Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (11 page)

Always working in his
jardin
, always on walks through the village, stopping to chat to all he knows; characteristic pipe in mouth and checked cap perched on his head. Walks with Françoise and a
chien
by his side would complete the picture perfectly. His only reluctance to agree with the plan is that in the bitter winter months that they spend in Lyon, after their summer sojourns in Cuzance, we all know that while ostensibly Françoise's
chien
, it will be Jean-Claude who takes it out in the early morning and evening sleet, snow and ice.

By Thursday,
la chien
project is fully underway. Jean-Claude has found the perfect King Charles spaniel, four-months-old, in Cancon, a two-hour drive away. It was born in April, just like me. Maybe I will have a say in the name. I am filled with great satisfaction that my plan is so quickly coming to fruition. What we are also excited about is that in some small way, we will share their
chien
on our summer
vacances
and so have a French dog to return to each year. We decide, that as we will meet it straight away, when it becomes a much-loved part of Jean-Claude and Françoise's life, it will associate us with its new life too. We already look forward to it rapturously greeting us on our return to Cuzance in the years ahead.

Much to my amazement, I discover that all dogs born in a certain year in France, must have a name starting with the same letter for that year. Stuart explains that this way, you can tell how old a
chien
is. So, when they get their puppy, this year it must have a name that starts with ‘H'.

Later in the week, I am surprised by the extent of my disappointment when Jean-Claude tells me that all the puppies have gone already. They have searched further on the internet and there will be none available for two more months – just when we leave.

It would seem that I truly did see it partly as our
chien
too.

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.

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 orchard.

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.

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.