Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (29 page)

Despite our holiday feeling, reality still seeps in for we have to go to La Poste to send a cheque to the
plombier
as well as a visit to Bank Populaire. In the bank we learn a new term,
historic
, which is a record of all our withdrawals. We both visibly blanch at the figure. We hastily head to the park next to the
petite bibliothèque
where we can get WiFi access, as we need to transfer money from home. Stuart checks the dollar against the
euro
. This time we have even more reason to grow pale.

Then it's off to the market to forget responsibilities for a while, as we fill our
pannier
with the tastes of a French summer.

Since it is the weekend we have a more leisurely lunch at the table behind
la grange
. When I return to our
petite maison
with the lunch tray, there is a young French man standing on our
très joli
steps. I think that he must be a salesman, perhaps of agricultural equipment, farm machinery — or even a new
portable
deal. He introduces himself as Francois and tells us that it was his uncle who we bought the house from. He tells us that he is off to
Australie
in a few months, and if it's convenient can we share any useful information with him? We sit on our
petite
porch, and in my best schoolteacher manner I discuss his options with him. He is courteous and charming, and I let him know to get in touch when he arrives.

For the first time for weeks, we go out to
dîner
alone to our new favourite find in the fourth summer we have frequented Souillac. Madame greets us like favoured customers. As her pen hovers to take our order, she anticipates our dessert and states ‘
tarte tatin
', promising to see if there is some left in the kitchen. It was only on the menu the first time we went for dinner, but by now we know to ask if there is any left from lunch still tucked away. After my first mouthful of warm, home-made apple pie with home-made
vanille glacée
, it was put straight at the top of my dessert list. To replace
crème brûlée
as the only other dessert I ever usually favour means that it is indeed
magnifique
. It is the taste of France that you conjure up when you are far away. It was a defining moment in my French life, when Madame greeted me on arrival each time after as Madame
Tarte Tatin
.

Jean-Claude continues to drop in nearly every day, his beloved Henriette always by his side. He is utterly devoted to her. He usually has a story or two to share, including the continuing sad saga of Monsieur Chanteur, his
famille
and financial woes. In France, death duties are extortionate. Hence, well-off families put every possible measure in place to avoid them. They are determined that government bureaucracy will not consume their lifetime of accumulated wealth.

Jean-Claude tells us that as well as his Lyon apartment they own three garages, a studio and a flat in the same building. We assume these are from the days when bourgeois families had servants. He wants to pass these assets onto his children. As his
mère
is still alive — at one hundred — he has to ask her permission to do so. Presumably she still owns the Lyon apartment. French inheritance laws are notoriously complex and all the generations are involved in matters of family property. Reaching an agreement is not always a straightforward matter.

This leads to the latest events in Monsieur Chanteur's life. Apparently, he and his wife both had private means, but Monsieur Chanteur passed his onto his wife. Now that she is gone, according to French law, the children are entitled to half of her assets. In the telling of the tale, it is reinforced that his son is mean-spirited and malignant. He has now succeeded in alienating the daughter as well as the grandchildren from Monsieur Chanteur. Now he can no longer even visit them. Despite the fact that he helped his daughter buy her nearby farm and has given money to the other two, they are all determined to gain access to the family wealth.

When Madame Chanteur was alive, when they were sitting together in their
jardin
their daughter would drive past without stopping, but would simply wave. Now she doesn't even do that. I often think of the sad, grey cloud that at the end of his life he is living under. The spirit of Cuzance that fills us with peace is an altogether different place for him.

Despite the physical proximity of our
maisons
, our lives could not be any more different. The only point of intersection is that we live in the same
petite
rural village and share a stone wall. The machinations of law, bureaucracy and avarice have wrapped their tentacles around him as tightly as ivy engulfs many
maisons
in our
département.

Conversation moves on to lighter matters when I ask Jean-Claude how to go about hiring a tractor. This is definitely something my deficient language skills will not extend to. Impatient as always, I want to move on in digging up the land that has been churned up by heavy machinery and is now a haven for weeds.

Two of our oldest, closest friends from home, Lynette and Michael, come to stay at the end of our second-last week. It is Michael's idea of heaven to be in France, for one of the things he most loves in life is
vin rouge
. He is also passionate about driving. However, when they finally drive in through our stone pillars, they stumble out of the car with tales of Souillac, the viaduct and a goat track. They have programmed the Sat Nav for the shortest route, not the fastest, and have had a seemingly impossible cross-country adventure.

Lynette exclaims, ‘You told us the village restaurant was called Hotel Arnal!'

‘Oh yes,' I reply, unable not to laugh. ‘They've changed the name since we've been here and I forgot to tell you.'

That was something of an oversight. Fortunately, they finally came across Brigitte Dal in her customary place on her bench outside her
maison
, her beloved Verdi by her side, watching the world go by. They enquired, ‘Susan and Stuart,
Australie
?' Michael tells us she would have been prepared to throw a rope around their car and tow them round the corner to our house, so determined was she to help them find us.

Much later over
dîner
on our
petite
porch, when we ask about their travels in France and the people they have met, Michael says the encounter with Brigitte Dal was one of the most appealing. Just like Glenn a few weeks before, he too seems to have fallen for her gentle charisma.

Their visit, planned for months, is all I hoped for. Lynette is exuberant about the charm of our
petite maison
and she too falls under the warmth of its spell.

The next morning, Michael helps to restore part of our crumbling wall before we all set off to one of the biggest
vide-grenier
of the season, Turenne en Gare. It is their first visit to a second-hand market and Lynette wants to scoop up every piece of Limoges china in sight. Instead, she buys a brown
petite
colander that stands on three legs, as a gift for our
cuisine
that I can wash berries in that I buy from the markets.

We soon wilt in the searing heat. Yet we have overlooked a critical fact: never plan lunch out on a Sunday in France. This is a lesson that we had previously learnt, but in our desire to plan a perfect itinerary for our friends we seem to have forgotten — places are either closed or a booking is essential. Until we recall this, we head for the stunning town of Meyssac, determined to showcase as much of our region as possible, to a
café
we discovered just a few days before and are excited about sharing with them.
Non
,
déjeuner
is not served on Sunday.

It is now even hotter, and getting late. We head for Martel in the hope that our local
café
will be open and serve pizza on a Sunday. Michael has a prodigious appetite; late though it is, we hope this will satisfy him. This time the drive does not seem quite as enchanting when hunger pangs pervade the surrounding pastoral delights. The roads are all empty and quiet, the little towns we pass through are deserted. Sundays in the country are reserved for lunch at home. For farmers at the peak of their season it is a rare respite to spend precious time with their family gathered round them.

There are sighs of relief all round; the
café
is open, they are still serving lunch. All we have to do is wait — and wait — in the blazing sun until a table is available. Finally, when we eat pizza that is the same temperature as the day, it is at the time we would usually be having our afternoon
espresso
and
glacée
.

Lynette and Michael leave for Avignon on a rainy Monday morning, negotiating a flock of sheep outside Pied de la Croix. It is an incongruous farewell touch, for they are being herded by two attractive teenage girls, one eye on their charges while both chat away on their
portables
.

Our last week passes in a haze of both happiness and sadness. Happiness — and a celebration of our considerable achievements. Sadness — at our imminent departure and a return to reality and responsibility. Somehow, despite our sheer hard work, life at Pied de la Croix is not the everday world.

The weather thwarts the start of our final
petite vacances
, just like our previous summer. Despite our very best intentions, we find ourselves pulling on our work clothes yet again. Each time I mark the occasion, thinking this will be the last time as I wash and pack them away, yet it never seems to be. We set to and move more rocks in readiness for another bed we are preparing next to
la piscine
where my
jardin
ambitions now extend to planting another row of
lavande
.

The shadows change and move as the sun slips away ever earlier to go to bed in its eiderdown clouds. The trees start to turn to autumn tones. The wind picks up, the clouds mass, the full moon peeps through the lofty pines in the opposite
jardin
. We create precious time to read and relax and
promenade
along the roads of Cuzance. On our last Friday we will meet Lynette and Michael on their return to Martel, at Relais St Anne, for
déjeuner
.

Reality and surrealism overlap, for the next time we join them will be in Australia for a weekend at their beach house. There is so much to reflect on and, most of all, so much to be grateful for.

No matter how many weeks we have in our French summer, time passes as quickly as the flapping of a pigeon's wings. We have learnt the hard way over the years to be more pragmatic and realistic in our approach to the relentless demands of
rénovation
. No matter what point we are up to, we declare that tools must be downed for our last precious week in our
petite maison
. We know what we are like. It will be rakes and shovels at dawn on our last day unless we declare, ‘Enough is enough.' The lure of the
jardin
is an ever-present tugboat, waiting to tow us indefinitely in its wake.

Mondays are as profoundly different as they could possibly be from my life at home. I start my last one for the summer, by potting up
petite
walnuts that I have discovered under my pink rose that climbs against the side of our house. Squirrels have buried the nuts there for the winter, but they have sprung into life. While walnut trees take decades to flourish, I am still determined to try to plant them out on our return.

I then head to the orchard as the first of the sun washes through it. I clamber up the ladder with my pruning saw and secateurs to cut off dead limbs. They are as uncooperative as reluctant Monday morning schoolchildren. I circle each tree, positioning my ladder carefully every time on the stony ground. Reach, grab, stretch, saw. Step down and repeat my circling of each apple and pear tree.

Stuart dashes off yet again to Martel to sort out our plummeting
euro
situation. I take the opportunity in between his concreting to grab the wheelbarrow and move my piles of branches. It is only when you step back that you can see how much you have achieved. It is a start to my working week that is like no other. Alone in my French orchard, the only sounds are that of melodious birdsong and the soft braying of a donkey in the distance, while the leaves overhead swish softly in the light breeze.

After countless trips in
rapide
succession with the teetering
brouette
, by only nine the full surge of the sun has returned. I huff and puff in a way that would rival
The Three Little Pigs
. While Stuart can measure his
rénovation
weeks by his progress with the paving, so too can I see my work in
le jardin
by the size of my now mountainous bonfire pile. Then it's off to spray
les herbes
yet again. By now they are openly mocking me, so stealthy and sure-footed is their bid to out-manoeuvre me and win the battle. As I don my mask, I am again quite sure that no-one in my other life would recognise me. Like Mondays everywhere, though, it takes a while to pick up the pace and resume my rhythm.

Stuart returns and ends his morning on a victorious note by cementing in the last piece of crazy paving along the side of
la piscine.
Now the three sides are
fini.
The paving, however, is still not fully finished for there is still the intricate art of cementing between each piece, not to mention the drainage channel that still needs to be installed. Still, with four years of hard
rénovation
now under our belts, we can afford to stop at the
déjeuner
hour and break for the afternoon. Well, perhaps somewhat later than the twelve o'clock tolling, when it is particularly imperious. Often, while still labouring away, I feel like telling it, ‘Yes, I know. I'm not quite ready to down tools yet,
merci beaucoup
for letting me know it is lunchtime.'