Our House is Not in Paris (19 page)

There were other fascinating experiences that occured at the markets. One particularly cool Sunday morning, we found ourselves at a
vide-grenier
in Autoire that was positively brimming with its possibilities of treasure. Stuart always set off on an initial reconnoitre to quickly locate any significant pieces of treasure, such as furniture. I tended to wander more slowly, soaking up the atmosphere and examining the stalls in more minute detail. If there was anything that Stuart thought we might buy for our
petite maison
, he found me and we went off to examine and discuss it before it was snapped up by someone else. Strangely, as the tourist season picked up we actually felt quite put out when we heard the echo of English accents around us sometimes. We liked the sense of being the only foreigners walking around the
vide-greniers
in the midst of the deeply-buried French countryside, far from anywhere.

On this occasion, I was happy to find, for a couple of euros, a bright yellow jug that was the exact match for one I already had, so now I had a pair to place together on the mantelpiece. As I pored through more bargains, I glanced up at very beautiful young couple whose stall it was. As I enquired about the price of a wooden bread board, the good-looking boy asked where I was from. He was surprised to find out that I'm Australian and he then told me he was from New Zealand. His parents had a holiday house in the village and he chatted about how they alternated between the two countries, trying to have a life of one endless summer. That too was our ultimate aim. His girlfriend was from Berlin and they met in Paris, where they were both studying at the Sorbonne. They were both glowing with youth and beauty, and I marvelled at the extraordinary life they seemed to be living at such a young age.

Another day, another
vide-grenier
, and we chatted to a market holder about her array of artworks and household bric-a-brac. We found out that she had just returned to her home village after living in Melbourne for thirty years. Her children had all grown up now and left home so she'd returned to her childhood village and her house that had been locked up for all these years. She too had embarked on renovating it so we shared our experiences. And so, once again, the world didn't seem such a very big place at all. After just two brief summers in Cuzance, it delighted us too when we went on our ritual Sunday forays to the
vide-greniers
to run into people we knew — even, one day, our friends Dominique and Gerard. We all examined what treasure we'd unearthed for the day and marvelled at each other's finds.

Like us, they were passionate about
vide-greniers
and, during the week, when we saw each other, we all talked about which ones we were planning to go to the next Sunday. When we were invited for an
apéritif
or dinner at their home, we admired the
objets d'art
in their home. Gerard always fervently declared either ‘
Troc
' or ‘
Vide-grenier
'! Once, when we went for an
apéritif
, they were very suitably impressed that my green linen trousers were a mere one euro. Every time that I then saw Gerard, he enquired whether what I was wearing was one euro from a
vide-grenier
. He also declared that our house name should be:
Troc
. I knew that I'd made an impact with my penchant for bargains when, one day, Dominique arrived at our
petite maison
in a new outfit. When I admired it, she told me that it was second-hand. I'd never known her, unlike myself, to wear second-hand clothes before and she told me it was the first time.

Another memorable moment was when we encountered our
Maire
and his wife, Jocelyn, sharing a bottle of wine at a stall with a friend one sticky, hot summer Sunday. They beckoned us over and, with the hospitality we love in France, invited us to have a glass of wine with them. The temperature was pushing forty; it was red wine and I knew it would be potent, but to decline the offer was inconceivable. They left shortly after and, much to our amusement in the land of world-renowned cuisine, bought a takeaway pizza from a pizza van to take home for their Sunday lunch. To us, it was an utterly incongruous touch in rural France.

We returned home to have lunch on our little porch, with the cacophony of squealing pigs from a nearby farm as the background accompaniment. We then once again took advantage of the searing heat and retreated to the pool. The irony of the glossy magazines that Jean-Claude had kindly bought us on pool design and landscaping was once again not lost on me. By now, the burning sun had dried the grass out so much in just a few days that it was like looking at a sparse, arid Australian landscape. Though it drops to as low as minus eighteen in winter in our
département
, in summer it can soar to the mid-forties. There are many similarities with the landscape, in fact, for we were very familiar with a number of shrubs and flowers. Roses, hydrangeas, oleanders, hibiscus, geraniums and marigolds all flourish here. Even the roundabouts in France are usually very decorative and have beautiful flowerbeds. The trees, though, are distinctively European, and it was strange for me not to be able to identify them as readily. I gazed around the
jardin
and tried to visualise its transformation in the future. It was quite hard indeed to picture it.

On occasions that were only too rare, I took the opportunity to finish early and wander down to Jean-Claude and Françoise's to enjoy a gin and tonic with them in the early evening, relaxing on their terraced garden overlooking their enticing
piscine
. Stuart had taken a break to play bridge in Souillac with Françoise — quite a challenging undertaking to play bridge in France in a foreign language. So I had some time alone with Jean-Claude and we went through his photo album that was both an impressive record of his hard work and a tribute to all he had achieved. They bought their extraordinary house in 1989 for 40,000 francs. As an English teacher, Jean-Claude had spent all his holidays and many weekends working on the house. In those days, it was an eight-hour drive from Lyon and no small undertaking with three young children. The years and years of sheer hard work had created a breathtaking transformation. If I thought we worked hard, it was nothing compared to the fact that Jean-Claude would get up at 4am and work under lights he had rigged up outside. He tackled so much single-handed that there were even photos showing him working high, high up on their attic roof to replace the tiles.

He always brought everything to life with all the stories he had to share. I was fascinated by his accounts of the tax collector visits in the 1700s. The tax was paid in salt. The further that people lived from the sea or salt mines, or other countries where the tax was less, the higher the tax was. The precious store of salt was hidden by the cavernous fireplace, where it was kept reasonably dry. Tradition says that the salt was also hidden in the chair that was reserved for the elders so that the tax inspectors would not dare disturb them and discover the treasure. Jean-Claude also showed me photos of sugar cutters that were used in the days when sugar came in huge blocks and had to be cut. Sugar was sold in the shape of huge cones, similar to the red and white safety cones that the
gendarme
put on motorways today to signal an accident.

When they are in Cuzance from the middle of March to the middle of November, just like us, Jean-Claude and Françoise like to be a part of life in the village. The difference is, they have a twenty-year head start. As well as being the keeper of the keys for the church and locking the heavy wooden door at the end of each day, Jean-Claude also rings the bell in the village church opposite their house on special occasions. When I went with him one evening to lock the church, he told me some of its history. The main part was built in the twelfth century and the rest was added gradually in later centuries. In the late nineteenth century, a wealthy vicar considered a further addition but, on reflection, decided against it, as it would have prevented the sun from warming his house. In the clock tower is one of the oldest bells in France. Jean-Claude told me that, according to legend, some of the church bells were hidden in their garden during World War I. When they had their pool put in, the workmen dug very carefully, hoping to unearth the bells. While they didn't find anything, the legend is another layer that makes life in a French village fascinating.

For the third Monday in a row, my ‘working' week started with a visit to the
Mairie
's office in the village. Jean-Claude dropped in early with a message from the
Maire
that all our roof restoration work had been approved. We will absolutely never know how the complexities and intricacies of it all worked. One minute we were told it would take weeks and then,
voilà
, it was ready. Now, it seemed that if we didn't collect the paperwork immediately, perhaps the work on the roof would suddenly stop again. We pondered, yet again, whether, in a small rural village, the
Maire
, Jean-Luc and the other roofer, Gilbert, had sorted it all over a
pastis
or two. Perhaps they simply decided that it would all go ahead regardless of the lack of formal documentation and approval? It is something we will never know.

Fortunately today could not possibly compare to the previous Monday, when Stuart and Erick laboured for twelve hours straight in forty-degree heat as they installed
la cuisine
. Or my efforts on the day of sugar-soaping the sitting room and endless cutting in round the window, doors, ceiling beams and staircase. Despite the intense heat, I was determined to match my hours of work to each of theirs.

Monday 27 June 2011 was the biggest day of my entire life. When we finally had time at the end of it to actually catch up over dinner, we both announced that we had come to the same conclusion. Stuart confirmed the date several times to imprint it in his memory. By the end of such days, it was hard to even recall all the details. I was up early, as usual — in fact, like a normal Monday morning anywhere in the world, and it was a calm start. I had managed to complete proofreading another few chapters of the very esoteric
Colon Art
for Jean-Claude before nine o'clock when it was time to, yet again, visit the
Mairie
. Never quite sure what to expect or what may arise, I felt quite anxious about the septic tank paperwork that I'd chosen not to complete and return. Even though we knew that the mandatory government inspection of our septic tank would take place at some point, we were trying to delay it for as long as possible. We were also trying to avoid, for as long as we could, the enormous expense involved in meeting the changed compliance law. However, whenever you tend to steel yourself for a difficult bureaucratic moment, it can turn out to be quite the opposite. The paperwork was all stamped and signed, waiting in an official brown envelope on the counter. I simply signed it, it was photocopied, and I was finished in a matter of minutes.
Voilà
! On the way out, I peeped into the two primary school classrooms downstairs, as there were no bags hanging on the hooks outside them like usual. They were tiny and sparse and empty for the two whole months of the long summer vacances.

So my Monday was off to a flying start. This morning I even dressed with care, feeling that, as it was an official visit, it was appropriate. When I arrived home in record time, we felt that the occasion was so significant that Stuart took a photo of me, triumphantly displaying the official brown envelope approving our roof restoration. Next on our agenda, Brigitte and Erick arrived with Erick's son Maxime, a policeman who was home on leave for a few days. Despite the fact that it was their busy season at their
chambre d'hôte
and they were fully booked with guests, they had made the three-hour round trip so Erick could help Stuart finish the electric work in
la cuisine
. That task was also smoothly completed in just an hour, so we headed off to Martel to treat them to lunch at what was fast becoming our favourite local restaurant. We felt very pleased that, out of the three times we had already been there, it was our second visit with different French friends. We had dessert outside one balmy summer evening when Jean-Claude and Françoise invited us to meet them there as their guests. Martel took on a completely different feel at night when the heat of the day had dissipated and the lights flickered on at ten to illuminate the ancient stone buildings. The town was so exquisite, with the ancient covered market in the centre, that it was like a film set.

Today was the first time we'd eaten inside Le Jardin des Saveurs. We were surprised by how elegantly it was furnished and styled, with crisp beige tablecloths, dark brown serviettes on the tables as a stylish contrast and tasteful photos of food hung on the simple, white plaster walls. The menu was magnificent value, and we enjoyed a delicious lunch of local duck with a crisp breadcrumb topping served in brown pottery dishes straight from the oven. It was a rare treat to relax on a Monday and enjoy a delightful lunch in the company of wonderful friends.

That afternoon I walked down to visit Jean-Claude and return the manuscript that I had helped him with. By chance, as it turned out, I missed Jean-Claude as he had just come out the front of their house without hearing me as I walked up the through their
jardin
at the back of their property. I left the manuscript carefully anchored with a stone on the table outside their back door. Much to my surprise, a few minutes later when I was home again, Jean-Claude was standing on our rounded front steps chatting to Stuart and Christian the gardener. The timing could not have been more perfect as I took the opportunity to have an impromptu discussion of how to plan the planting in the
jardin
as Jean-Claude was able to rapidly translate for me. I was utterly impressed by his ability to so fluently switch between the two languages. I was also vastly relieved and happy that Christian was able to so quickly take on board my design ideas. He was able to convey that my concepts were for a formal
jardin
, whereas, apparently, ours was a
rustique
garden. Not that it should really have been a surprise, for there were few remnants of what might have once been a garden. Certainly I knew that I would never have anything to compare to the grandeur and beauty of Jean-Claude's sweeping, park-like
jardin
, which he lavishes hours and hours of care on. I indicated my desire for a tree — despite Jean-Claude's constant translation, I used a lot of animated gestures — that would provide shade outside our
forge
for our imagined terrace of the future. I was dismayed to find out that after breaking his lawnmower tyre on our rough terrain, Christian now had to buy a new lawnmower. Jean-Claude told me it was very old, but nevertheless I felt somewhat responsible. Actually, now I think about it, perhaps that was factored in to what was later a very exorbitant fee for a few hours' work. At last, though, everything seemed to be coming together in our long-abandoned
jardin
.