Our House is Not in Paris (15 page)

Once all the beams were off,
La Forge
was fully exposed to the light and the elements. When the roofers wandered down to the restaurant, I took the opportunity to slip inside and inspect it. I took photos of the pool that was perfectly lined up with the huge barn doors — just like our vision that one day we would walk into the grand entrance and see the sweeping vista of the pool. It was extraordinary that the design and measurements Stuart emailed from afar had now come to fruition. I stood there in wonder and, in my mind, the design of the barn unfolded. I saw
la cuisine
on the far-left wall; I saw the two upstairs
chambres
; I saw the mezzanine study, the staircase, the fireplace; I placed the Chesterfield and the bellows coffee table. My imagination was strong. My vision was clear. The reality was that it was dusty and abandoned; there were mangers still in place with remnants of straw from the long-ago days when cattle still lived in the barn. There were fragments of the La Croix's lives in the abandoned tools, the rickety old ladder, the heights of children long gone, marked in chalk upon the wooden wall. It was wreathed in cobwebs but I knew that we were both fuelled by dreams and, one day, it too would be transformed and become the pièce de résistance of all our renovating years.

On Thursday, like every other day, no matter what time I got up, there was simply never enough time for everything that needed to be done. We were up early again, ready for Jean-Claude and Françoise to take us to Cahors. Like every other day, too, it was destined to be a ‘big' day. We were slightly anxious about going to the
Préfecture
to register the car, for, like any bureaucratic department anywhere in the world, there was a strong possibility something may go awry. Before leaving, I stepped outside the front door to hang the towels out, only to find four roofers sitting on our steps. Quite a surprising way to start my day — though not unpleasant at all. There was a chorus of
bonjours
all round and much shaking of hands. Stuart joined us to check the gutter placement on the barn roof, and off we went.

All went surprisingly swiftly and smoothly. There was a series of steps: official number one, who passed us to official number two, who passed us to official number three. At any point the deceptively smooth sequence could suddenly be halted if there had been some oversight in our paperwork. Françoise and Stuart were the ones in the hot seat before each
Préfecture
official, while Jean-Claude and I followed in their wake, each holding our breath. At the last hurdle, official number three, Jean-Claude commented that the striking young woman now scrutinising our paperwork would be an attractive asset next to our pool. We laughed hysterically and everyone turned to look at us in admonishment. It was a serious place, the
Préfecture
, and this was serious business. In fact, our misplaced merriment possibly was our premature relief that the paperwork seemed on the brink of being signed with a flourish. And then, it came to the attention of official number three that we didn't have a letterbox. Despite copious pieces of paperwork — copies of our passports, Australian licences, and documents for the house — the fact that we didn't have a letterbox seemed to mean we didn't exist. We thought this would be our downfall. Jean-Claude quickly stepped in and assured Mademoiselle that indeed there was a letterbox; it simply had to be fixed to the wall of Pied de la Croix. She smiled at him, clearly charmed and,
voilà
, we were officially the owners of our little Renault. The four of us left full of glee, like schoolchildren on a half-day holiday, for Jean-Claude and Françoise told us with astonishment that the last time they were at the
Préfecture
the line snaked out the door for hours.

So we were free. As we had allocated the whole afternoon to the bureaucracy of the
Préfecture
, we now had a few hours to explore Cahors, a pretty medieval city almost entirely surrounded by water, on the Lot River. As we walked the streets of Cahors Jean-Claude told me that two French women turned their heads to appraise my attire in an approving manner. It more than made up for most of my days in France, when I looked far from
chic
. We asked directions to the river and a young woman embellished the directions with a story about the Devil's figure on the bridge. She told us that, according to legend, the builder made a pact with the Devil to help with the completion of the bridge. However, at the end of the work, the builder tried to go back on the pact by refusing to place the last stone on the bridge. So, in the 1800s, during a restoration of the bridge, a carving of the Devil was added to the top of one of the three towers. Her story added a layer of intrigue to Cahors and, after exploring, we then drove home via the longer but very scenic route. Jean-Claude pointed out things that we would never learn by ourselves, like the small old round building in the pastures that was originally a shepherd's hut and the trail that we would never have noticed on the outskirts of Cuzance that was a pilgrims' route to Rome. Jean-Claude and Françoise harmoniously sang ‘Alouette' and declared it to be a song known throughout the world. The inside of the car hummed with the happiness of new friends.

The day finished with Jean-Claude's latest mission to ensure that we understood all things French by showing us exactly where the letterbox needed to be placed. First of all, the letterbox must be a standard size, of course available from any good
bricolage
. Then he pointed out the faint outline on the stone wall where the old one had been. Until we could buy our letterbox, he had printed our name and stuck it on the outside wall of the house so that we officially existed in the eyes of
La Poste
.

He told us the post is delivered on Saturday in France and in Paris, three times a day. We then gathered some small pieces of slate to label the plants in Françoise's vegetable garden and, as I needed a pruning saw for the following day, I walked to Le Vieux Prieuré with Jean-Claude. I returned home through the village with a glossy carrier bag from Paris that Françoise had given me, swinging on one arm, the picture complete with a pruning saw in the other. Our day at the
Préfecture
ended back home in Cuzance, with the high-pitched squealing of pigs echoing across the fields.

The roofers indicated that they wouldn't come to work on the roof on Friday. As they left on Thursday a huge storm was predicted, so it was fortunate that at the end of each working day the enormous tarpaulin was put back in place. Luckily, the storm didn't eventuate. As they left I thanked them profusely, ‘
Merci beaucoup
,' and Stuart understood that their reply communicated, ‘It is all part of the service.' We were actually glad they wouldn't be on site the next day as we had the team from Piscine Ambiance scheduled to work all day on the pool. As Christian didn't appear on Thursday to mow more grass and spray the weeds, we were thankful not to have three teams of artisans working on our property at once. It all seemed somewhat extreme and
nouveau riche
.

I finally found time to catch up on sleep and go to bed early on Thursday evening to luxuriate in a long read. By the time I woke on Friday, it had been nearly twelve hours of much-needed rest. Could we only have been here a week?

I had just had my
petit déjeuner
and written a single sentence in my notebook when the first Piscince Ambiance van arrived, ahead of schedule. I went to greet them and managed to convey where the electricity was outside and the water supply in the decrepit old cow shed. Julian turned on the tap and filthy brown water gushed out. I was not sure where the water for filling the pool would come from, but at least this source was just to mix the concrete today. He then indicated that the hose was broken and not long enough to reach the pool. Another item to add to the perpetual
bricolage
list. I decided it was time to wake Stuart with a cup of tea and let him know that the team had arrived and that I had sorted it to the best of my ability (in a basic few words accompanied, as usual, by many gestures). Stuart had a hasty
petit déjeuner
before dashing off to the bank to sort extra money on our French cash card. I could never quite fully grasp how it worked, but the balance seemed to always be in a state of flux depending on what you had spent and at what time of the day. Both he and Anne-Marie had tried to explain it to me, but all I heard were Anne-Marie's words telling me, ‘I know it looks like you are in debit, but, really, the balance will automatically correct itself from your account.' Just like with all things financial, I tended to glaze over and know that our money was in good hands with Stuart's considerable financial acumen. He raced back in with fresh artisan bread from the
boulangerie
, which we hastily ate with luscious sweet
abricot confiture
that I had bought from the Martel markets. Stuart then dashed back out to the
bricolage
, mindful that it was a twenty-minute drive; his list was long and, like everywhere, it too would close on the stroke of midday.

By now it was day nine. The days started cool and fresh and crisp. They then burned off into an intense, bright heat. We had been told that the temperature was about to increase to forty degrees for three days in a row, to be followed by a massive thunderstorm. It meant that, for our second
brocante
outing, we would put the alarm on, even though it was Sunday, partly to try to beat the extreme heat and partly to be early in our quest for treasure. The thought of finding treasure always filled me with a sense of passionate excitement. Today I was awake just before the long pealing of the seven o'clock church bells, to which a cockerel responded several times, which was then followed by the rumble of a tractor setting off for the fields. Before I even had my
petit déjeuner
, I ventured through the long weeds to the back of the barn to check the progress of the water in the pool. To my surprise it was only a quarter full after about thirteen hours. I could not begin to imagine the cost of the water bill as well as the electricity, as there was a pump running to fill it.

The pool was far from our luxury vision gleaned from glossy magazines. It was surrounded by rubble and huge clumps of stinging nettles. Once the kitchen was finished in the following week, it would be the next project to start choosing paving stones and wood for the surrounding decking. At the moment we didn't even have chairs to sit on in the rubble piles.

Today — and here was a surprise — was, yes, another big day in Cuzance. First we were off to the
Mairie
's office again, this time to try to get a
plombier
, as the septic tank was becoming increasingly offensive. As the toilet is next to our bedroom, the smell pervaded it through the wall and it was utterly awful. There was also an encroaching brown stain seeping through the freshly painted white walls, which I found increasingly alarming. Next, there would be a trip to Brive to go to a big
supermarché
, Carrefour, in search of the ubiquitous white plastic chairs that absolutely every garden in France has. Then, we were going to find time to do one of our favourite things and visit a
Troc
in search of an
armoire
for our clothes and linen. Like last year, we were still living out of our suitcases. Stuart had made several trips to the attic to bring down some of our many purchases from last year. I refused to even venture up there. There was enough renovating mess downstairs without even trying to cope with the neglected, dusty state of the attic. To my dismay, a mouse had gnawed through several of my lovely new towels so it was imperative to get everything stored properly.

To finish the day, we were going on an outing to a grand barn conversion that featured in a magazine,
Maison Francaise
. There was a five-page spread featuring the barn and the photos were extraordinary, particularly of the inside pool. Jean-Claude had to use all his charm to persuade the owner to allow us to view it and she had graciously allowed us a small window at 4pm before the next people renting it for a week were booked in. He had impressed on us several times how important it was that we were ready precisely at 3.30 to be picked up. He had also warned us to remember to take our shoes off. However, something seemed to be lost in translation, for it was not the maison in the magazine after all. While the barn conversion we were shown was charming, it transpired that the grand barn conversion was in fact their son's.

Once again, every day in France was a short story, complete in itself. The ‘big' team promised by Yannick for
la piscine
turned out to be in fact three young men without any English. As Stuart was committed to going to the bank and the
bricolage
— yes, again — it was my responsibility to manage the Piscine Ambiance team. Early in the morning, Jean-Luc had indicated that our short hose was split and was an issue for filling the pool. Somehow I forgot to add it to the
bricolage
list, so later that day I frantically rang Jean-Claude to see if we could possibly borrow a hose. Stuart was by now busy plastering the cracks in the sitting room in readiness for when I would start my next working week by undercoating it.

I sped the two minutes down the road, drove in the bottom of Jean-Claude's property and through his enormous
jardin
to where he was standing ready with an assortment of three lengths of hose. We threw all the hoses in the back of the boot and Jean-Claude said, as always, ‘Don't hesitate to ask if there is anything else you need.' I replied, ‘Well, actually, this morning I was cutting down the grapevines on the barn wall and now I also need a spade, please.' So off we went to the garage to collect more equipment. By now the afternoon heat had intensified and it was extremely hot inside as we searched for the tools I needed. I peeled off my long-sleeved work shirt that was necessary to wear as extra protection against the brambles and stinging nettles while working in the
jardin
. We burst into laughter as the lack of propriety at removing my shirt in his garage hit both of us. I did, I hasten to add, have a T-shirt on underneath. Jean-Claude continued laughing loudly as we walked back across the garden and announced that it was possible his elderly neighbour might have a heart attack from all our antics. As I was about to race home with the hoses, he asked what Stuart was doing. When I told him he was concreting the wall we knocked down the previous year, he got down on the ground and bowed, stating, ‘Is there anything he can't do?' I declared, ‘No, there isn't.' Jean-Claude erupted in laughter again as he reflected on what on earth his neighbour would make of our behaviour if he looked out his window.