Our House is Not in Paris (14 page)

Meanwhile, on another water-related front, we had huge septic problems. The new challenge was trying to get a plumber as well as trying to get in touch with Christian to mow the grass, which was now wildly out of control. Pied de la Croix truly looked like a building site. There was rubble in the front garden from the burst pipe, trucks, roof rafters in haphazard piles, and grass that was so long we could barely glimpse our
voiture
. I had left Christian two messages and, once again, with all things artisan, I wasn't sure what was going on. Christian then magically appeared in the afternoon. Suddenly, it had indeed been a red-letter day: the pool, roofers, garden — and a plumber to come.

With Christian now hard at work on his ride-on mower and the roofers in full flight, Stuart set off again for the bank in Martel to finalise our insurance paperwork. Time was always a scarce commodity, so I stayed and worked on the
jardin
. By now it was very hot — the temperature had increased to the high twenties — but I worked steadily away, wrenching out weeds and moving rocks from the front
jardin
where we drove in. The last thing we needed right now was a punctured tyre.

Was there time to stop after all this frenetic activity? Time to pause and reflect on all that had been achieved and was underway in just a few short days? Well, the simple answer was no. Next, I was off to sweep out all the cobwebs from the 120-year-old cellar beams. I had my longed-for washing machine installed down in the cellar yet I barely had time to glance at it, let alone attempt to work out our instruction book in French. How did the washing machine even make its way to the cellar from the
petite maison
? Once again it was Jean-Claude to the rescue with his ingenious solution of moving it on his wheelbarrow. And so the day ended with my first load of washing to celebrate another happy day in Cuzance.

I looked out with satisfaction to see the transformation of neatly mown grass and roofers energetically at work. That they were here again, their second day, was a huge relief — and an ongoing mystery. Today's agenda was to start sanding the sitting room walls in preparation for the cleaning and undercoating. At home this would be quite a straightforward job and I was an old hand at painting. Here, like everything, a somewhat different approach was needed. The room was a strange amalgamation of colour schemes and wallpaper — possibly seventies, when it would have certainly been
très chic
. What remnants of wallpaper should remain as a tribute to the house? Well, this time, possibly none at all. The strange tartan above the fireplace or floral that was a feature on the opposite wall? As for the two paint colours that had been so meticulously applied (dark brown below then carefully edged to delineate the green above), well, that was not a difficult decision. It would all be white. Plain, simple, striking white. The room was dominated by huge, old, thick, dark ceiling beams — some were suspiciously dark, in fact; there seemed to have been a fire inside at some point. And so another day unfolded, centred round sanding and cleaning and undercoating while Stuart's
cuisine
took shape more and more every day.

Our reward was our first proper meal for days when we went to Martel for dinner. We devoured with delight duck
confit
in a delicious fig sauce and a glass of rosé. However, the soft summer evening and the ambience of the town square was marred by a raucous heavy metal band in the undercover ancient market that was right next to the cluster of restaurants. It utterly spoiled the atmosphere and anticipated relaxation. Then, as was often the case, Jean-Claude and Françoise saved the day. They had invited us to meet them for a treat: coffee and dessert at one of their favourite restaurants. While just nearby, it was sufficiently removed from the band that had been pounding in my head, and we had an exquisite dessert of my absolute favourite indulgence in the whole world:
crème brûlée
. It was actually band night in Martel but, this time, to accompany the song of silky smooth
crème brûlée
, there was a choir right next to us, an utterly different experience and a perfect end to another hectic day.

In just six days we had done more work and had more social interaction than in six months at home. Right at the start, Stuart had to draw up a calendar so that we could fill in everything that arose, both socially and all the planning for the house:
plombier
, bank appointments, Piscine Ambiance and the car registration in Cahors. It was evident almost straight away that the squares for each day should have been twice the size. Each day we had a plan that was utterly jam-packed — work schedule,
bricolage
,
supermarché
, decisions regarding the
petite maison
and all the renovations, and the plans for the
jardin
. Then, every day, even more events unfolded to fill each twenty-four hours to an even greater capacity. We could not imagine possibly fitting in any more and yet, somehow, we kept doing so. We woke at 6.15 — this was a holiday — and yet the day went on forever as the daylight hours were so long. The exhaustion was a constant backdrop, both physical and mental from all the decisions and communication in French, coupled with the presence of the roofers, who had become an extension of our daily lives. While we had developed a fondness for them and they seemed to have been absorbed effortlessly into the fabric of our days, the fact that they didn't speak English and there simply being no time for me to learn French, even pronunciation of simple phrases, constructed using the dictionary, was a problem for me as I attempted to convey that tomorrow we were going to Cahors for the day. I stumbled to communicate that we were going to the
Préfecture
to register the car and yet I discovered that communication also depended on regional dialects, so even my few simple words were not grasped.

Stuart had an afternoon away from the intricacies of assembling
la cuisine
as he had been invited on a walk with Jean-Claude's group of friends, who met once a month to explore the countryside. Well, I had been invited, too, but I declined and chose to stay and work on the
petite maison
. The choices I make at times are interesting. The country amble that we had imagined turned out to be an arduous hike, scaling steep rocky hills and getting terribly lost in the depths of the country. Meanwhile, I vigorously sanded walls, stripped wallpaper and stripped paint off beams. It was actually a joyous feeling to reclaim the old wood lying buried under layers of paint. While it was yet again another solid day's hard work, I enjoyed the solitude and the way that, with each piece of wallpaper that plummeted to the floor as I stripped off another piece, I connected more and more with our little house that we were so close to abandoning.

In all our years of renovating houses, I had never felt such a strong sense of breathing life back into a home. I paused at one point and raced down to the Hotel Arnal to buy a lighter, and even the basic purchase of a Bic was not readily understood by Monsieur Arnal, as apparently my pronunciation of the simple word ‘Bic' was not drawn out sufficiently. The
Maire
briefly came in to the restaurant and greeted me, ‘Ça va?' and shook my hand. Later I wondered whether I should have politely attempted to make a reference to the roof and convey my appreciation that it had been a mere one day before work commenced and not the possible fifteen that we had been told only two days previously. I decide to sidestep such a conversation.

I resumed my frenetic wallpaper-stripping and then Françoise called to let me know that she could not possibly start the afternoon tea that she was providing for the walking group without me. She was expecting them back by five and I was conscious of the French protocol of being there at the precise time for when you had accepted an invitation. We had read, in the many books on France that we devoured, that, especially for formal occasions, no-one is served an
apéritif
until all the guests have arrived. So I reluctantly downed tools, hastily transformed myself and dashed down the road yet again. And then we waited for nearly an hour and a half for the walkers to return. I drummed my heels with frustration, thinking of all that I could have still been doing despite the fact that, actually, I was exhausted by my arduous labour. Finally, they staggered in and we were all rewarded by a delicious
abricot tarte
and
artisan chocolat glace
made by Françoise. Everyone was gathered round their long dining table and I looked around in wonder to be in France and part of an old group of friends. Once again, I paused and thought how lucky we were to be so readily accepted and part of the patina of life in Cuzance.

Finally, we returned to Pied de la Croix for a simple meal of — what a surprise —
pain
and
fromage
… again. Stuart was very tired after his demanding hike, and his idea of relaxing was to read a
bricolage
catalogue in readiness for his hardware outing the next day. Me, I'd rather be up a ladder any day than peruse a
bricolage
catalogue. To end the day, before we fell into bed exhausted once again, Stuart called Erick to arrange that he come to Cuzance on Monday to help with the kitchen plumbing. Now that would be a significant day in the
petite maison
, one step closer to having a real
cuisine
. Erick was also renovating and it was their busy season with their
chambre d'hôte
, so we were even more grateful that Erick was prepared to make the three-hour round trip to help us. And, in the considerable history of our renovating life, what a day it turned out to be!

Our friend Sylvie sent a text to organise her arrival to stay for a night. We then got a text from Dave at home to let us know that another friend might also drop in to stay with us. Another visitor. We were already expecting John and Liz, and while we were really looking forward to family and friends staying with us for the first time, we were also glad no-one would be staying soon. We were too tired and too busy at the moment to attempt to be convivial. We kept changing the boundaries that we had set ourselves about what we hoped to accomplish this time. Our plans and goals fluctuated between what we hoped to achieve this year, next year. One thing for which we were profoundly grateful was that there had been a noticeable lull in the traffic.

It was particularly evident at lunchtime, when all were gathered round their dining tables. The roofers were often concerned when they left for their lunch break, as we continued to work; they were clearly perplexed by the strange choices of foreigners. We had been told a story that, once, some artisans abandoned some newly mixed cement and downed tools for it was the sacred lunch hour — fresh concrete or not.

And so the days unfolded like a bolt of fabric flung upon a cutting table. The difference was that our pattern was frenetic and evolved in a frantic design, hardly
haute couture
fashion in the salons of Paris. Instead of scissors carefully gliding through silk, it was the laughter of French roofers and the cooing of doves that were a gentle background to the weft and warp of our days.

The work of the roofers was impeccable, and their timing for each component of their day was down to the exact minute. At lunch they finished just in time to change into clean T-shirts and were heading down the road to the restaurant on the stroke of twelve. How they managed this so precisely I'm not sure, for none of them ever wore a watch. Their bodies must simply be in tune with the village clock and poised for when it was to ready to strike, not when it did strike. Similarly, they finished on the dot of five. It was a short working day but a hugely productive one — when they work, they work. They didn't take any breaks at all. They answered calls on their
portables
, perched high on the roof, and cigarettes were smoked high up near the sky. Watching them use a chainsaw, with one foot balanced on the beams and the other on the plank that served as a rudimentary scaffold, was like watching an art form. There was no scaffolding at all; instead there was a series of planks that they nimbly walked across. I held my breath as I watched the two younger roofers toss cheeky, happy smiles my way. They knew that I was impressed.

By just the third day, all the old rafters had been removed and the huge new beams were all in place as well as all the smaller crossbeams. When we arrived home from our day in Cahors, they had started to lay the slate and it looked magnificent. The four men each had a section and they worked side by side across the length of the roof, chatting with good humour and laughing throughout the day with their radio always playing in the background. The slate was now placed in stacks for each of their sections and they worked with a steady rhythm, overlapping them to form a pleasing pattern. They knew I would be delighted by their day's work and called to me to take photographs — by now they had seen my enthusiasm about capturing a visual record of each step of the roof 's progress. While their working day did not seem very long to us at all, watching them work every day, we realised that their six hours of work was exceptionally fruitful. It was obvious, too, that the lunch break fortifies them for a solid afternoon's work. Whether they had a glass of wine or two at lunch is something I will never know. If they did, I am not at all sure how they managed to work so high up and remain steady on their feet. Even more remarkable was when I heard the whine of the chainsaw start and glanced out to see them braced on the roof cutting crossbeams and notches to place the slate. They tossed the chainsaw to each other and took delight in the fact that I was awestruck by the way they worked.

What also constantly struck me was their sustained high spirits and admirable teamwork. I somehow got the sense that they probably socialised with their families outside work time, as they seemed to be such a close-knit team. Meanwhile, I couldn't wait to tell my senior girls back at school that they haven't lived until they've seen young French roofers working in the summer heat with their shirts off …