Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (16 page)

The fireworks last half an hour, huge explosions of colour that rush towards us in all their spectacular infusion of bright light and colour. A single white swan glides serenely back and forth across the river. It is the culmination of both Brigitte's birthday and Bastille Day.

The frenzied motion of the fireworks sets the scene for champagne and dancing on the low wooden deck in
le jardin
. It is normally a place for quiet contemplation in the
chaise longues
lined up in a row. These are now hastily cast aside while Erick's son, Maxim, plays music of our generation – the Rolling Stones and Bee Gees. The unseasonal coolness of the late evening does not dampen everyone's high spirits.

There are protracted fond farewells in the morning and an invitation to stay in Cannes. Despite being the only foreigners, we have bridged the gap in a long-established circle of French
amis
and made to feel again that we are truly a part of our new French life.

When we head home, a line of Sunday traffic is stopped on the main road through the town. It is the strangest position for a restaurant I have ever seen. It is located on one side of the busy road and the tables and customers are on the other side. Surely it is the most dangerous job as a waiter in the world? We watch as one hurries across, tray perched precariously aloft. Each time he serves a new customer, he has to traverse the pedestrian crossing. Now there's a waiter who certainly deserves his gratuity.

We arrive home in the late afternoon. Dominique and Gérard pause as they are driving past in their
petite voiture
to let us know they are on their way to an evening
vide grenier.
We are simply too weary to join them after the
soiree
that extended until the very chilly early hours of the morning. More ominously, Liz had told us that a ghastly smell has now developed behind the fire grate. We enter our
petite maison
in trepidation, to discover that the smell has pervaded our entire house. Once again, we decide there is simply nothing to be done and fervently hope that it will just disappear. Besides, we have our own private
vide grenier
to unpack, for as we were leaving, Erick plied us with gifts, including a one-hundred-year-old Singer sewing machine table, complete with the original Singer machine. He has also given us an ancient door knocker for Pied de la Croix and a heavy stone urn that I plan to plant bright red geraniums in. It is only much later when Gérard and Dominique drop in with a jar of
confiture
from our own plums, that they tell me what the urn is really for. It is intended to hold ashes. This is a detail that Stuart chose not to disclose. They add that they have found us a
petite
present that they will give us another time. We are surrounded by the riches of renewed summer French friendships.

The weather in all its varying moods continues to dominate daily conversation. It is the most common thread that ties us all. We have been told in Villefranche and now again back in Cuzance, that yes, finally, tomorrow will be hot. The daily weather in Cuzance can change literally within the space of mere minutes. The clouds scud rapidly across the sky, then the sun bursts through in a blaze of late afternoon brilliance. Liz and I race outside to bask in it on our matching
chaise longues
. We know it will not last. Sure enough, we retreat rapidly as the wind whips up and the sky once again darkens. Brigitte had told me that on their wedding day in September – surely the height of summer – it had been twelve degrees. They had to abandon their
jardin
party and continue the celebrations in their
maison
. Yet, just two days later, the temperature rose to thirty.

Encroyable,
as we would all say. However, I have also been told the heartening news that the day after Bastille Day, the temperature starts to soar and stays that way for a month, until the middle of August. Right on cue, to our enormous relief, this does indeed prove to be the case. Incredible indeed!

As summer starts in earnest so too do our
rénovation
plans. It is time to face the music.

It is Monday but fortunately not as in past years, a day to visit the
Marie
. Instead Liz and I head to Martel to shop while Stuart goes to Souillac to order paving, sand and concrete for
la piscine
. He returns very pleased with himself on two counts. Everything will be delivered early the following week and like he does the world over, he has bargained for a better price. Once again too, this was all in French at a local business where no one speaks English. Seriously, is there no end to his talents? The extent of my French is feeling confident enough to buy a
baguette
in
la boulangerie
.

Stuey celebrates, though not ‘officially' opened, by having his first dip in
la piscine
.

All however, is not serene in Pied de la Croix. By now there are again more
mouches
in
la maison
than outside
.
We simply have no idea where the flies are now swarming in from. At Gérard and Dominique's, their proximity to the local pig farm means they are perpetually engulfed by
mouches
. They are so invasive that they can't even enjoy their evening
apéritif
in
le jardin
and take pleasure in their sweeping view of countryside and fields.

As the days start to offer a hint of summer promise, the boughs of the orchard trees are all fully bowing to the ground. We now have to pick endless buckets of fruit to save even more branches from simply snapping under the weight of the copious pears, plums and
pomme
. No wonder you never see
prunier
for sale in the markets. Everyone must have their own plum trees, or at least their neighbours or
amis'
trees to make their summer
confiture
. It is a strange position to be in, such abundance, and the words that never cease to fill me with surprise, ‘our own orchard'. The mystery of how life unfolds is something I am always conscious of in my own little piece of France.

Our
vacances
is over, let the work begin. The sun shines without a single cloud in the sky to start the new week. It seems to be true what we have been told, that the day after Bastille Day, summer will start in earnest.

The last morning Liz and I have in Martel together is all that we hoped for and planned in our emails across the oceans. Sometimes as I log on in the evening at home, Liz and I find ourselves emailing each other at precisely the same time. Liz remarks that she often reflects on the fact that she is just about to have the day that I have just had on the other side of the world. I had never thought of it quite like that.

Off to
Le Bureau de Poste
at long last. How is it possible to have had postcards written for ten days and not had a chance to post them? We are not working after all, it seems inconceivable. Even I can't account for it. What I do know, is that the hours in the day rush past at a frightening pace. The church bell strikes, must dash out and get fresh
pain
, I think, and then proceed to load another wheelbarrow of weeds. Lunchtime arrives; stale
pain
yet again, redeemed only somewhat by trying to transform it in the toaster. How does this keep happening in the land of magnificent
boulangeries
, is our constant refrain. We are on
vacances
after all. How would we ever explain this at home?

There is no possible answer.

Liz and I return after
pain a chocolat
and
café
at Mespoulet, to be briefed on Stuart's expedition. Before heading back to Souillac, he tells us he dropped in to see Jean-Claude, who yet again swung into action. A call is made to a man who used to live in the village.

His job is to deliver gravel. He is nearby.
Voila
, Monsieur Moreau arrives within half an hour as promised, to give a quote. It is unheard of. An
artisan
never arrives when he says he will. In fact, sometimes they simply never arrive at all. It would seem that we will have gravel delivered by the end of the week. Before long at all, it is another word that I become only too familiar with:
castine
. Once again, I muse to myself, is ‘
castine'
a word that one would usually encounter on
vacances
? Perhaps not...

As we later walk round our garden in the unexpected and welcome sun, the intermittent sun and rain has meant that the weeds and grass are yet again growing ferociously. I have completely transferred my interior renovating obsession to my sprawling
jardin
this year. The orchard trees too have come alive with burgeoning fruit, while the
prunier
trees are now breaking, they are so rich with fruit. Yet at least this year I can see the grass for the trees... so to speak.

We often find out critical information by sheer chance in random conversations.

We were sure that the people from Paris in the neighbouring
maison
would simply have a local farmer in to cut the waist-high grass before their annual return. We thought that it would be an equally simple arrangement to have our grass also cut by a farmer and his tractor. After all, we are not aiming for a cultivated garden and have accepted that it will be
rustique
for ever after. It will be easy, efficient and cheap. Our costs are certainly something that need to be reined in. It is something we were very, very close to organising. It definitely made sense to us.

Like many of life's big decisions, it is only happenstance that I mention to Jean-Claude that I am about to search for a local farmer. ‘
Non, non, non
,' he emphatically tells us. Unless you make it absolutely clear that it is a one-off arrangement, (which we knew that we would not have the skills to convey by any means), the farmer will assume he has entered into an irrevocable contract with you. This means a number of things. Firstly, that he can come onto our land whenever he chooses to gather grass for his cows.

This arrangement would be fine – except for the second part of the contract – which means that when we come to sell one day, the farmer will be the first to be entitled to buy the land. This sounds not only hugely complicated, but could well have some very tricky ramifications. We are strongly advised not to take this course of action. Instead, Jean-Claude very practically suggests buying a ride-on lawn mower.

The sun seems to be a good omen. While Stuart spends the afternoon at
le bricolage
, Liz and I spend an afternoon under the walnut tree. Last year, she had grave fears that such an afternoon would never again come in her life. She has survived all that life has thrown at her and here we are again; just as I believed we would be.

By now, I am actually ready to work again in earnest. My first significant task is to gather more limestone rocks from the land. The soil has considerably subsided round
la piscine
, and now all the edges have to be shored up with stones. Five days on end without renovating or relentless working in
le jardin
, is the longest stretch in our history in our little house.

I have not glimpsed Madame Chanteur for days and have been anxious that she may again be in hospital. Monsieur Chanteur's
voiture
is gone for hours at a time, which is unusual in itself. Perhaps too, like it has been for all of us, it was simply the damp days that have kept them inside. Now, as the sun shines, the village comes to life and I see my neighbours in their favourite
dîner
place under the shade of the spreading walnut tree.

I seize the opportunity to present them with their gift – a photo that I took last summer of them framed in the doorway of their
maison
.

The contrast between the woman in the photo and the woman at the lunch table, in the space of just a year, is a harsh and stark one. Her hands tremble as she attempts to unwrap the soft tissue paper. Her husband gently takes it from her. That they are clearly touched by my gift is palpable. Monsieur Chanteur repeats several times, ‘
Enchante, enchante,'
and gestures at the photo of himself and his beloved wife. As I leave, he says, ‘
Merci encore.
' So few words shared yet gestures transcend barriers of language. The church bell strikes, the birds sing, the sun continues to shine. Life's rhythms are an ongoing circle. Yet, melancholy also fills me for what I know will soon inevitably follow.

It wraps me in a cloud of sadness as I move from the shade of the walnut tree in to the glittering sunlight.

Days in a French summer seem elongated. They seem to take on an elastic quality – one that only snaps off at the end of a long, long day of bright summer light. It's hard to comprehend how much one day can possibly hold. At least this year we are not working until midnight and have managed to have more
promenades
after
dîner
.

Cuzance is criss-crossed by literally dozens of walking trails and enticing paths that lead next to fields and walnut groves. As the sun sets, a yellow glow is cast upon the wheat fields – now beds of short, sharp stubble and decorated with enormous cartwheels of harvested hay. It is the ethereal light of late summer evenings in France that is the picture I hold in my mind when I am far from Cuzance. The other lingering memory is the utter silence that envelops the countryside. At home, the sound of the ocean is ceaseless so it is never completely still or quiet. In the rural landscape that has virtually remained unchanged for aeons, the stillness is only broken by the sound of
lapin
scampering home through the fields. The world is far away. A sense of peace infuses my soul.

With Liz's departure, the summer heat surges, just as predicted by all. Ironically, this coincides with the return to sheer hard labour – in fact, convict style, for our most pressing task is to continue to glean the land for even more limestone rocks and gather them. We work for three hours straight in the burgeoning heat. I carry bucket load after bucket load of heavy stones. My job today is to carry on filling in the edges round
la piscine
where the soil has significantly subsided in the past year. Stuart lays out planks of old wood, salvaged from
la grange
and sets out bright yellow string to delineate where the huge truck will deliver the gravel.