Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (12 page)

I try to convey that I will be attempting to improve my French by having cooking lessons with Françoise. This way – or so my ambitious plan is at this stage – is that I will use all the accompanying French words to produce my sure-to-be magnificent
tarte aux pomme
. I already know the words for butter and flour –
beurre and farine
–
so
clearly I think I am about to be a Michelin chef in no time at all. At this point in our
vacances
, I still think I have all the time in the world, for the summer seems to stretch endlessly.

Clearly, I have romantic visions of wafting through the village in my summer frock and
chapeau
, French market basket over my arm with apples from our own orchard in it. It is well known that I tend to live in a fantasy world of romance-induced visions. As I leave Marinette on the bench, she utters the oh-so familiar words, ‘
Bon courage.
'

Yesterday when Jean-Claude dropped in, I checked whether the apples from our orchard were suitable to eat and cook with. ‘
Oui
, your
pomme
are fine,' he assured me. Another glorious thought; my own apples for my own private cooking lessons.

Measuring quantities in French will be an altogether different matter. I still struggle with simple counting and days of the week. I rather suspect Marinette knows about these deficiencies as well. Still, when I got married in Turkey, my dress was made by a seamstress who did not speak English and just like now, I had only a few faltering words of Turkish. My dress was still however, the fairytale one I imagined. While languages and I do not seem to be a perfect match, somehow I always manage.

As I clear the weeds and leaves from the past year from outside the doors of
la cuisine,
I go to say ‘
Bonjour, ca va
?' to Monsieur Chanteur. I was so happy to see that they had returned the previous evening, for we all feared that Madame Chanteur would never return after her long hospital stay. I am careful to be formal in my greeting, as well as taking care to refer to Jean-Claude as Monsieur Chanel, for I have taken note on several occasions that Jean-Claude has pointed out that our neighbour is very ‘old school'. I do my stumbling best to convey how pleased I am to see him and to enquire after the well-being of Madame Chanteur. I also make sure that I include ‘
très merci beaucoup
' for keeping a watchful eye on our
maison
in our absence.

I am also mindful that Jean-Claude has told me how apparently offended they are by the plastic tank that squats like an ugly toad at the end of our carport. I'm conscious that it is in their line of sight as the Chanteurs resume their daily ritual of
déjeuner
and
dîner
under their walnut tree. It is the only space I have for my line of twine to peg our washing.

Perhaps the open display of washing also offends them? It is possible, for now I think about it, I have rarely seen washing flapping freely in the wind and sun as is our custom at home.

This is another aspect of French protocol that I simply have no idea about.

The sun finally shines and as the washing flaps away – no doubt offending French niceties – I start to pile my rickety old wheelbarrow high, Jean-Claude's gift from last year, and set off for the first of many precarious trips across
le jardin
. The front tyre is as wobbly as a child's front tooth but there will be no tooth fairy to rescue me if it falls off. It is a day of true French domesticity; washing, gardening and the final finishing touch, Stuart cleans the windows of Pied de la Croix. They sparkle and gleam. The
petite maison
becomes even more a home with each passing day
,
especially when people from the village pause to commend our efforts and admire our
fleurs.
It means the world to me that they have accepted us so fully into their small
commune
for I know this is not always the case with foreigners who suddenly appear in their rural midst.

Next door, on his first morning back in Cuzance, Monsieur Chanteur loses no time either in starting to catch up on the months of neglect while they have been in La Rochelle. Though white-haired and perpetually stooped, at eighty-eight he has the vigour of a man half his age for he is always active and energetic. I often pause in what I am doing, to glance across at him in his
le jardin.
I am full of admiration for him, both for the way he works so hard and the loving, devoted care he shows his wife. When
déjeuner
and
dîner
time arrive, it is Monsieur Chanteur who nimbly scurries back and forth to their
maison
to collect their fare and carry it on a wooden tray.

Last night, when going to bed, I had seen Madame Chanteur for the first time this year, through our
chambre
window. She was poised in their doorway, a red cardigan draped round her shoulders, a hand against the stone to support her frailty. She was peering across her rain-soaked
jardin
and it was a sight that warmed my heart, for I knew innately that her heart had longed for the sight of her Cuzance
maison
– at least one more time. I am absolutely sure it was what kept her heart steadfastly beating and keeping its tenuous hold on life.

Marinette pauses on her morning
promenade
to praise Stuart for the grapevines growing each side of
la grange
doors that he is training on wire to create a graceful arch. She says she likes them as they are in keeping with the rural look of the village. It pleases us enormously to be accepted and to fit in – despite my
petite
French. I take pleasure in always wishing both her and Brigitte Dal, ‘
Bon promenade
' as they go on their daily strolls. That is a word I especially love for it seems to capture all that is idyllic about life in a French village. Time to meander slowly, time to chat, time to not think about the outside world or let it intrude. Time stands still in Cuzance.

Once summer truly starts, the heat is startling in its intensity. Sunlight creeps in ever-earlier to all the corners of Pied de la Croix. The rooms are washed anew each day by the bright shafts of summer sun. The hay-gathering season is in full swing and huge tractors lumber past, their trailers packed with enormous, tightly bound rolls of golden hay. By now, the tourist season is at its height and cars full of holiday makers wend their way past our house, sometimes stopping for directions. Most of the time I even manage to help them on their way to Martel or Rocamadour. I practise my à
gauche
and my à
droit
, making sure to use hand gestures to indicate turn left, turn right. Before the village clock even strikes twelve, we know the
déjeuner
hour is imminent. At ten minutes to noon, the
voitures
start to scurry frantically past
,
to be seated at the table in time for the precious lunch hour.

The days take on a heat haze. We take on a daze from the heat. The grass browns rapidly. The puffy white clouds have all disappeared. Now, it is only possible to work in
le jardin
in the early morning coolness and the late evening. Even the constant backdrop of bird song is more languorous.

There is nothing more splendid than a drowsy summer afternoon spent under the walnut tree. And surely, there is no better way to start a day than our first
vide grenier
outing for the season. We have even agreed that like in previous years, it is worth setting the alarm so we simply don't arrive too late to scoop up bargains. Our efforts are rewarded. We round the corner, to find row after row of
voiture
are parked in the farmer's vast field. We gasp aloud with excitement as we race along the narrow lane and there before us, are row after row of ‘clear-out-the attic' stalls. After just a few years, Blanat is one of our favourite places to rummage in the pursuit of true French treasure.

Last year, the perpetual rain meant that there weren't many stallholders prepared to face a deluge. In a strange echo of last year, the day has turned cool and gloomy once again. It is only thirteen degrees when we set off, our spirits buoyant despite the menacing black clouds. While the weather is sombre, we are elated. This is one of our favourite pastimes in the whole world.

This year, the sun breaks through just in time for the village to have its annual household clearance. As always we have an eclectic list: a letter opener for post at Pied de la Croix, old linen as gifts for friends, a watering can for our new plants. Then of course any riches we stumble upon. We resume the
vide grenier
approach we have adopted from previous years. Stuart sets off on a brisk reconnoitre for any must-not-be-missed bargains. We then go on a more leisurely stroll together to pause, pick up, examine, choose or discard
objets
. The scoop of the day is a silver soup ladle, a song at one
euro.

It's from the stall of Gérard and Dominique's friends. They tell us later that they did indeed sell it to me at an
amis
price – a special price for friends. As soon as we get home we scrutinise the tiny hallmark. Surely no piece of treasure will ever surpass this? We lay out our finds and examine the pristine linen and
ecole
notebooks – old school exercise books from long ago classrooms that were never used. Who was meant to write in them and what stories of childish imagination, dreams and hopes may have been contained there? As I cradle the ladle, my heart feels warm, just as the soup will be, that one day I stir in our
petite maison
.

Over
dîner
, the disturbing noise from the previous evening ominously returns. We had been to Souillac for our first meal out – of course we chose our favourite steak,
frites
and
crème brûlée
. By the time we were home, tucked up snugly reading, the thunder started to roll in waves overhead. And then, the alarming sound of loud scratching penetrated even the thunder. Last year, noises emanated from the attic, a place we have not ventured foot yet this year, even though it is just up a short flight of stairs from our
salle
where we occasionally have time to sit in the late evening on our battered Chesterfield. Though neither of us have actually said it, I think we are both nervous about investigating an attic that has been shut up for a year. This sound though is much closer – and far more alarming.

We grab the feeble, flickering torch and tiptoe out to investigate. On cue, like a drum roll in a film, the thunder intensifies. The shutters close the night out – and thankfully too it would seem, the marauding creature at large. There is no way to investigate the noise more closely – and certainly no great desire to do so – for we have now identified the source of the noise. It is much closer to home than we originally thought. It is not outside at all. No, the scurrying, scratching sound is behind the blocked-in metal guard in front of
la cuisine
fireplace. We remember the trepidation of the thought of a badger in
la cave
. Are there bears in France? We know about the
sanglier,
when in certain seasons it is not safe to go for a walk in the country, in case you encounter a wild boar
.
Surely it is not the season for
sanglier
? Our knowledge of French wildlife is a bit hazy.

It is late Sunday evening; everyone has been gathered for their family
dîner,
we dare not disturb our friends at this hour. There is nothing at all we can do. It is times like these that I fully realise how deeply buried in the country we are. We creep back into bed and pull the covers tight. Maybe it will just simply go away. The head under the covers technique seems to work, for indeed, to our profound relief, the ominous scratching sound does – in the end – simply stop.

On Jean-Claude's daily visits he frequently regales us with stories – accounts of the village, our neighbours and
soirees
they attend and give. His stories would be sufficient to fill a book of their own. One day, he told me about a recent
dîner
they attended. There was a young woman there, the same age as Patrick their son, on holiday from Paris at the time. She too once lived in Paris and apparently she and Patrick got on very well. In fact, Jean-Claude reports that he later overheard them making plans to meet for
café
. This later causes some degree of excitement for both Françoise and I, as we are collaborating to find Patrick a lovely girlfriend.

He goes on to tell us that she worked as an eye re-educator. None of us are at all sure what such a job possibly means. Whatever the job may entail, clearly there is no call for it in the country, as Jean-Claude tells us she does not get much work at all. He concludes his anecdote by telling us she now finds herself living with her parents and with little diversion or income, in a
petite
hamlet. It has the highly amusing name of La Sotte, which literally means ‘stupid girl'. While I keep my thoughts to myself, I can only conclude that it is a perfectly apt name for the girl who came from Paris, to a remote village, and now has little work.

As he has told us on previous occasions, Jean-Claude once again reminds us that in a
petite
village, absolutely everyone knows absolutely everything you do. And if they don't, they are eager to find out. As he
promenades
through the village each day, he is inundated by curious queries about us. Everyone it would seem is very anxious to know when we are going to ‘open' our
piscine
for the season. Underlying this, is the implication that Australians have very strange ways, for after all, we are here, and in their minds the pool should be open. Damp days and drizzle do not seem to enter into it. They are perplexed as to why we have been back a week and not yet removed the cover. I am sure they are bemused by much that we do. All I can say is that the laurier hedge better have a rapid growth spurt – and soon.

On another day that he drops in, Jean-Claude shares more stories with us about our neighbours, the Chanteurs, but he tells us that it is in strict confidence and that I am not to breathe a word of it. When they walk past as we are sharing an evening
apéritif
on our porch, I am shocked to see how frail Madame Chanteur has become in the intervening year. I am touched anew by Monsieur Chanteur's loving protectiveness as he holds tightly onto her arm to support her. They too stop to admire our
fleurs
. However, once again I feel frustrated and on the outside as I simply can't communicate with them the way I would like to. At the
vide greniers
I certainly know how to ask the price
‘
Combien il est
?' but I fail each time to understand the answer and always need Stuart on hand to tell me the price. At least I know enough to wish them ‘
Bon soiree, bon promenade
' as they continue on their gentle night-time stroll.