Our House is Not in Paris (27 page)

My morning plans for the
jardin
were thwarted by the rain. Getting drenched once while gardening was quite enough. We'd had a break for a week while Mum was with us, so after she left it was back into renovating mode for a while. Liz was on her way to stay with us in Pied de la Croix. We met her and her husband John five years ago in India and have maintained an email relationship ever since. She last stayed with us in our first rented house in France two years ago, and this time it would be in our very own home. Her latest appearance in my Inbox before leaving told me that she had booked her Channel ferry crossing and, after an eight-hour drive, would be with us on 25 July. By this stage our kitchen would be installed, the spare room fully renovated, and we would be more than ready for another break. Well, that was the plan. She had instructions to bring Smarties and Marmite, Stuart's favourite English treats.

Although Liz was due to arrive at lunchtime and I realised it would make her room somewhat damp — and as I couldn't go out into the garden as planned — I decided to tackle her room. So, my Monday morning this week started with stripping the bright green wallpaper down in the spare room. I again reflected on the fact that my Mondays in France were hugely different to the start of my usual week at home. At least there were no more visits to the
Mairie
on my agenda at the moment to start my working week, so that made a change. Stuart had set off on yet another
bricolage
expedition, which seemed to be his usual start to our working week in France. As usual, too, he was armed with a very long list. In addition, he had to go to Piscine Ambiance, for, in just a matter of a couple of weeks, two clips on the pool cover had broken. There was a ten-year warranty but we felt sure that somehow it wouldn't cover the clips. I had utterly refused to go ever again; I still hated the
bricolage
just as much as I detested hardware trips at home. I knew I would never waver in my firm resolution to not venture foot in one ever again.

I stripped the wallpaper off in record time. My energy and enthusiasm had returned after a week's break. Much to my surprise, I had discovered that I actually enjoyed the rewards of tearing off strips of wallpaper. It was an extremely satisfying process. I secretly hoped that Liz was late, for, as usual, once I had started a project I became obsessively caught up in it. Jean-Claude dropped in just as I was starting and remarked that he didn't know how I did it — I wasn't exactly built for strenuous renovating, as I was frequently aware of in all that I tackled. To look at me, you wouldn't think I'd have any idea where to start, let alone take on projects almost singlehanded. However, over the years, I've surprised even myself about how much I've learnt working alongside Stuart renovating all our houses. As Jean-Claude left, he told me that I was marvellous. I glowed with pride and considered that it was a pretty fine start to a Monday morning, despite the incessant rain.

We'd now taken to trying to glean the weather forecast as we browsed at the
vide-greniers
or fresh produce market by listening in to the conversations that inevitably focused on the weather. There were conflicting statements of hopeful predictions. Would it be Tuesday or Friday that the rain finally stopped? Of course I was very glad for the farmers, as the effect of the rain had been transforming. For us, though, it was hardly the vision of summer in France that we had dreamt of.

As I scraped and peeled the sticky under-layer of wallpaper, I kept telling myself that I must stop and eat when the church bell next chimed. The half-hour struck, then the next. I forced myself to stop and refuel, though I wasn't really sure why, as there were only stale crackers in the house, which always made me feel very disappointed that in the land of delectable cuisine I was reduced to such a dismal lunch. At least my crackers were enlivened by a tasty blue
fromage
— though my peach was bruised. I knew that, when I went home, I'd feel especially regretful about such meals. At least today my emotions were not in a similarly bruised state. I was pleased with my progress and eager to continue. Stuart had our mobile phone so I had no way of knowing when Liz would arrive. As always, when I was in the house working alone, I didn't even put the radio on. I was lost in my own little cocoon.

As I worked away, I also gazed out the window at a new world, washed in a soft, soft haze of vivid green. And, somehow, the rain didn't matter at all as I continued to restore and bring back to life our cosy little house.

It was the most unconventional of all greetings for Liz when she finally arrived. I raced to the doorway, scraper in hand, and beckoned her in from the all-consuming rain. Her room, which had not been the most welcoming anyway, was now in state of damp wallpaper tatters. Similarly her lunch was not the fare of French gastronomic dreams. No, I hastily sliced and toasted some stale bread, practically threw it on a plate and then it was back to the room. At least her reaction on seeing our
petite maison
for the first time was all that I had hoped for and more. I'd sent her the photos the previous year when we bought it and then after our few weeks of work, and she had taken the time to look at them just before leaving Wales. So it was fresh in her mind and she was immediately able to grasp what we had already done this year.

While the spare room needed conduit to cover up the wiring, new skirting boards and the wall lights were dangling precariously, I had attempted to make it a bit more welcoming the night before by placing a wicker chair, with her gifts on it, next to the air mattress. Now, on the day of her arrival, in a completely unorthodox way, I'd decided that Liz's room was the project of the day. After her hasty lunch, I put a bentwood chair in the room so we could chat as I continued working. Stuart finally arrived home after a five-hour
bricolage
buying spree — broken at least by a more tasty lunch than mine, as even the
bricolage
was closed today for the lunch period. After a quick
café
with Liz and a catch-up, they set off to Martel as we had completely forgotten that she was a vegetarian. A sad lunch, a sad room and, now, no dinner planned. Well, we had, in fact, planned a barbecue in true Australian fashion, but that was now out of the question.

Meanwhile, I kept stripping off the layers of tightly glued wallpaper. As with any renovating I ever do, despite tiredness rapidly creeping in, the more I did, and the closer I got to my goal, the more I wanted to do. So although I'd been at it for hours and hours by now, I was utterly determined to strip all the wallpaper by the evening. So after our customary evening
apéritif
with Jean-Claude, I moved ever closer to my goal. Before preparing dinner, Stuart then had to fit in preparing some plaster to repair some crumbling parts of the wall.

One of the things about renovating is that, unlike the routine of going to work every day at home, when you wake up, you never quite know what the day will bring. I never lost this feeling of anticipation, no matter how hard I worked. Certainly this Monday morning, and our last whole week in Cuzance, I had no idea that the room our friend would be staying in would be the scene of such frenetic activity.

The morning after Liz's arrival, despite being consumed by exhaustion after a full day of wallpaper stripping, I woke after just a few hours of sleep. My mind was furiously ticking like a metronome. I finally got up, knowing that sleep would continue to elude me, and crept cautiously past Liz asleep in the sitting room. I poured a drop of hopefully mind-numbing walnut
digestif
, thinking that might do the trick, and ventured out into the inky-black darkness with my torch for a quiet moment. However, just a few hours later, I ventured out of our bedroom again and found myself up the ladder at six in the morning.

So, day two in the spare room. While it would need a second coat next year, I was thrilled by the transformation in a mere two days. Another whitewashed room, perfect in its simplicity. From sixties green wallpaper, all stripped on the first day, and plastered where the old stone literally crumbled beneath my hands as I pulled the wallpaper off, to the first coat of crisp white. Just like at home, I loved living in my own little world and this room had become my whole world for two entire days. I only left it to eat and sleep briefly. I actually couldn't believe my capacity to work so exhaustively, yet, just like when we renovated our hundred-year-old terrace in inner-city Sydney, the world stopped for me. Today the matriarch of the village, Marinette Barre — who, while reliant on a cane for her daily walks, is always a picture of elegance, complete with a straw hat decorated with ribbons, walked past. Dominique then also appeared at the window, accompanied by two friends who were staying with them. She asked if she could take them for a tour of our
jardin
, and I continued working up the ladder. Then, at end of a long, long day, Martina Salques drove up with her husband in their shiny new Mercedes and was quite insistent about a tour of our
petite maison
. I wasn't quite in the right frame of mind for her exuberant personality but at least she was highly complimentary about all our hard work. I always found, though, that it was quite hard to convey that the extent of what we had achieved had been in, now, a mere seven weeks.

In a rapid turnaround after only forty-eight hours, Liz was set up in the freshly painted spare room. Stuart then set off to collect his brother John, who was arriving from Yorkshire, from the airport at Brive. And so, the ebb and flow of the little house changed yet again.

Something else that I love about renovating is that the world just seems to come to you. While I barely left the little room for two whole days, my days were still somehow full of people anyway. As well as Jean-Claude's daily visits, the arrival of Liz and, finally, the new
plombier
, I had a number of delightful encounters with French people on their daily walks — all through the window of the little room that looks straight onto the road. Late in the afternoon on my first day in the spare room, in a brief lull from the lashing rain, a middle-aged blond woman with a friendly face walked past. I smiled and said, ‘
Bonjour
.' She came to the window, looked in and admired my work. Half in English, half in French, we had a chat about how Adelle Perrard was building a house in the village and how she loved the peace and quiet of Cuzance. She wondered if I was working all alone and I conveyed my husband was shopping for dinner, as he did all the cooking. Adelle told me that she loves cooking and laughed when I told her that I would be happy to sample it when she lived in the village one day. It was yet another random and warm encounter.

With Liz's arrival, it was like Christmas, as she came laden with gifts. Precious Marmite and Smarties for Stuart and, as a celebration of how our friendship started when we met in India, the cookbook
Indian Cooking Made Easy
. She stressed, for my benefit, knowing both my lack of enthusiasm and expertise in the kitchen, that it was indeed ‘made easy'. There were jars of her own homemade chutney, made with apples from her garden, and jars of jam. They were decorated with brightly coloured remnants of fabric from the wardrobe department from her days working for the Welsh Opera Company. And then there was a huge box of tantalising books, for one of the things we both love most of all in the world is curling up with a splendid book. And we also love chatting over a glass or two of a good French wine.

The cooing of the doves created a soft background tapestry to the unravelling of the days, while the incessant buzzing of flies created a constant source of annoyance. Despite the warmer summer days, our French friends still rarely ate their meals outside, simply because the flies were such a nuisance in the country. Despite our efforts to always cover our plates with cloths, we finally had to abandon eating our lunches outside and decided to only have our evening meal on the little porch after the heat had dissipated and the flies abated somewhat. It seemed rather ironic that the flies were worse here than at home.

Nothing much changed with John's arrival, in that the daily topic of conversation still centred on, ‘When will the rain stop?' and, ‘When will it get warm?' However, finally, the days did warm up and John soon discovered that a holiday with us was not really a holiday at all. Soon he too was off on
bricolage
trips with Stuart, and when they bought an enormous floor lamp with a huge rose-coloured shade in the
Troc
in Brive, it was soon apparent why they got it for a bargain price. The entire afternoon was spent trying to re-wire it, and after four hours attempting to make it work it was relegated to the list of tasks for next year. Oh, the lists. Surely we were not already composing them for our next trip?

My ‘official' renovating day started at four-thirty in the afternoon. After two solid days on the spare room it was now a domestic catch-up day. While I washed and caught up on domesticity, Stuart and John were thwarted all day in their attempts to find a mere two pieces of wood to make a door to cover the pool filtration concrete box. This involved five forays to five
bricolages
, as, unlike hardwares at home, these didn't stock wood and they finally discovered you have to go to a specialist shop. By the time they at last arrived home, the door could have been made. Such is the life of renovating.

The final task I'd allocated myself — in this, our very last week — was to load up all the rubbish and do several trips to the tip. For this, I not only needed the car but also Jean-Claude's ancient,
petite
trailer. Hence, it was not until they got back late in the afternoon that I could finally start my real task of the day. So, virtually as soon as they pulled up, I raced off to get the trailer; yet again, it was Jean-Claude to the rescue. It was the first time in four days that I had left my little world — and his house was, after all, only a one-minute drive away. When I want something done, I want it done now! Patience is certainly not one of my better qualities. Fortunately, Jean-Claude, as always, indulged my impatience, for he immediately abandoned his garden and hooked up his trailer. Used as he was by now to my demands, even he was quite astonished when I then asked him to drive the car back with the trailer as I'd never towed one before,
petite
as it might have been. I briefly greeted Françoise, who was eager to show me her Guy Laroche leather jacket, which she inherited from her mother. However, I was too intent on my current mission and simply didn't take the time to stop to admire Parisian vintage elegance.