Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (17 page)

For now, domestic reality is the order of the day. Wednesday always means market day in Martel, a highlight of our week. Sadly, I have to set off alone, even though we should be enjoying this outing together in our other life. Stuart still has to work side by side with Jean-Louis on the ever-consuming paving project. He is quite determined not to let it drive him crazy. The day it is finally
fini
will be a day for joyous celebration. Oh yes, a Moët moment indeed — or
deux
. Next year,
salle de bain
. And then, maybe, just maybe, ‘working' can be removed from
vacances
.

I still rise at six to put in a few hours in
le jardin
, and then it's off to market and Intermarché for me. Two more challenges in my other life. Not only do I have to practise all my faltering French by carrying out all the transactions independently, without relying on Stuart as I always do, by week three I am also finally compelled to at last drive alone. Perfect timing, I ruefully reflect, as I tentatively join the throng of holidaymakers racing along the road to Martel. All goes smoothly on my solo trip, though once again it feels decidedly strange to drive on the ‘passenger' side of the road.

I saunter along the quiet cobbled street that leads to the market square. It is decorated with bright tubs of
fleurs
. With my market basket swinging jauntily, I feel altogether pleased with my transformation from my customary jardin attire to a pleasing French ensemble that cost me all of three euros. The first
framboise
are for sale in the market, a long-awaited treat. Stuart will be delighted, especially after his all-consuming paving efforts, to taste the first sweet raspberries of the summer.

Then there is a debacle at Intermarché, for in my haste to dash out and have time on my return to still work in
le jardin
, I've forgotten our cash card.
‘Désolé, pardon,'
I murmur in my still incompetent, faltering way, in front of a queue with laden trolleys. I abandon my trolley, tear home, grab the debit card, race back, pay and collect my waiting groceries. As I have spun along the narrow winding road that cuts back to our
maison
from the
supermarché,
I reflect that maybe there was a lesson in all this; perhaps it was a cosmic message telling me that I need to drive more frequently, for a few extra trips have been thrown in that I didn't quite plan.
Voilà,
there is still time to work on my rose bed before the sun beats an intense tattoo upon me.

This was one solo expedition when the few linguistic ploys I have been attempting to accumulate did not quite save the day. On other, more social occasions, they stand me in very good stead. A few ‘Mmm, mmm,
je comprends,'
‘I understand,' accompanied by much sage nodding of my head indicates that I have a far more thorough grasp of the
rapide
conversation than anyone would hopefully suspect. Throw in a few
‘Je suis d'accord',
‘I agree', and well, what can I say? In any language, everyone likes it when you agree with their opinion.

I make up for lost time and am rewarded by a highly unusual find, one that has no place in the midst of the other farm debris. Where it possibly came from, when this was once a French farmhouse, is highly puzzling. It is a tiny white porcelain elephant with its trunk raised. It is
petite
and intact. I think it is a symbol of good luck. Since the last owner was in his sixties, it's a very odd discovery, under a pile of fire-blackened soil. I like to think that is a splendid omen for my flourishing roses of the future.

Good luck doesn't last long. A middle-aged man and his son pull up in front of our
petite maison
to extol the virtues of pressure-hosing our porch and little house. Unfortunately at some point in its history, concrete render has been applied over the beautiful limestone. Stuart is busy mixing his last batch of concrete for the day, so I tell him I will manage the unwanted intrusion. I convey,
‘Non, non,'
I don't want it done, that we ourselves do all the
beaucoup travail,
all the hard work, and that it would be
très cher;
we have quite enough as it is to spend our euro on. Before I can stop them, they start doing a
petite
sample of spraying. I repeat ever more firmly,
‘Non, non.'
Clearly they are angry now and affronted by my rejection. They write down the price in an attempt to convey it is not très cher at all. How can I possibly resist the transformation of our
petite maison
from dirty render to clean render? One day, when the pressing demands of
rénovation
finally abate, this is something we are actually looking forward to. The careful removal of the concrete to reveal the limestone. It will be a slow and exacting process, like the removal of the sixties wallpaper, and the rewards will be the same.

In my attempt to get rid of them, I ask them to write down their names and
portable,
indicating that maybe in the future I will follow up and call them. This time it is they who respond with,
‘Non, non.'
They are not prepared to give it. They want to do the job here and now. They storm off. Now one end of our
petite
porch and a corner of the house has been blasted clean, despite my very best efforts to prevent them doing so. The contrast looks absurd; the old grey concrete and the clean corner. The offensive smell of industrial-strength bleach lingers for days.

Meanwhile, the grass has been cut in readiness for our first summer visitors, John and Joe. I love it when the grass is mown at home, but it is hardly a cause for celebration. Here, we marvel and rejoice at the transformation when it is
coupe.
From decidedly overgrown and farmyard
rustique
to at last the start of a pretty French rural
jardin.
Our
lavande
sways in a haze of deep-purple beauty. The apples are turning red, the pears are plump and brown. It is already almost impossible to conceive that only four years ago it was an overwhelming sea of brambles and weeds. The transformation taking place before my eyes has more than exceeded my expectations. Now, my
jardin
plans know no end, for as well as my rose garden I am now mentally planning another row of
lavande
on the other side of
la piscine.
I think the books I read in my rare idle moments our previous summer, that ironically featured sublime gardens, have subliminally influenced my dreams.

However, grandiose dreams are cast aside, for the Cuzance plot seems to be thickening. I have seen Monsieur Chanteur avidly writing away as he sits under his walnut tree. Jean-Claude tells me he is composing a letter to a barrister. Even he rolls his eyes when he imparts this information and discloses that it is to do with
patrimoine
— an inheritance dispute. I am conscious that it is another occasion that there has been a note of discord in relations in the village and a strain in friendships. There are grey clouds gathering ominously on the horizon — and not just the summer storm type.

The day happily concludes on a better note when Françoise visits with a bunch of magnifique
fleurs
from her
jardin
and asks to see the spare
chambre
that we have just finished. I arrange the flowers in a pretty old yellow jug and place them on our red and white check tablecloth. She is touched to see it on our farmhouse table and reminds me that it was her wedding gift forty years ago. The fact that she has bequeathed it to me, especially when she has two daughters, is another fragment of our other life that touches me. I feel enormously pleased when she admires our decorating style. To be told this by a French woman is praise indeed.

To remind us that we are truly back in the rural landscape that we love, a strong smell of
cochon
wafts across as the sun sinks. The pig farm is not far away. Just like the resonant chimes of the church bell at seven for
dîner,
the squealing cacophony from the pigs each evening is another prompt to stop work for the day. Here, there are many ways to mark the passing of the hours without the need for clocks. A soft lemon tint washes across the garden. Peace descends to close another Cuzance day.

The alarm wakes us with its strident shrill. It's Friday, the last day of our French working week, which has been yet another one of
beaucoup travail
. We stagger out of bed. By only nine, the sun bursts through with its expected sting. Its rays are like needles scattered from a pincushion. Excitement pushes us through our last working morning, for we are rewarding ourselves with an early finish and heading to another favourite restaurant in Martel, Auberge des 7 Tours. We aim to be there on the stroke of midday, for Friday
déjeuner
is the most popular of all and by now we even have a favourite table on the terrace, with a panoramic view. We rush to get ready like
Tour de France
competitors.

I am ecstatic on several counts. Firstly, our ability to hastily transform ourselves to go out into the world is now a well-tuned, fine art. Secondly, as we walk onto the elevated terrace on the dot of twelve, our punctuality rewards us with our table of choice. The church bell solemnly strikes the sacred
déjeuner
hour, and we celebrate being the first to arrive with a glass of chilled
rosé
. The table is shaded by a spreading
mûrier platane
, a tree that is a cross between a mulberry and plane tree; its large leaves offer superb summer respite. There is a sweeping view of the soft green hills of Martel, and a church spire spikes the cerulean sky.

Somehow, we have transformed ourselves in record time to look the picture of the perfect tourists. I am wearing one of what I consider to be my perfect French frocks; light cotton, pleated to the knee, in blue, pink and yellow stripes, and the finishing touch of a sweet white collar. I have matched it with my
chapeau
from our own
vide-grenier
, my favourite black hat in the inimitable style of Audrey Hepburn. No-one observing us would believe what I usually look like in my
rustique jardin
; scratched and ripped to pieces by brambles, dirty and dishevelled beyond belief.

This is a
déjeuner
we deserve after a punishing week. It is extraordinary. If anyone spared us a glance or thought, they would assume we had spent the morning over a leisurely
petit déjeuner
, perhaps a spot of sightseeing or a luxurious
matin
relaxing next to
la piscine. Non
,
non.
This is not the case at all.

Lunch is all that a French lunch should be. Gérard and Dominique join us. There is a soft breeze, another glass of
rosé
and
menu du jour
, the soft hum of conversation with our French
amis
. The young and charming waiter is in fact the son of our English real estate agent. He takes the time to explain the menu choices. Today the
entrée
is
Salade Gourmande
or
Terrine de Foie Gras
, followed by
Confit de Canard
,
Poisson du Jour
or
Lapin
. Dessert is always where my eyes fly to first. Mmm,
Mocha Pots de Crème
, a rich
chocolat
pudding, or
cherry clafoutis
, the baked dessert of seasonal fruit? When it comes to dessert, there is never any question that the French have a truly distinctive way with butter,
chocolat
, cream, sugar and
œufs
. Oh yes, French chefs have beaten and whipped their way around stainless steel mixing bowls too many times in their lives to possibly count.

I decide to be adventurous and try
lapin
for the first time. I am not disappointed. It is truly delicious — rabbit served in a light cream sauce. I was dreading that it might well be like the nasty
andouillette
experience on our last night in France a few years ago. It remains a word indelibly stamped on our memories and will never, ever be ordered again. Offal and intestine is not our meal of choice.

Laughter rings from our table as the three courses and
café
last well over two hours. There is much speculation and plotting for the proposed Cuzance murder mystery of the summer. When we return to Pied de la Croix and head for
la piscine
, the plot does indeed thicken. There are two distinct footprints in the wet cement next to the pool and several on the newly laid paving. I grab my camera to record the evidence. Is there a new suspect in the plot? Or is it one already on the much-discussed list of suspects for the novel everyone thinks I should write? The title has already been conceived:
Murder in Cuzance.
It is not clear to me, however, what I will do with the evidence.

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

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.