Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (24 page)

For weeks, I again avoid driving alone. When I finally do, it's because circumstances foist themselves upon me. This time it is because of Stuart's new relationship with the compacter for he cannot leave its side. As long as I repeat my personal mantra learnt from Liz, ‘Stay on the right, stay on the right', I will be alright. It all comes back to me and I am fine. Soon the
petite
Renault Scenic is zipping along the country roads. I am armed with a long list. Oh yes, the lists are still a dominant presence in our lives. Today:
Bank Populaire
,
la pharmacie
,
la boulangerie
to order a
gâteau
, the beautician to make an appointment, and
le bricolage
for wasp spray as wasps are invading
la piscine
. As always in France, the list is an eclectic one.

My first encounter on my solo voyage, is an interesting one. I park with success and walk along the narrow lane, bordered by medieval houses with bright containers of
fleurs
, to the main square in Martel. There is a
voiture
crawling slowly through the narrow space. An American pops his head out the window to ask directions. I direct him to my ‘secret' parking space and wish him ‘
Bonne journee
.' In reply, the American, says, ‘Have a beautiful life.' And so, I swing my basket over my arm, smiling to myself at his words and the encounter, as I trip along the ancient cobblestones.

Once again, what is commonplace at home assumes a different resonance while in France. As I queue to buy my
pêche blanche
– the prized white peaches – and warmed-by-the-
soleil,
Quercy melons, I watch the bent old man in front of me. He ends his buying by handing over his battered leather coin purse to the stallholder. Obviously used to his weekly practise, she patiently counts out his coins and hands back his worn purse. It is the simplicity of such acts that speak of many untold stories.

As always, a visit to the
boulangerie
is full of potential delight. It has been made even more so after discovering that the baker is an award-wining one. Fifteen years ago, Jacques et-Fabrice Bottero won the prestigious best-baker in France award. No wonder my tastebuds always tingle in anticipation every single time I set foot in the
boulangerie
and breathe in the tantalising aroma. It is always a difficult decision; to stick with tried and true favourites or branch out into tempting new choices. Perhaps today I will buy for our afternoon
café, petite
strawberry tarts, glistening in their glossy glaze or
choux
pastry éclairs, gleaming with their shiny
chocolat
icing
.

The mown fields of hay shine like burnished gold in the glowing light of late afternoon. We are just a few minutes off the
autoroute
to Paris and yet in Cuzance, we are in the depths of the countryside. It's like a landscape lost in time. The farmers work to the rhythm of the sun and the seasons. Each tight turn in the narrow lanes leads to a new perspective of the rural landscape. A swaying field of verdant corn, a grove of ancient walnuts, a
petite
hamlet of stone
maisons,
with shutters in shades of chestnut brown, moss green, crimson and white. A border collie darts energetically across the road, herding a flock of reluctant sheep from one pasture to another. The leaves – yellow from the heat – twirl and dance and fall upon the fields to decorate them in a crisp carpet.

As we
promenade
through the village at the close of another day, the quintessential sound of shutters creaking closed, signals that the day is over for all in Cuzance. The sunset streaks crimson splashes across the fading sky. The full moon tugs a dark-grey velvet blanket over the village. The new day will start again with the drawn-out chiming of the church bell at seven.

Bales of hay in Cuzance.

Jean-Claude is an endless source of all that is both fascinating and informative. He provides a window into French life that I would not otherwise have a chance to glimpse through. On a rare luxurious afternoon relaxing at their
piscine
, Françoise plies me with
espresso
and homemade
crème glacée
. It is my idea of heaven. As the three of us chat, Jean-Claude tells me that after the Revolution,
maisons
were taxed on the number of windows that they had. So it is to his regret that a number of windows in their
magnifique maison
were filled in with stone. We glance upwards at the towering levels of their house and sure enough, there are the imprints of old windows, distinguished by the stone that stands out in slight relief from the surrounding stonework. He goes on to tell me that next it was the turn of the piano to be taxed, for just like windows, pianos were the province of the
bourgeoisie
. Later, with the advent of technology, televisions became the source of additional revenue. And so, aerials were hidden in attics.

When I arrived for my afternoon of freedom, Françoise was in the garden, polishing a long wooden cross for the church. After she is
fin,
I carry it across the road to the church for her. Once inside, under her instructions, I place it against the wall. She tells me it is used for
fetes
– ceremonies. We have had our own as I carried the big old cross and Françoise carried Henriette. Françoise is devoted to the church. Next, she is about to go and collect
fleurs
for the High Mass on Sunday. She asks if I would like to go with her and then help arrange them. I decline both offers. I have declared it to be a self-proclaimed holiday after shovelling
castine
until very late the previous evening.

Church duties complete, we return to Françoise's
petite cuisine.
The three of us squeeze into the tiny space as she squeezes us fresh juice with oranges from Portugal.

Jean-Claude announces that it is the fiftieth anniversary of Marilyn Monroe's death.

He starts to sing
Happy Birthday Mr President
and Françoise joins in the duet. Later, as I relax next to
la piscine
I flick through a copy of
le journal
,
Mademoiselle
. There is a captivating black and white photo of a young Mick Jagger, taken in front of an Aston Martin in 1962. Jean-Claude shares yet another fascinating fact with me. He tells me that President Sarkozy apparently refused to buy an apartment in Paris as it was too near Mick Jagger's apartment. I was very surprised to hear that he and Carla Bruni had once been in a relationship in her heyday as a young model. Now as the recent President's wife, Jean-Claude declares she is the picture of decorum, indeed, she has even had lunch with the Queen. I wonder if President Sarkozy would have bought the apartment if it had been near Freddy Mercury's?

Whenever I descend the stairs to their
piscine and
lower, park-like
jardin
, I always pause under the stone archway, wreathed in mauve wisteria. I breathe in the beauty. I let the tranquillity seep into me. A visit to their garden never fails to restore me. I let the peace wash over me. Momentarily, until my
renovation
resumes again, I am replenished.

When we return home to the other side of the world, Jean-Claude keeps the spirit of Cuzance alive for me, by frequently sharing stories with me. I never cease to be astonished by the full extent of human drama that is contained within one
petite
village.

Indeed, it would seem that Cuzance is a microcosm of the world's stage; all its richness, drama, sadness and amusing incidents.

One day after school, this tale is in my Inbox.

Thirty years ago when we arrived in Cuzance we were astonished to see a file of three people going east every morning and afternoon and we learnt that it was the Delpech tribe who was mourning the father's death. First, invariably came the mother, then the daughter (Thérèse) and then her younger brother who was mentally challenged (like the Dédé Mabit you already know)... and we discovered in the churchyard, by the entrance, a tomb covered with mementoes and artificial flowers. The mother died a few years after but it was possible to communicate with the son (better than with Dédé), whose godfather is Paulo, my neighbour, and who was sent by Thérèse on errands like buying her cigars. Then we saw this man becoming paler and paler; he had got leukaemia and died of it after two years... and I learnt through Paulo that he complained to him that he was beaten by his irate sister, in spite of the fact that his invalid pension went to her.

Another day, Jean-Claude reveals that:

Of course this story is about Bernadette, just as the other sad story I will tell you one day is about Pascal; and you can use all these stories by changing names – that is no problem. (
Which I have duly done.)
As for getting a new char, wait until we are in Cuzance! But it will be hard since Bernadette was introduced to us by a woman from Cressensac, who did the char for us for three weeks to our greatest satisfaction, two years ago... but then broke her ankle by falling from an apple tree she was picking from on her farm — she still limps and anyway, confided recently to Françoise that she found our house difficult because of its age and numerous storeys!

I now remember I had promised to you other publishable (but sad) stories: here is the one about our charwoman who had found happiness with a man in Cressensac.

After divorcing her husband; they had a house built, the garden organised and the house painted... but not the same colour as they had notified the authorities: blue instead of beige... and the authorities protested and declared they would have to re-paint the house and the woman, who had occasional bouts of depression, went out of her mind since she had insisted on that colour! And now, she has disappeared, refusing any further contact with her live-in. It is all terribly sad.

It would seem that when I reflected that I would miss our neighbours, Madame and Monsieur Chanteur, that my thoughts had an eerie prescience, for it was only a matter of months later, that I received the following from Jean-Claude.

You will be sad to learn that Christiane Chanteur died this week and has been buried in Paris. This morning I received a kind letter from her husband Roland. I must say the sad news is not totally unexpected on my part, as I saw that her state of health and mind was definitely deteriorating this summer in Cuzance. I am now going to send a letter of condolence to Roland... and I wonder if we shall see him again in Cuzance since he had come there essentially to allow his wife to see her daughter and her grandchildren.

Please don't hurry to follow the same road...

I certainly don't intend to...

Jean-Claude replies to my response and lets me know that:
I did send a word of sympathy from us (and you) to Mr Chanteur, but I doubt we shall see him again since he sounded quite satisfied about his flat in La Rochelle and carefully pointed out that he was in Cuzance for the sake of his wife (and considering the poor level of attention devoted by his children in Cuzance, I would certainly understand that he no longer comes).

I had not realised though when I mused about the future and the fact that one summer we would return and the Chanteurs would no longer be there, just quite how soon this would actually happen. The sad news reiterates that I will miss terribly, my fond observations from afar, of the loving old French couple.

There are amusing tales and other sad ones.

Taking advantage of a moment of freedom, I shall tell you about the sad fate of Pascal, the son of a deceased farmer friend of ours. He built, by himself, a house in Lagarrigue.

Then, fate struck a first time by attacking his wife with cancer; it lasted through years of unsuccessful treatment in Bordeaux. When she finally died (leaving a nice little girl), Pascal then decided to change jobs. Instead of eking out a meagre salary from his old father on the family farm, he decided to work driving lorries for the agricultural cooperative which is present in Martel and Souillac, while also attending to the farm in the evening and on weekends. Then fate struck a second time during the reaping of tobacco leaves: they are conveyed on a moving mechanical belt lined with metal hooks: one of the hooks (no bigger than a fishing hook) broke and flew in the air... into one of his eyes that started leaking intra-ocular liquid. His friends immediately called SAMU (emergency medical help), which sent a helicopter on the spot. After long stays in Limoges and Toulouse, he finally lost vision in this eye. Of course he could not drive professionally but the cooperative took him on nevertheless as an assistant in their shops and walnut factories. He drives his own car and hunts... and now lives with the girl who sells fresh vegetables in Malastrège, on the road that goes from Cressensac to Martel!

There are also utterly fascinating tales that wing their way across the time zones and oceans and miles.

I have a book that tells of a gangster murder in Cressensac... and also (I think) of the very dangerous former camping site in Cressensac which was famous all over Europe for its homosexual possibilities. It was closed when they opened up the motorway!