Our House is Not in Paris (17 page)

Jean-Claude dropped in briefly on an afternoon walk with two of his friends and, just like absolutely everyone who visited and saw the enormity of what we had embarked on, they both wished us, ‘
Bon courage
.' Erick called to check on the measurement of a pipe he was bringing over to connect the dishwasher. We made plans for his next visit to help again with the kitchen. Brigitte would also be coming this time, and we discussed taking them out to lunch in Martel to thank Erick for all his hard work. By this stage of the day, we realised it really was too late to launch into any renovating, so instead we did a much-needed tidy-up of all the piles of paperwork, receipts, magazines and brochures. Sadly, the tourism brochures were more for everyone who came to stay, as this year we really didn't have time at all to be mere tourists. One day … Those words seemed to be a constant refrain.

By the time Erick was due to come again in a week, we aimed to have the sitting room painted and furnished, although it would still have the old kitchen sink in it. The fireplace remained soot-stained, and the heavy old stove would still be there for another year. Meanwhile, although the oven was not connected, we were using the new kitchen benchtop and had set up the kettle and coffee machine on it. Gerard and Dominique dropped in on their evening walk around the village, so we stopped for an
apéritif
with them as they admired the roof and were filled in on our day's activities, including the exciting purchase of a Chesterfield and two armchairs. And so another day ended, with another full one ahead, starting with Jean-Claude's arrival early in the morning, armed with his chainsaw, to help me cut down some dead trees.

Before I embarked on chopping down trees, the day held another first for me on waking. It was a significant day, as I got to use my new washing machine for the second time. No more washing clothes in a bucket on the step or, even more creatively at times, as I was having a shower. It was a strange experience, the juxtaposition of the new machine in the ancient cellar, with its stone walls, huge wooden beams and cobwebs everywhere. A little stone niche set into the wall behind the machine made the perfect place to put my washing products. Similarly, there was another niche that I'd used to place my immediate gardening needs: my pruning saw, garden gloves and secateurs.

Jean-Claude arrived for a morning inspection of the progress on the roof. He exchanged a brief greeting with the roofers and, while I couldn't understand a word, I nevertheless noticed how different their interaction was to ours with them. There was none of the usual cheer and
bonhomie
in their exchanges with us. It was a reminder of the fact that quite a distinct class system still seems to exist in France. Perhaps it is still more entrenched in rural France. We had established a morning ritual of giving the roofers coffee on their arrival every morning, after an exchange of ‘
Bonjour, ça va?
' all round. We wondered whether the French would serve coffee to their artisans and whether such a warm feeling would exist between them. We wondered if French people would invite their roofer in to inspect the progress on
la cuisine
. Unlike all my other questions to Jean-Claude about customs, somehow this was one I didn't feel I could ask so readily. While Stuart's French extended to being able to ask where they lived, without his language skills, nevertheless, I too felt a great warmth towards them and would be sad when they left after the roof had finished. Somehow, they had quickly slipped into what had become the new rhythm of our French life.

Jean-Claude and I set to work in the top corner of the
jardin
where some
abricot
trees were in desperate need of attention. Pipe in mouth, Jean-Claude swung his rope over the dead branches and started up his chainsaw. We now had a duet of chainsaws, as the youngest roofer seemed to use his high on the roof on every possible occasion. My job was to cart the branches away to the bottom of the
jardin
, where the evidence of my labour was now a precarious pile. I stretched and heaved and threw higher and higher to create an impressive bonfire site.

With another load of washing swaying in the breeze in the carport on the makeshift line made of twine from the discarded hay bales, we set off to the markets in Martel. In early July it was still relatively quiet before the influx of summer tourists. We didn't seem to count ourselves as mere tourists. We bought the freshest, sweetest raspberries and strawberries, and the first peaches of summer. The taste of a French peach, dripping with juice, was one of the most exquisite experiences imaginable. They seemed to hold the essence of summer in every succulent mouthful.

After another afternoon working in the
jardin
, we made time after dinner to have one of our rare walks around our village. There were stretches of meadow, golden in the glow of early evening, enormous oaks, with huge soaring trunks and stone farmhouses surrounded by machinery, bright pots of scarlet geraniums clustered around their entrances. Rabbits and hares raced across the fields as the sun dipped down and glowed on the horizon. As we neared home, next to the
Mairie
's office, like in a fairytale, white-haired, gentle Brigitte leant out of her upper window to wish us ‘
Bonne soirée
.' We admired her clustered pots of vivid red geraniums and arrived home as the clock struck ten.

The sun was shining and the damp drizzle had cleared. The roofers certainly knew their trade, for they'd told us that the weather would clear again by today. The loving border collie from a nearby house was waiting with his stick as I stepped outside to embrace the softness of the early morning. And so, too, the flies returned in buzzing swarms to crawl on every surface in our
petite maison
. It was always hard to believe they were infinitely worse than at home. Attempting to eat out outside was always a huge challenge and the food had to be carefully covered on our plates. It was not, however, an entirely pleasant experience, but we always want to make the most of the summer sun and warmth. The flies were so bad, though, that many of our French friends simply refused to eat outside.

Today was yet another first for me, as I set off to Martel to buy
pain au chocolat
for our
petit déjeuner
. I was full of a sense of jubilation as I crawled tentatively along the narrow road leading out of Cuzance, heading to the main road to Martel. It was with an enormous sense of achievement that I arrived safely, cautiously parked and entered the
boulangerie
, full of triumph at such a simple undertaking. The one-minute drive through the village to Jean-Claude's did not really count as ‘proper' driving. The everyday activities that I took for granted at home had a new sense of meaning in a foreign country.

I passed the neighbours outside in their
jardin
on my return. They had moved in since we were here last year. They were both very old. He was thin and stooped, with bright white hair. He pottered around their enormous
jardin
all day long, and she was never far from his side.

I was surprised that they had bought such a vast house and garden, but Jean-Claude told me that they had bought the property to be closer to their daughter and her family. It filled me with sadness, though, that in our whole time at our
petite maison
they only had visitors on a couple of occasions and rarely left their home. When they did, it seemed to be just to go to Martel to do their shopping. We had also been told by Jean-Claude that Madame Chanteur had been very ill. I could see it in her fragile movements and tentative steps. She was utterly devoted to her husband, as he was to her. She followed him all day long, clutching her cardigan round her shoulders, no matter how warm it was. When the weather was fine, they had their lunch and dinner every day under the shade of the spreading walnut tree. Monsieur Chanteur always carried the tray with their meals and slipped in and out of the house with a bottle of wine and a throw to wrap around his wife's shoulders in the cool of the evening.

Their devotion was palpable. I waved to them every morning when it was fine and throughout the day as I too moved around outside working. Without any words spoken between us, I was deeply touched by their evident, long-lasting love for each other.

At last, after two weeks had slipped away rapidly, a routine and rhythm of sorts had been established. Finally we had a proper lunch of succulent pork chops, fresh from the markets and a green salad with mustard dressing in an attempt to emulate the French way of life by eating at lunch and having a proper break. We had the best of intentions but it didn't seem to happen as often as we would have liked it to. In fact, the opposite was true, as every day, fuelled by the desire to ‘just finish another job', we found ourselves eating very, very late at night. Frequently, I would stumble into bed shortly after, utterly worn out by another long Cuzance day.

Thanks to Jean-Claude's valiant efforts with the chainsaw cutting down two old dead trees, he had cleared the way for me to remove more brambles. The thorns were so sharp that they pierced my gloves and gashed me through my long-sleeved shirt. Some brambles still had an uncanny resemblance to climbing roses. But after being scarred last year — this time metaphorically — in my attempts on our very last day to preserve what I foolishly thought were roses, which would climb in a picturesque way on the barn walls, I slashed through them without another thought. Actually, there were some other roses — and, yes, I was convinced they were — that, in my attempt to keep them and have them not decimated by the gardener when he came to mow, the only way I could think of to identify them was to place brightly coloured clothes pegs on their spindly limbs. I could still scarcely get over the fact that last year I carefully preserved brambles rather than roses, and, on our return, I felt quite heartbroken to discover that they were flourishing brambles. What was also etched in my memory about our last precious day was that, still, I worked frantically and turned down an offer to spend the day relaxing by Jean-Claude's luxurious pool.

Meanwhile the coolness had turned to blistering heat, and I laboured in the orchard while there were now a record seven roofers also toiling in the burning sun. Astounding as it seemed, the elderly father was working alongside them. When I found out that Poppy was seventy-three, it was even more remarkable. At the stroke of twelve, without fail, they all downed tools and set off down the road to the village restaurant. Did we stop when they did? No … Once again, even though we always intended to, there seemed to be something that was imperative to keep doing at that very moment. When they returned from lunch, there were only a few hours left of the working week. It was Friday afternoon, and the promise of the weekend was evident in the very air. The radio that accompanied their work was turned to a dance station. The young roofers stripped off their shirts, and their high spirits matched the beat of the music as they energetically worked precariously high up on the roof.

Finally, we stopped, too, just in time for an
apéritif
with Dominique and Gerard when they dropped in with a gift for us. It always seemed a rush to finish the work day and tidy up the work site, ready for the next day. Today, Stuart had managed to do two coats of paint in the sitting room, and the white was a startling and welcome change to the ghastly orange and green.

Gerard and Dominique had found a tray for our set of scales. Not only was it a perfect fit, but they had polished it so that it gleamed. Their thoughtfulness was very touching, and what was also amazing is that they only saw our scales very briefly last year and had found a tray that was the perfect match. Once again, we had every reason to feel profoundly grateful to have found such wonderful friends in our new life. Jean Clause dropped in, too, as was his habit most days at the
apéritif
hour, not only to check on our day's progress but also to follow up on any questions I ever had. I was always impressed and grateful for the way he took on all our questions and concerns, for he too had a very busy life with the care of his park-like gardens, pool and extraordinary home. Today he got back to me about my question on how to locate where the kilometres were recorded in the car. Such was our attention to the minutia of our new life.

Once our visitors left for their evening meal, we walked around the land. Last year it wasn't even possible to see it all, let alone walk around it. We'd both had a physically exhausting day but also a hugely satisfying one. We also both experienced true hunger after the sheer hard physical work; at home I rarely had such an imperative desire to eat. Food seemed to take on a new meaning in France in many ways — not just as fuel for the huge outlay of energy, but a true appreciation as well for the flavours, fresh from the grower's gardens just a matter of hours before.

As the day ended in a glow of soft light and we sat on our steps with our favourite
noix liqueur
— walnut — we both felt an enormous sense of pleasure in knowing that we had our own house in our own village in France and the gift of new friends to return to each year.

The first of July, a Friday, was the end of our working week. The week had simply vanished, slipped through our fingers in a haze of work, friends and visits to the markets to buy food. For once, we had a slower, more relaxed start to the day. However, we were full of alarm, for our beloved weathervane — the crowning glory and distinctive feature of our barn roof — was missing. The roof was almost finished but the cockerel that crowned the roof had not been replaced. Stuart's day started with consulting the dictionary for the correct word to try to track it down. Like many other words that I learnt through necessity,
girouette
is one I would now always remember. Before he even had a chance to have his
petit déjeuner
, he went out to ask the roofers, who had just arrived, where it was. We were already very concerned as we couldn't find it when we went out to search in the barn where we presumed it would have been placed. Despite his questioning, no-one seemed to have any knowledge of it. We were told it was not normal anyway to have an old weathervane on a new roof. We were then told later by our friends that it was actually worth several hundred euros. We felt profoundly sad, as it was the perfect finishing touch to our barn. The older roofer teetered perilously on the ridge capping, as if he were on a tightrope, and gestured to Stuart below that he simply didn't know what had happened to it. Everyone involved in the whole chain of the construction of the roof claimed the same: they had no idea what had happened to it. What we did know was that, one day, someone doing an expensive renovation would no doubt have our weather vane. While we mourned its loss for a long time, what we did also realise is that it was probably a small price to pay for an otherwise seamless operation. They offered to bring us a catalogue that would show us a range of new ones, but we knew it simply wouldn't be quite the same. It was one of the features I had been most captivated by when Stuart showed me his photos after returning from buying our little house: the barn, with its dusting of snow, decorated with the
girouette
.