Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Page 8
It would seem that I truly did see it partly as our chien too.
24
Solde in Brive-la-Gaillarde
Last year, it took us three whole weeks to find time to go the sales in Brive. Being in France in solde season and not being able to shop, does not seem quite right to me. This time, I’m delighted that we are actually able to go before our first week even ends. Yet again, the changes in our Cuzance life in such a short time, never cease to astonish me.
Even our friends have remarked that they are pleased we are not completely consumed by renovateur fever this year as soon as we arrive.
While Jean-Claude is on his chien quest, my quest is for the perfect pair of knee-high black boots. There is some confusion in translation when I tell Dominique what I’m looking for as she thinks they are to wear while working in le jardin. Since they usually only ever see me in my battered gardening attire, I can understand the confusion though it is a rather odd concept. I assure her that this is not the case but rather for when I go to work at my lycée at home. I always like the sound of my job in French as a teacher in a school library; I think it has a rather grand ring to it: enseignant dans une bibliothèque de l’école.
Fortunately for Stuart, the two-hour lunch break that still exists in our region, means there will not be endless browsing. While in Paris and the south of France, the luxury of a long leisurely lunch has been phased out, it is one of the things we most love.
While it often means certain adjustments to our daily routine, when we too have time to indulge in a two-hour lunch, there is nothing in the world quite like it. Stuart also has to be back in time to meet Françoise to play bridge in Souillac. Last year, on one of his endless bricolage trips, he completely forgot the bridge plans he had made with her. Not this year; this year everything is different. I manage to dash in and out of a few shops and hastily grab a few bargains, then the sacred lunch hour descends. Shutters are closed, doors are locked and a quiet reverence for cuisine settles over the once bustling shops of Brive.
While the shops did not hold my coveted boots, it was enjoyable to finally have more time this year to stroll around Brive and explore its architectural beauty. As with every city, town, village and hamlet in France, there is also a strong sense of history.
During World War II, Brive-la-Gaillarde was a regional capital of the Résistance, and was the base for a number of clandestine information networks and several of the main Résistance movements, including the Armée secrète (or ‘Secret Army’) and the Mouvements Unis de la Résistance – the ‘United Movement of the Résistance’. Now, the medieval centre is full of shops, restaurants and cafés. It is a far cry from the days of spies, secrecy and subterfuge.
I remembered the story of Madame Jouve who lived in Cuzance and was accused of being a collaborator. With other women, she was taken to Brive to be paraded in the streets as a traitor. The cobblestones we walk upon would have been witness to events that we simply cannot conceive.
After just a few hours and a taste of city life, we were glad to once again return to the peace and quiet of life in Cuzance. well, maybe not all is entirely different this year. Let’s not forget there is still work to do – a lot of it. The renovation is still far from complete.
It’s not all shopping trips, indulgent déjeuners and apéritifs. Jean-Claude has told us there is a maçon working on the house opposite them. He has already kindly organised a quote from another maçon for a bathroom window. He had left the previous quote inside Pied de la Croix for our return. He has now discussed with their neighbour’s maçon to give us another quote. It is just as hard to get artisans in France as anywhere in the world, so we are grateful when the four of us squash into our salle de bain to measure and discuss where my longed-for window will go.
However, while hopes were high for this maçon and a window for this summer, once again, the oft-repeated phrase of ‘Non, non,’ rings out in our petite bathroom. It would seem that he too is fully committed before his summer vacances. I can’t begin to imagine the difference that one day, having light and air will mean. For the moment, it remains an airless, dark box. It looks like it is going to stay that way for quite some time. Mind you, the fact that it is perpetually dim means that despite my exhausted appearance when I do renovate, the mirror is deceptively flattering. Perhaps I don’t want a window after all...
Our chambre shutters are so dark and heavy that they make it impossible to discern the time. So it is, that in less than a week, my body clock has fully adjusted and is once again in a steady rhythm. It often means that I’m up for hours – usually while it’s still dark and I’ve done several hours of work before Stuart emerges. I prune, I hack, attack, dig, wrench, tear down, and move piles of stone. He can often only hear a rustling when he comes out to find me and is fond of asking if we now have a goat, for all he can hear is a steady movement in the undergrowth. My progress can be traced from the mounds and piles I leave in my wake. While backbreaking at times, it is also strangely soothing to work away in the quiet country stillness, far removed from the world and its cares. Just like pulling on my much-loved second-hand clothes, when I return to Cuzance, I also greet my jardin tools like old friends. I’m especially fond of my indispensable pruning saw that Jean-Claude gave me. It’s old piece of blue twine, cunningly attached, helps hook down branches, to meet my vigorous pruning efforts halfway.
The prunier tree is weighed down almost to the ground with its harvest of dark-blue plums. In the damp cool of the morning, just after the soft grey light has crept across the fields, my cold fingers grasp the damp plums to gather for Dominique to make confiture.
Within minutes, my colander is full. All my French friends make their own jam. I’ve never picked a plum before, let alone made my own jam.
So far we have only had one hot day and that has been enough for our two rose bushes to unfurl into pale pink beauty, tipped with sparkling drops of early morning moisture. I pick petite, exquisitely formed buds to place in the tiny antique digestif glasses Dominique gave us for a present when we arrived. Their soft pinkness is a perfect counterpoint when I place them on our dark wooden table. Even the rain is soft when it falls. Our Cuzance world is wrapped in a haze of gentle beauty.
25
Resuming Relentless Work in Le Jardin
For some reason, we seem to be avoiding the renovating that remains to be done. The list is not short by any means... It includes finishing the spare chambre in readiness for the first of our summer friends to arrive when Liz comes to stay. However, there is a lure to be outside, despite the fact that it remains very cool and overcast.
We tackle the planting of our new shrubs that are to provide a much-needed screen for la piscine. From the village centre – which consists of the Hotel Arnal and the Mairie – our block of land and the pool is on full view to all the villagers, and there is a direct view from the upstairs windows of the Mairie. While I want to have a close relationship with the inhabitants of Cuzance, this is not quite what I had in mind.
Stuart uses an old pick with an ancient worn wooden handle that Erick gave us, to attack the stony limestone ground. It remains hard and unyielding. The pick must be at least fifty-years-old and has seen many years of hard labour. Once again, I wonder who once used it. I imagine an old farmer, stooped with age and worn by the weather like his pick, meticulously tending his vegetable jardin.
As I wrench the invasive weeds from the new bed of lavender, I reflect on Jean-Claude’s immaculate garden. There is a huge emptiness in the middle of the vast expanse of grass where he had to recently fell a dead walnut tree. He told me that it will be the last Herculean task that he performs. The thought fills me with sadness.
There is a strange peculiarity to the light in Cuzance. No matter how gloomy or overcast the day, invariably the sun bursts through brilliantly at nine each evening. The petite maison is filled with pure bright light. On one such evening, before bed, we walk through la grange and stand in the doorway at the back, looking out at the or
chard.
The soft rain falls gently and is pierced by the last rays of glistening sun. There is an otherworldly quality to it. It is an utterly magical moment; a moment to tuck away into the box of precious French memories.
I am invariably in bed just before the light fully fades. I rarely reach for my book straight away. Instead, I lie against my soft pillow, and watch the puffy clouds scud across the still-blue sky. At home, our white walls are filled with paintings and artwork.
Here, in our tiny chambre, just like our cuisine, the walls have been left unadorned in their white-washed simplicity. The oblong-shaped windows, surrounded by dark wood, frame the view of the trees, sky, clouds and ever-changing weather. No art is needed.
Cuzance itself is a still-life.
Weed prevention measures.
26
The Morning of Le Maçon
The morning of the next highly-anticipated le maçon’s visit with Jean-Claude, dawns clear and sunny. Of course we have no idea when they will appear. Such is the desirability of artisans that it is impossible to pinpoint a time. This makes it difficult to leave Pied de la Croix and go to Martel for our daily pain. Stuart points out that I could always go by myself. After a week, I’ve still not driven our voiture and am reluctant to do so on a busy market morning. I learnt the word for car very quickly last year when the roofers were always asking me to move it from in front of la grange. Just like all my stumbling attempts to grasp French, a word only penetrates my vocabulary out of necessity. I did however, quite quickly learn all the essential words for all the delectable cuisine. Canard rates highly though duck is not a word in my grocery shopping lexicon at home. Of course, like artisans the world over, the maçon does not appear. There are shades of last year and the oft-repeated cry of, ‘When will the plombier come?’
There is a strange symmetry between our renovating days in Sydney and buried deep in the French countryside. Without going anywhere at all, I still manage to have several ‘chats’ during the course of the morning. A walk to the communal bins brings a lovely encounter with Marinette, the matriarch of the village. She is sitting on a wooden bench under the shade of a chestnut, cane by her side and wearing her well-remembered blue and white straw chapeau. Le Bureau de Poste van stops and delivers her letters to her while we sit companionably together on the bench. Marinette points to her last name ‘Barre’ on a lettre and tries to get me to pronounce it. I attempt several times. Marinette purses her lips to show me how to produce the correct ‘ooh’ sound. She laughs kindly at my clumsy attempts. I simply cannot twist my mouth in quite the right way. I know she secretly thinks that a three-year-old child would do better. After her sixth attempt, she accepts that I have failed miserably. She shrugs her shoulders in a very Gallic gesture and abandons my elocution lesson. It is precisely what happens when Jean-Claude tries to get me to pronounce Cuzance correctly. I can never, ever pronounce the ‘ooh’ sound the right way.
I try to convey that I will be attempting to improve my French by having cooking lessons with Françoise. This way – or so my ambitious plan is at this stage – is that I will use all the accompanying French words to produce my sure-to-be magnificent tarte aux pomme. I already know the words for butter and flour – beurre and farine – so clearly I think I am about to be a Michelin chef in no time at all. At this point in our vacances, I still think I have all the time in the world, for the summer seems to stretch endlessly.
Clearly, I have romantic visions of wafting through the village in my summer frock and chapeau, French market basket over my arm with apples from our own orchard in it. It is well known that I tend to live in a fantasy world of romance-induced visions. As I leave Marinette on the bench, she utters the oh-so familiar words, ‘Bon courage. ’
Yesterday when Jean-Claude dropped in, I checked whether the apples from our orchard were suitable to eat and cook with. ‘Oui, your pomme are fine,’ he assured me. Another glorious thought; my own apples for my own private cooking lessons.
Measuring quantities in French will be an altogether different matter. I still struggle with simple counting and days of the week. I rather suspect Marinette knows about these deficiencies as well. Still, when I got married in Turkey, my dress was made by a seamstress who did not speak English and just like now, I had only a few faltering words of Turkish. My dress was still however, the fairytale one I imagined. While languages and I do not seem to be a perfect match, somehow I always manage.
As I clear the weeds and leaves from the past year from outside the doors of la cuisine, I go to say ‘Bonjour, ca va?’ to Monsieur Chanteur. I was so happy to see that they had returned the previous evening, for we all feared that Madame Chanteur would never return after her long hospital stay. I am careful to be formal in my greeting, as well as taking care to refer to Jean-Claude as Monsieur Chanel, for I have taken note on several occasions that Jean-Claude has pointed out that our neighbour is very ‘old school’. I do my stumbling best to convey how pleased I am to see him and to enquire after the well-being of Madame Chanteur. I also make sure that I include ‘très merci beaucoup’ for keeping a watchful eye on our maison in our absence.
I am also mindful that Jean-Claude has told me how apparently offended they are by the plastic tank that squats like an ugly toad at the end of our carport. I’m conscious that it is in their line of sight as the Chanteurs resume their daily ritual of déjeuner and dîner under their walnut tree. It is the only space I have for my line of twine to peg our washing.
Perhaps the open display of washing also offends them? It is possible, for now I think about it, I have rarely seen washing flapping freely in the wind and sun as is our custom at home.
This is another aspect of French protocol that I simply have no idea about.
The sun finally shines and as the washing flaps away – no doubt offending French niceties – I start to pile my rickety old wheelbarrow high, Jean-Claude’s gift from last year, and set off for the first of many precarious trips across le jardin. The front tyre is as wobbly as a child’s front tooth but there will be no tooth fairy to rescue me if it falls off. It is a day of true French domesticity; washing, gardening and the final finishing touch, Stuart cleans the windows of Pied de la Croix. They sparkle and gleam. The petite maison becomes even more a home with each passing day , especially when people from the village pause to commend our efforts and admire our fleurs. It means the world to me that they have accepted us so fully into their small commune for I know this is not always the case with foreigners who suddenly appear in their rural midst.
Next door, on his first morning back in Cuzance, Monsieur Chanteur loses no time either in starting to catch up on the months of neglect while they have been in La Rochelle. Though white-haired and perpetually stooped, at eighty-eight he has the vigour of a man half his age for he is always active and energetic. I often pause in what I am doing, to glance across at him in his le jardin. I am full of admiration for him, both for the way he works so hard and the loving, devoted care he shows his wife. When déjeuner and dîner time arrive, it is Monsieur Chanteur who nimbly scurries back and forth to their maison to collect their fare and carry it on a wooden tray.
Last night, when going to bed, I had seen Madame Chanteur for the first time this year, through our chambre window. She was poised in their doorway, a red cardigan draped round her shoulders, a hand against the stone to support her frailty. She was peering across her rain-soaked jardin and it was a sight that warmed my heart, for I knew innately that her heart had longed for the sight of her Cuzance maison – at least one more time. I am absolutely sure it was what kept her heart steadfastly beating and keeping its tenuous hold on life.
27
Summer Daze
Marinette pauses on her morning promenade to praise Stuart for the grapevines growing each side of la grange doors that he is training on wire to create a graceful arch. She says she likes them as they are in keeping with the rural look of the village. It pleases us enormously to be accepted and to fit in – despite m
y petite French. I take pleasure in always wishing both her and Brigitte Dal, ‘Bon promenade’ as they go on their daily strolls. That is a word I especially love for it seems to capture all that is idyllic about life in a French village. Time to meander slowly, time to chat, time to not think about the outside world or let it intrude. Time stands still in Cuzance.
Once summer truly starts, the heat is startling in its intensity. Sunlight creeps in ever-earlier to all the corners of Pied de la Croix. The rooms are washed anew each day by the bright shafts of summer sun. The hay-gathering season is in full swing and huge tractors lumber past, their trailers packed with enormous, tightly bound rolls of golden hay. By now, the tourist season is at its height and cars full of holiday makers wend their way past our house, sometimes stopping for directions. Most of the time I even manage to help them on their way to Martel or Rocamadour. I practise my à gauche and my à droit, making sure to use hand gestures to indicate turn left, turn right. Before the village clock even strikes twelve, we know the déjeuner hour is imminent. At ten minutes to noon, the voitures start to scurry frantically past , to be seated at the table in time for the precious lunch hour.
The days take on a heat haze. We take on a daze from the heat. The grass browns rapidly. The puffy white clouds have all disappeared. Now, it is only possible to work in le jardin in the early morning coolness and the late evening. Even the constant backdrop of bird song is more languorous.
There is nothing more splendid than a drowsy summer afternoon spent under the walnut tree. And surely, there is no better way to start a day than our first vide grenier outing for the season. We have even agreed that like in previous years, it is worth setting the alarm so we simply don’t arrive too late to scoop up bargains. Our efforts are rewarded. We round the corner, to find row after row of voiture are parked in the farmer’s vast field. We gasp aloud with excitement as we race along the narrow lane and there before us, are row after row of ‘clear-out-the attic’ stalls. After just a few years, Blanat is one of our favourite places to rummage in the pursuit of true French treasure.