Our House is Definitely Not in Paris Read online

  As he leaves, Jean-Claude informs me pessimistically that all the blackberries will return in three months. This is not what I want to hear at all after my arduous efforts, especially when I’m about to go home. It’s hard not to feel discouraged at such a prospect. I concede that round one is over, but the battle is not. I will return next summer with renewed vigour and fervour. Let the blackberry war continue, I think, for I am determined to win at all costs.

  To balance the sadness at the thought of our French summer ending, we have an early fiftieth celebration déjeuner for Stuart, followed by a dîner with amis. First there is both a farewell lunch and celebration with Lynette and Michael, who have returned for the occasion, at Relais St Anne in Martel. The gardens are a picture of perfection. The old chapel’s windows are framed by ivy, the place flanked by a bed of bright yellow fleurs. Their heads sway in the light breeze, a nod to the last days of summer.

  Lunch is sublime. The presentation alone is what I imagine a Michelin restaurant to be like. Swirls of basilic coulis are artfully arranged around the gnocchi and fois gras entrée, while the plat du jour is an elegant array of imaginatively presented crisp pomme de terre and tomate nestled beside slivers of rich canard. The dessert is the piece de resistance, a confection of delicate wafer, pêche gâteau and pistachio. It is the lunch of French dreams.

  Farewell Dîner

  We are grateful that on the same evening as our luscious, indulgent déjeuner with Lynette and Michael, Françoise presents a simple supper of home-made olive pain, melon and salade, served on their terrace overlooking the jardin. Over dîner, Françoise says in French, ‘There’s no smoke without fire,’ when conversation has turned to Monsieur Chanteur and his old-school ways. Even their friendship with him has taken a turn for the worse. It is both poignant and telling that he has told them that apparently even his fifteen-year-old grandson declared, the last time Monsieur Chanteur visited his family, ‘I hope this is the last time I ever see you.’ Jean-Claude thinks he belongs to a generation that is long past, for his views are unyielding and unbending. So much so that Jean-Claude, at seventy himself, says it’s like being with his father.

  Tradition and formality still linger in the country, far from Paris. Sometimes when Jean-Claude is walking Henriette he encounters Monsieur Chanteur, sitting with the Dals on their bench. After first greeting Brigitte with the customary kiss on each cheek, Monsieur Chanteur as the ‘ancestor’ — the eldest person present — is greeted next, before it is the turn of Monsieur Dal, despite it being his home.

  We always find out fascinating insights from the Chanels, both about our village and French life. When we eat in their jardin on the upper terrace, Françoise and I are seated so that we overlook the park-like garden. She tells us that in a restaurant it is always the custom to seat the women so they can see the view. When Jean-Claude serves the champagne, he tells us that it is not the done thing to allow the cork to make a popping sound. This would be a distraction from the gentle flow of conversation over dîner. At home, this is not something we would give a second thought to, especially when it’s the significant sound of a champagne cork popping.

  It is altogether a day to remember, with new French friends and old friends from home. Stuart’s soon-to-be birthday is the ultimate jewel in the crown; all the work we’ve done on our petite maison, achieved well before fifty.

  The End Draws Near

  Like a sheepdog nipping at our heels, the cooler morning air is a harbinger of autumn. In the last few days before departure, the first hint of chill that descends on Cuzance does on our hearts as well. Cutting my lavande down to ensure it flourishes in the future is both a sad and symbolic act. It is made even more so as it’s still in full bloom.

  A few discordant notes always disturb my romantic cocoon. There has been a final summer surge of les mouches in our maison. Their constant background buzz is almost in rivalry to our ongoing cries of, ‘Where do they keep coming from?’ and ‘How do they keep getting in?’ They are the consequence, as Jean-Claude informs us, of a farmer on the edge of the village cleaning out his sheep sheds. Windows open, windows shut; nothing works at all to dispel them. How well we remember our notebook notations from five years ago, the very criteria that formed our checklist for buying Pied de la Croix. Don’t ever buy a house next to sheep, for the invasion of flies will dispel all passionate thoughts of wanting to buy a little house in France. What we didn’t know was that the invasion could extend from the peripherique of the village. The aroma of pig wafts across nightly. Paris this is not.

  Towards the end of our two-month summer sojourn, the tentacles of our other life start to reach out across the oceans in between and enfold me again. Thoughts of our reunion with our beloved little Henri flood my thoughts, as well as a reunion with our family, friends and my students. Soon it will be time to pick up the threads of my other self and stitch that life into place again.

  For now, as time passes as quickly as a ripe pomme falling from our apple tree, I creep out before the first glimmer of light. The stars are still peeping through the velvet sky and the last of the night air is crisp and damp. Startled lapins pause in their play and look my way from under the curved street lamps. Once the day breaks, I creak open la grange door and set to with my wheelbarrow. The silence is so complete and encompassing that I feel utterly alone in my own special petite world.

  Three full moons is a full measure of our Cuzance summer. The next full moon I see will be shining in a band of bright light at home. I am so utterly immersed in my country life that everyday life at home seems altogether remote; it is another country in every sense.

  Life in Cuzance is an ongoing dichotomy. By the end of every day, the morning always seems an improbably long time ago. Each day contains a short story, book-ended by the rising and setting of the sun. While a day seems to stretch forever, it is also a constant chorus of ‘Bon appétit’. Our village is a fragment of the whole of France, for three times a day the refrain is like the circles in a pond, rippling out when a stone is dropped. Bon appétit is carried on the soft summer air like the flight of a swallow.

  Both Marinette in her familiar blue and white

  Rain like Tears

  When I’m in Paris, my heart sings; when I’m in Cuzance, a full symphony plays. As the sun draws its shutters ever earlier, it signals the day when we too draw the heavy wooden shutters of Pied de la Croix closed one last time. May the snow not envelop you too heavily, I always murmur in a sad farewell to our petite maison. Who knows what will transpire in the year until we return? What I do know is the symphony in my heart will be at its fullest crescendo, when once again I pause before entering under the symbolic stone-encased heart, and then tiptoe in for my loving reunion with Pied de la Croix.

  When in Cuzance, in our beloved petite maison, I never feel like a foreigner in a foreign land. I immerse myself fully in my French country life. When we leave I try to look tout droit, straight ahead, but my heart always looks back.

  Like rain trickling down the fenêtre, the weeks have simply slipped away. At the outset there is always tomorrow, with a glorious summer still stretching before us. And then, like a favourite old jumper caught on a barbed wire fence, it has torn, rapidly unravels and cannot be repaired. The wool flutters forlornly on the fence. With time it will fade and then eventually be whisked away on the vicious winter wind. The day will come when we too, the rénovation Australians, are a faded recollection. And as the old people of the village become but a memory, our presence will also simply be part of the long-ago chapters we wrote upon the stone walls of our petite maison.

  So the golden summer unfurls and flies away. As I prepare to take a final farewell glance at the très joli steps, I hold happiness in my hands. I pause and let my eyes linger on the symbolic stone-encased heart. It holds a whole history in its engraving that I will never fully know. We have been carving our own history. Who knows who will follow in our footsteps in our little corner of France? That is an indeterminate fragment of the futur
e. For now, I step one last time over the stone entrance smoothed by the footsteps of decades and the French farmers before us.

  The Final Chapter

  Life at home in Australia always seems to move at a rapid pace, for such is life for all in today’s world. Yet when we return to Cuzance, time seems to have passed it by. Time has almost imperceptibly slowed. It is only the quartet of seasons that mark the passing of the years. And so each year, for one fleeting summer, we step back into a world that is gentler, that moves more slowly, a place where our hearts brim with contentment and happiness. It is a place of peace, of solitude. Even when silver sheets of rain tumble down, the arms of Pied de la Croix still wrap us warmly in its embrace.

  As the decades pass, when the day comes to turn the key in the lock of Pied de la Croix for the very last time, knowing there will never be another Cuzance summer, my heart will be heavy with unbearable sadness. It will be the end of what has been our other, glorious French life.

  What I do know is that we have lived a life of dreams come true and that my precious memories of Pied de la Croix will always be indelibly imprinted. For now, I resolutely take one final loving glance, knowing that I am privileged indeed to return to our other life, our French summer, each year.

  Fin

  Acknowledgements

  David Tenenbaum, of Melbourne Books, for the joy of offering me a contract for my first memoir. Our House is Not in Paris was Melbourne Books’ first ebook, and then their first ebook to go to print. The day I got my contract was one of the most exciting of my life. The icing on the cake — or should that be gâteau was when I was given a contract for my second memoir and ‘subsequent books in the Our House’ series. Knowing that after writing my first book the next would be published, with readers already waiting to read more about our other life, was an ecstatic feeling. Très merci beaucoup, David.

  Chloe Brien; what a dedicated, extraordinary editor. You arrived at Melbourne Books at the perfect time in my life! Your commitment, enthusiasm and attention to detail are hugely impressive and enormously appreciated. To quote you directly from one of your many supportive emails: ‘I try my darnedest to make your life easier, as I imagine managing book contracts isn’t easy.’ And you most certainly do far more than your ‘darnedest’! Très merci beaucoup for helping to make books two and three positively sing!

  Thank you also to Sally Naylor-Hampson, for her excellent fine-tuning of my manuscript.

  The Independent Booksellers — for making the decision to print my first book, written while we were at our petite maison. Since we go ‘off the grid’ while in Cuzance, opening that email on my return was an extraordinary moment in my life. To all the independent bookshop owners who were willing to stock my first book in print, thank you for being such an important part of this very exciting journey.

  Très merci beaucoup to Martin at Beanstalk Bookshop, Thirroul, for my first and second book launch. Merci encore to all my friends, neighbours, colleagues, students and their parents who attended. You all made me feel enormously special and so grateful to make the sea change from Newtown eight years ago and become part of such a wonderful community.

  Lynette Bender, one of my oldest, dearest friends in the world. Merci encore for the perfection of your proofreading. What an eye for detail! Merci also for being one of my trusted first readers and for your tears of joy when I gave you a print copy of my first book.

  All writers need their trusted friends as first readers, so thank you to my mumma and all your pride in my achievements. Julie Bass, Kerry Coleman, Helen Kidston, Ros Mahon, Kaitlyn Munro and Carly Taylor; to each of you, très merci beaucoup for your delight and elation in sharing not only my other French life, but also your enchantment with my writing.

  Liane Pfister, fellow teacher librarian and much-loved ami. For your passionate publicity support — my radio interview, newspaper interviews, reviews, technology expertise and, of course, my superb first book launch at Beanstalk, Thirroul. Thank you enormously for helping me to achieve success.

  The Hughes family, for taking care of little Henri each year we go to France. Très merci beaucoup not simply for taking care of Henri, but loving him as much as we do.

  Très merci beaucoup to all my readers, especially those who have somehow discovered my books and to those who have also made the time to write a review. Writing my third memoir made my heart sing knowing that there were readers already waiting to share my passion and delight for our superb French life. This book seemed to truly write itself; it seemed to flow and have a life of its own. During the frantic pace of our rénovée life, I would hastily scribble in my notebooks in fleeting moments, often in bed late at night, gazing at the stars and sky. At home in Australia, when I had typed up all my notebooks, I would frequently pause to look in wonder at the screen, at what I had somehow been able to capture, despite the sheer hard work of renovating.

  Lastly, to my ‘library’ children, past and present — thank you for the delight you have taken in my achievements. You fill my heart with happiness and make me feel like the luckiest teacher in the world.

  And, of course, most of all to Stuey — listening to my chapters as I shared them, creating the map and glossary, checking all the French words and the photos — and, above all, thank you for our other amazing life.

  Susan Cutsforth, December 2014

  Glossary of French words

  A

  abricot - apricot

  abricot hibou - apricot pastry

  ami (e) - friend

  amuse-bouche - bite-size hors d’oeuvre

  andouillette - French sausage

  anniversaire - anniversary/birthday

  Août - August

  apéritif - pre-dinner drink

  après-midi - afternoon

  armoire - wardrobe

  artisan - tradesman

  assiette - plates

  au revoir - goodbye

  Australie - Australia

  autoroute - motorway

  B

  baguette - French bread stick

  bain - bath

  bal - honey

  ballerine - ballerina

  bastide - walled town

  beau/beaux/bel/belle - beautiful

  beaucoup - lots of/many

  bébé - baby

  béret - beret

  beurre - butter

  bibliothèque - library

  bien - good

  bifteck - beef steak

  bise - kiss

  blanc - white

  bleu - blue

  bœuf - beef

  bois - wood

  boisson - a drink

  bon courage - good luck

  bon/bonne - good

  bonhomie - good naturedness

  bonjour - hello

  bonne nuit - good night

  bonne soirée - have a good evening

  bonsoir - good evening

  bouche - mouth

  bougie - candle/spark plug

  boulangerie - bakery

  boules - bowls

  bourg - town

  bricolage - hardware shop

  brioche - sweet bun

  brocante - antique shop

  brouette - wheelbarrow

  bureau - desk or office

  C

  ça va? - How is it going?/How are you?/I’m fine.

  cadastre - land register

  cadeaux - present/gift

  café - coffee or cafe

  calcaire - limestone

  campagne - the countryside

  canard - duck

  canicule - scorching heat

  caramélisé - caramelised

  caravane - procession

  Carrefour - a supermarket chain

  carte - card/map

  cassoulet - sausage and bean hotpot

  castine - fine gravel

  cave - cellar

  centimes - small denomination coin

  cèpe - edible wild mushroom

  cerise - cherry

  chaise longues - deckc
hair

  chambre d’hôte - bed and breakfast place

  chapeau - hat

  charcuterie - pork butcher’s shop and delicatessen

  chat - cat

  château - castle

  chaud - hot

  chaussures - shoes

  chemise - shirt

  chien - dog

  chocolatier - chocolate maker

  chou - cabbage or sweetheart

  cinq - five

  citron - lemon

  clafouti - baked fruit dessert

  cochon - pig

  coiffure - hair style

  combien - How much...?

  commune - commune/district

  complet - complete

  comprends - understand

  concours - competition

  confit - preserved food

  confiture - jam

  connards - idiot

  coucou - colloquial hello

  couleur - colour

  couper - to cut

  couture - dressmaking

  crème brûlée - custard dessert

  crème caramel - a custard and caramel dessert

  crêpe - crepe

  croix - religious cross

  cuisine - kitchen

  D

  d’accord! - Okay!/All right!

  d’orage - thunderstorm

  dégustation - tasting menu

  déjeuner - lunch

  demain - tomorrow

  demi-kilo - half a kilo