house painted... but not the same colour as they had notified the authorities: blue instead of beige... and the authorities protested and declared they would have to re-paint the house and the woman, who had occasional bouts of depression, went out of her mind since she had insisted on that colour! And now, she has disappeared, refusing any further contact with her live-in. It is all terribly sad.

  It would seem that when I reflected that I would miss our neighbours, Madame and Monsieur Chanteur, that my thoughts had an eerie prescience, for it was only a matter of months later, that I received the following from Jean-Claude.

  You will be sad to learn that Christiane Chanteur died this week and has been buried in Paris. This morning I received a kind letter from her husband Roland. I must say the sad news is not totally unexpected on my part, as I saw that her state of health and mind was definitely deteriorating this summer in Cuzance. I am now going to send a letter of condolence to Roland... and I wonder if we shall see him again in Cuzance since he had come there essentially to allow his wife to see her daughter and her grandchildren.

  Please don’t hurry to follow the same road...

  I certainly don’t intend to...

  Jean-Claude replies to my response and lets me know that: I did send a word of sympathy from us (and you) to Mr Chanteur, but I doubt we shall see him again since he sounded quite satisfied about his flat in La Rochelle and carefully pointed out that he was in Cuzance for the sake of his wife (and considering the poor level of attention devoted by his children in Cuzance, I would certainly understand that he no longer comes).

  I had not realised though when I mused about the future and the fact that one summer we would return and the Chanteurs would no longer be there, just quite how soon this would actually happen. The sad news reiterates that I will miss terribly, my fond observations from afar, of the loving old French couple.

  There are amusing tales and other sad ones.

  Taking advantage of a moment of freedom, I shall tell you about the sad fate of Pascal, the son of a deceased farmer friend of ours. He built, by himself, a house in Lagarrigue.

  Then, fate struck a first time by attacking his wife with cancer; it lasted through years of unsuccessful treatment in Bordeaux. When she finally died (leaving a nice little girl), Pascal then decided to change jobs. Instead of eking out a meagre salary from his old father on the family farm, he decided to work driving lorries for the agricultural cooperative which is present in Martel and Souillac, while also attending to the farm in the evening and on weekends. Then fate struck a second time during the reaping of tobacco leaves: they are conveyed on a moving mechanical belt lined with metal hooks: one of the hooks (no bigger than a fishing hook) broke and flew in the air... into one of his eyes that started leaking intra-ocular liquid. His friends immediately called SAMU (emergency medical help), which sent a helicopter on the spot. After long stays in Limoges and Toulouse, he finally lost vision in this eye. Of course he could not drive professionally but the cooperative took him on nevertheless as an assistant in their shops and walnut factories. He drives his own car and hunts... and now lives with the girl who sells fresh vegetables in Malastrège, on the road that goes from Cressensac to Martel!

  There are also utterly fascinating tales that wing their way across the time zones and oceans and miles.

  I have a book that tells of a gangster murder in Cressensac... and also (I think) of the very dangerous former camping site in Cressensac which was famous all over Europe for its homosexual possibilities. It was closed when they opened up the motorway!

  It is extraordinary too to discover such events and places are on the very doorstep of Cuzance.

  And another day.

  Going back in history, I do not remember if I told you about the Cuzance treasure (some coins are on display in Musée Binche in Brive) but most of it is in another museum in Paris. That is why on the Cuzance escutcheon appears a gold doubloon!

  Truly, there seems to be no end to the fame of our petite village, even though it is buried in the depths of rural France .

  In my Inbox on yet another occasion, to balance the pathos.

  After sad stories concerning Cuzance, I must tell you about one that made people in Cuzance hilarious last year. Across the lane southward from your house, a young couple had a maison built a few years ago. The young woman tried to have activities so she claimed to give waterc
olour lessons (in fact she should have been paying for the lessons) and then she was offered a job looking after school kids before and after school hours. After one year she disappeared and I asked what had happened to her... Well, people told me, she had separated from her husband and was living with somebody else in the village where the Bonne Famille restaurant is; but she had separated from her husband on such good terms, that before leaving, she had taken the trouble to find a replacement to keep her husband happy and had introduced her to him. Last year, she was back in Cuzance looking after the kids... but I don’t think she is back in her home yet! Funny? Sad? Contemporary anyway!

  During the long, cold winter months in Lyon, there is more time for Jean-Claude to write and share his stories of Cuzance. He has embraced my desire to soak up his stories from afar and this, his last, sums up all that is extraordinary, alarming and heart-warming in our petite village.

  Let me tell you a very sad story that is unfolding in Cuzance these days. Do you remember the Pech, that is, the hill that is crowned by the stadium (and now the Maison de la Truffe)? When you go up the hill, on the right, there is a low-slung one-storey bungalow; twenty years ago it was quite solitary on the hill except for the old house on the left of the road. The inhabitants were a jolly fat woman who we mainly saw in her Volkswagen Polo and her live-in, who went about riding a bicycle (he was later killed on it on his way back from Souillac – he was not overprotected as are Tour de France cyclists!).

  My contacts with this woman then deteriorated because I was attacked by her dog every time I went past her house. (Rest easy, when I say deteriorated, I mean that I ignored her as far as possible)... However, her next dog – a Pekinese – did not, and had a strange bias against me whenever I walked past her house or past Madame Dal’s house where the dog took refuge all day since she was mostly absent.