A House in the Sunflowers (5 page)

We scrubbed each wall in the main room and painted it flat white. We mended the ceiling, replacing the rotten and missing boards and we put down plastic sheets in the attic until the
charpentier
could repair our roof. The children talked a wonderful mixture of English and French. Strangely, and without any prompting, our two attempted a sort of French while Philippe practised his very good English. On being asked which English book he was reading at school he replied in his precise tones ‘
The Canterville Ghost
by Oscar Wilde.’

‘Blimey!’ said our two and he learned another English word.

Almost every day M. Bertrand would pass on his tractor but with exquisite tact would turn to look away from the house and only stop if we went out to greet him. Once he did stop however, he was clearly eager to see what we were doing. He told us how pleased he was to see Bel-Air cared for once more. ‘It looked so sad
before,’ he said. On the second week of the holiday he warned us that the electric fence would have to be switched on as he would be bringing up some of his cows to their summer pasture.

All the next morning, helped by Grandma, he rumbled slowly back and forth up to the house, the tractor in the lowest possible gear, with two cows at a time tethered to the trailer. Grandma walked behind with a stick, wearing Wellingtons, a flowered overall and a large straw hat, and calling encouragement to the cows as they nodded their way nervously up the track. The first to be untied was the largest and oldest. She was to be ‘Mother’ and look after the younger ones. Slowly and carefully M. Bertrand untied her while we watched at a distance. It amused us to hear him talking to her incessantly in soothing tones, praising her
sagesse
and the beauty of the morning and the lushness of the grass in the her horns if she panicked – and also her value; she was worth almost seven hundred pounds. By midday nine young and beautiful
Blondes d’Aquitaine
stared at us over the fragile fence. Every few hours, led by Mother, they would trek past the house to drink at the pond and then, just as leisurely, file back up again to stand, like animals from a child’s toy farmyard, in a straight line along the horizon.

The newly cemented floors in the two bedrooms were now solid enough to walk on. We took measurements.
Each room was almost twelve feet square. We looked forward to moving into the bedrooms on our next trip in the summer. One had a magnificent view southwards down to the village and miles beyond. The other, once we had hacked away some of the straggling box trees, looked up the meadow to the cows and the distant woods. I decided that I would one day get rid of the box trees altogether. I hated their sour smell.

Our time was running out. We drew endless plans for studying back in London. We called again on the
charpentier
who confirmed that the roof would be done before July and that he would re-use as many of the old tiles as possible, mixing them carefully with the new. He showed us one of the new stop tiles which he intended to use underneath; these would, he said, prevent the upper tiles from sliding down as the old ones did whenever the French Air force jets made them jump with their supersonic bangs. ‘They were not designed for that!’ he smiled.

With a M. Albert, the plumber from the next village, we discussed the possibility of putting a lavatory and basin in the far pigsty. We did not feel we could face another holiday without that, but the bathroom proper would have to await more funds. He was another large, smiling man and very agreeable, but he explained that before he could begin we must contact M. René, our
maçon
, to install a septic tank or
fosse septique
first.

Consultation with M. René resulted in his arrival a
few days later with a huge concrete
fosse
on the front of his bulldozer. There it hung until later that day when he came back with two of his workmen who immediately began to dig like beavers. M. René sped off in his van and the boys watched in amazement as the two small workmen went ever deeper throwing up great great clods of earth as they gradually disappeared. Not until they were down about ten feet did they stop and call for the ladder to get them out. Alas, it was on the van which had gone with M. René.

The boys searched the barn and dragged out the only ladder that they could find. It was completely worm-eaten and as we lowered it down we mimed that they must only tread on the outside edge of the few remaining rungs. Once the
fosse
was in situ M. René filled it with water. He told us that otherwise it would float up again if it rained hard. How much rain were they expecting we wondered?

No one would let us pay them. It was very strange. They said they were all friends of M. Bertrand and it could wait. The last days sped past and the morning when we had to leave for England arrived all too soon. We took a last look round. We covered the mattresses in plastic sheets and wondered about damp and mice. We loaded the van, locked the door and walked round once more to look at the view. How could we bear to go? High in a cloudless sky a lark poured out its effortless coloratura. The japonica was in flower, irises
under the window were just beginning to unwrap their white, scented petals and everywhere there were swellings of buds that I would not see unfold.

We climbed into what seemed an incredibly spacious van, took a last look at our beloved house and drove very slowly down the track to the farm. There on the table, lined up for us to take, were a carton of eggs, a jar of prunes in
eau-de-vie
, bottled greengages and pears, bunches of onions and the wicker-covered
bonbonne
of wine. We stowed them all in the van and went in for a last cup of coffee. Grandma had made a tin of
gauffres
, a rolled-up crisp wafer biscuit, for the boys to eat on the journey. They all hoped the dreaded channel would not be too rough.

As we climbed at last into the van Grandpa came to say goodbye clutching what looked like a bottle of mineral water. We guessed from the grin on his face that it was in fact his precious
eau-de-vie
. ‘I haven’t filled it to the top,’ he said. ‘That way it will look more like water for the journey. If they ask you can always say it’s from Lourdes.’

‘And if they taste it?’

‘Say it’s a miracle!’ he shouted throwing up his arms in delight. They all stood waving until we turned the corner and set our faces northwards.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Mike, who was then still lecturing at Goldsmiths’ college, had eight weeks’ summer vacation and I simply drew a line through the whole of Matthew’s school holidays and accepted no bookings. For the first time in my life I did not want to work, I just longed to get to France. Our other son Adam was, alas, off on yet another tour. Many friends, eager to see what we had bought, announced their intentions of coming to stay. In vain we described its near derelict state; the one, cold, outside tap, the distinct possibility of our lavatory in the pigsty not being finished; but it was
impossible to dissuade them and I suppose that we did not try very hard. One of the many joys of Bel-Air has turned out to be the sharing of it with friends.

We drove down as usual without an inch to spare. Matthew and the indomitable Durrell hung onto a secondhand fridge insecurely wedged between more beds, a chest of drawers, and boxes of those things which were, at that time, twice as expensive or unobtainable in France; tissues and toilet rolls, orange juice and butter, tea and Marmite. It is interesting that now prices are almost comparable except for cheese which I still find inexplicably more expensive in France, milk being much the same price.

There were no clouds and a brilliant full moon rose to light our way. We sped through the silent villages, their traffic lights set at winking amber, and as the sun came up and slowly climbed round to face us we rejoiced to be going south. Before midday we drove past the château and round the last bend to our village. We turned by the church and as we swung into the drive up to the farm Mme Bertrand waved to us from the kitchen garden where she was weeding. The courtyard was full of flowers, boxes of tumbling geraniums beneath the veranda windows and a lemon tree covered in fruit in a tub by the door. M. Bertrand climbed down from his tractor with a broad smile and, across the yard, wiping his hands on his trousers, came Grandpa to greet us, his dogs at his heels.

‘Was the roof finished? Did the lavatory work?’ M. Bertrand would not say but his face gave us the answer. Grandma took me by the hand and led me through the farm yard, past her small house, past the silo and the chicken barn and, at the far end, she pointed across the fields and up beyond. I had not realised that Bel-Air was so clearly visible from there. I could see the roof, an attractive mottling of old and new tiles. She smiled at my relief.

We drove up the now dry and firm track to the house, turned in and stopped before our porch. On the low walls were yellow plastic washing-up bowls filled with petunias and geraniums. Pots of huge scarlet begonias draped the top of the well. The shutters had been opened and the sun streamed in on the long table laden with vegetables, eggs and wine. There were fresh flowers, marguerites and asters, and even a little bunch of parsley tied with cotton. We could not have felt more welcome.

The roof looked even better close to. The rotten cross beam on the porch had been replaced with an old but solid telegraph pole and all the jointing was with stout wooden pegs. I was so pleased that the
charpentier
had conserved
le style
. It had had to be repaired but its very dereliction had held such charm for me. The two bedrooms were now habitable, and after unloading, what had seemed in the van a great deal of furniture was soon lost. The following day we
gave the bedroom walls a coat of flat white but further work indoors was impossible.

We needed the sun. That was why we were there. We decided to attack the great pile of old broken tiles that the
charpentier
had simply left on the grass on the south-facing side of the house. Hammering them into small pieces was a satisfying task. In bucket loads I carried them to help fill in the holes in the track and, even in a bikini, it was hot work. Grandpa came up on a tour of inspection.

‘
Oui. Elle est vaillante
,’ he nodded his approval. ‘
Elle travaille bien
,’ he said to Mike. I felt he might give me a lump of sugar at any moment.

In the smallest pigsty, the floor and walls newly cemented, sat our brand new lavatory and a hand basin with a single cold tap. These simplest of conveniences gave us enormous pleasure. Indeed the joy of a lavatory from which one could contemplate several miles of gently sloping meadow was to later inspire our friend the poet to many a verse. The field at the back of the house had already been harvested and was covered with straw. All day long M. Bertrand worked on the baler. A somewhat ancient machine with a leg at the back like a manic grasshopper, it would periodically stop its clacking when it either ran out of twine or broke down altogether. Then M. Bertrand would come up to Bel-Air for a cold drink, the sweat trickling down from under the brim of his
hat. The straw dust sticking to his hands and arms he would drain two or three long glasses. ‘
Ah, ça fait plaisir
!’ he would sigh and then off he would go and the baler would clatter down the next row of straw.

At last it was finished and
le grand champ
, as he always called it, was scattered with square bales.

‘
Eh Alors
,’ he said, ‘
demain on ramasse la paille
.’ Tomorrow we harvest the straw. (
Ramasser
, to harvest, was one of the first verbs I learned.)

‘How many of you?’ we asked.

‘
Toute la famille
,’ he replied, ‘
et…quelques amis aussi, sans doute
.’

‘May we help?’ we asked.

He smiled. ‘
Bien sûr! Mais…vous êtes en vacance
.’

On holiday? We laughed. Breaking up tiles, painting, plastering?
Le grand champ
was blurred in heat haze and looked inviting.

At eight-thirty next morning the sky was like that of a travel brochure and the air sweet and cool. As instructed we all wore gloves. Already in the field were M. Bertrand and the rest of the family, Grandma and Grandpa both wearing large brimmed straw hats and we were introduced to a handsome moustachioed newcomer who, it turned out, was the Mayor. Pitchfork in hand, M. Bertrand stood on the trailer to which was attached a mechanical arm. He showed us how to drop the bales of straw so that they would be
propelled upward where he would catch them on his fork and arrange them neatly. It seemed simple and we began to work. Grandpa watched us for a few minutes then came towards us shaking his head. ‘
Pas si vite!
’ Not so fast, he shouted. ‘For one hour perhaps but for all day – no!’

As the sun rose higher we understood. It was necessary to establish a rhythm. The men, scorning the mechanical arm, hurled the bales up on their pitchforks, M. Bertrand worked like a demon on an ever-mounting pile. The cart full, Mike was eager to drive the tractor. He was allowed to fetch the empty trailer, but once M. Bertrand had seen that he was competent he soon entrusted him with a full load. The separate braking system on a tractor is very similar to that on a tank, Mike explained to the boys. It was obvious to me that he was in his element.

There was no mid-morning coffee break; we worked solidly for four hours. Now we really appreciated Grandpa’s admonition. The dogs chased the mice which ran through the stubble each time we started on a new pile of bales and, just before twelve, Mme Bertrand disappeared to prepare the meal. The bell for midday sounded from the church and half an hour later we stopped, very tired but filled with fresh air and sunshine.

‘
Alors!
’ called M. Bertrand from the top of the loaded cart, ‘
Allez manger!
’ We demurred. ‘
Mai si!
’ he
shouted. Grandpa stuck his fork in halfway down the load enabling him to jump down. ‘
Ceux qui travaillent doivent manger. C’est normal
,’ he continued. The boys did not need telling twice, they were already climbing up on the tractor to ride back to the farm.

What exquisite pleasure to peel off sweat-filled gloves and wash my hands under the tap in the cool kitchen. After an aperitif we drained glass after glass of water. The meal began with slices of melon and home-cured ham. Then we ate cucumber and onion salad. A dish of white beans in tomato sauce which delighted the boys and was pronounced much better than Heinz, was followed by grilled steaks and a green salad. We were ravenous. Peaches picked the previous day and pears, the first from the orchard, completed the meal. It was not until after two-thirty that we left the table and, rested and refreshed, went back to finish off
le grand champ
.

So began our tradition of helping the family whenever we could. It gave us a much greater insight into the life of the people amongst whom we were living and an awareness of the crops and the weather. A heavy fall of rain which we might have considered merely a nuisance became instead just what was needed to swell the plums or the maize and we learned so much; M. Bertrand was a wonderfully patient teacher – he never appeared to tire of our endless questions.

Our first visitors being due any day we decided that we must buy a cooker. Obviously it would have to be the cheapest one we could find and so we made our first real exploration of our nearest town of Monflanquin. Until then our forays into town had been swift, for fresh milk or meat, the only two things
not
sold in our village shop. This afternoon we took time to walk up the steep street – each small house decked with begonias, geraniums or strings of morning glories – through the arcaded square and past the originally fortified church to the highest point, the Cap del Pech, from where there is a wonderful panoramic view. It was a clear day and some twelve kilometres distant the Château of Biron lay like a great liner on the blue horizon.

How safe the original Monflanquinois must have felt. Those ‘new-towners’ of 1252, encouraged to come and build a house in this
Bastide
– one of a chain of such fortified towns built across south-west France. Monflanquin was the creation of Alphonse de Poitiers, Comte de Toulouse and brother of the King. He planted his staff, complete with escutcheon, at the centre point of the proposed town and the streets were then marked out at right angles in furrows. Until the houses were built the whole place must have looked like a great market garden.

Each inhabitant, who had a year and a day in which to complete his house, was allocated also two pieces
of land for cultivation outside the walls. Under the protection of the Seigneur, Monflanquin had its own charter devised to cover every conceivable problem which might arise in such a close-living community, from damage or theft of crops or livestock, the settling of dispute by fines – five sols for a blow by fist or foot, twenty sols if blood were drawn, sixty if a weapon were used – to the obligatory running naked through the town of those caught
en flagrant délit
and unwilling or unable to pay 100 sols.

Before Monflanquin was fifty years old the King and his brother were both dead and Aquitaine was handed back to the English. One can only wonder what the then six hundred and twenty inhabitants thought as Edward I, King of England, and his procession wound their way up the hillside to make solemn entry through the gates in 1289.

We dragged ourselves from the mesmeric view and went in search of our cooker which, with its accompanying bottle of Calor gas, was delivered the following day.

‘Where shall I put it?’ enquired the sleek-haired shop keeper. Just inside the door seemed at that moment the easiest place. It looked incongruously new and rectangular against the sloping wall. ‘
Formidable!
’ he exclaimed when he tested it. I have used many words to describe it since that day;
formidable
is not one of them.

Our visitors arrived. Arno Rabinowitz, his wife and son, all confirmed Francophiles, seemed delighted with Bel-Air, les Bertrands and the region. Arno soon endeared himself to Grandpa by proving to be a dab hand at
belote
, the local card game; their fluent French (they had lived in Lille for two years) put my attempts to shame and I resolved then and there to find somewhere in London to study seriously on my return.

Arno, then the chief psychologist for south London schools, as his own therapy chose to clear an area outside the porch where we always ate breakfast, it being the first corner touched by the early morning sun. He hacked out the tough grass and weeds and small seedling ash trees, laid sand and gravel, and raked it smooth until we had a small passable terrace on which to put their camping table and an assortment of chairs. There we would daily break our fast and sit in the sun until it eventually turned the corner and we, picking up our chairs, would follow it.

We discovered the joy of having a garden on four sides where one could always follow the sun or avoid the wind. In my imagination four different gardens were planned, the south-facing one tropical with bananas and poinsettias, but alas, even after twelve summers I am far from achieving it. Dealing with a garden which is left to the whims of nature for months at a time demands a certain resignation. Progress is
snail-like. But the satisfaction of disinterring it from weeds, and rampant Virginia creeper, and the sudden abundant flourishing of forgotten plantings are, I have decided, my kind of gardening.