Our House is Not in Paris (28 page)

So, in the early evening, when everyone else just wanted to relax and have their evening
apéritif
, I started hacking my way through the far-back corner of our property to dig up and collect years and years of rubbish. Secateurs in one hand were essential to at least partially prevent the brambles from ripping my face. I actually pulled out parts of what seemed to be a rusted car. It was in this utterly dishevelled state, with my head thrust into years of neglected growth, that Dominique and Gerard wandered down the garden for an afternoon visit. My concept of gardening was quite different from Dominique's, for they had a much smaller plot and she was in the process of lovingly planting out flowers in their very manageable garden. Although, fond of us as they were, and they hadn't said it in so many words, I knew they thought we were utterly mad for taking on such a huge challenge, especially when we could only be in Cuzance for a matter of a few weeks a year. They left quite quickly as I burrowed further and further into my far-flung outpost. The brambles periodically ripped my cap off and, by this stage, I simply flung rusty old buckets, old petrol cans and other assorted household paraphernalia over my shoulder. The others were still keeping their distance: I knew they were quite tired of my obsessiveness and my drive to keep doing, as I constantly said, ‘Just one more thing.'

Although Stuart had had quite enough by now, after his frustrating day, he eventually appeared to kindly help with the tip runs. Liz too wandered down too; I think they had realised that I just couldn't manage it all by myself. She then decided that a trip to the tip would be preferable to sharing my filthy and possibly quite dangerous task. There was, after all, a lot of ancient rust, broken tools and sharp shards of glass. The day was ebbing, and when I asked Jean-Claude what time the tip closed he told me it didn't. I thought this was quite odd, until Stuart and Liz returned from their first of many trips to tell me that the tip turned out to be a place on the side of the road near the stadium where everyone just dumped their rubbish. Such is life in the country.

It was actually a whole two weeks since we'd been able to walk around
le jardin
due to the incessant rain. We discovered that during this time even more trees were laden with fruit — a pear and another apple tree. The apples shone with fresh organic pinkness — they would probably be worth a fortune at home — while the pears were altogether pleasing in their plump, brown roundness. By now the orchard — a source of constant delight for me and Stuart to use the phrase ‘our orchard' — was brimming with fruit: damsons, pears, walnuts, peaches and apples. Last year it was so wild and overgrown that we couldn't actually explore it, let alone pick and eat the fruit. It did make me sad, though, that when we left this abundance of fruit would simply fall to the ground. I only hoped that Françoise would be able to find the time to weave her magic in the kitchen and produce
confiture
from our fruit, which we would be able to enjoy on crispy
baguettes
on our return. All was at last well with the world: a blue sky and fat, white clouds, instead of ominous, grey rain-laden ones, appeared.

We had succeeded in pushing the world away for six weeks. However, after five days with us, Liz dissolved in tears one evening after dinner while sitting on our round steps with Stuart. This was so utterly out of character for her, as she is one of the calmest, most down-to-earth people that I know, that I felt terribly alarmed. She told us her news and I was dismayed that for five whole days she had not betrayed a glimmer of her anguish. Liz informed us that she had a possible brain tumour and had to have an operation when she went back to Wales. She had just received a text to let her know there was a cancellation that she could have for the following week. She apologised for telling us, as she had meant to keep it all to herself and not ‘spoil' our time together. We were shocked that she had been so brave.

Stuart advised her that a week wouldn't make any difference and she agreed, as she was off to Bordeaux to stay with another friend, Rosie, the following week before going home to face it all. Like us, but for far more grave and ominous reasons, Liz was determined to keep the real world at bay for as long as possible. The day she left, I said, ‘See you next year, same time, same place.' To say or think otherwise was simply too unbearable.

The next day, after her shattering news, Stuart and John had a well-deserved break and set off on a day-long canoe trip on the Dordogne, from Souillac to Gluges. Liz and I finally had a chance to go out to lunch together in Martel. Over a glass of rosé, we simply declared that it was far too inconvenient to have a brain tumour, as Liz had simply far, far too much that she still wanted to do with her life. And so I firmly believed that, despite her operation looming in just a few short weeks, her stoic personality would, through sheer strength of mind, banish this aberration.

Prophetically, as we were later sitting under the walnut tree in the garden and I read these very words to Liz from my notebook, the sun burst through the clouds as I ended on the last word. We reached out and clasped each other's hands.

Our last weekend was our idea of a perfect one. There were four
vide-greniers
in total, including two on Saturday and they were never held on a Saturday. After two on Saturday at Baladou and Hôpital Saint-Jean, I was actually too ‘treasured-out' to go to the one in Martel on Sunday as we had already been out early to Gignac, the
vide-grenier
of all
vide-greniers
. Yes, it was a surprise to me that I actually chose not to go my very last market of our time here this summer. It was a
brocante
in Martel, which can be quite expensive as there are a lot of antique dealers. My decision was confirmed when Stuart and John returned and declared that it was just as I suspected, expensive, and there was no treasure to be found. Later, Dominique and Gerard dropped in and confirmed that it was indeed ‘
Très cher
'. Gignac, however, had fully lived up to its reputation and was magnificent. Friends such as Jean-Claude even went, although they were not usually that fond of ‘clear out the attic' markets. I knew it was going to be fabulous as soon as I arrived, for within just a few minutes I found the definitive black beret, which I immediately wore.

Instead of going to Martel, I chose to have a rare moment sitting in the garden with my book — though ‘garden' still remains a generous interpretation of the word and will remain a stretch of the imagination for many years to come. Another English expat we had met dropped in as I was sitting in front of the barn. Nigel had lived in a nearby village for thirty years, and when he's not in France he travels the world to write books about irises. He was off to visit other English friends who had a holiday
maison
nearby and told us that they would love to meet us one day. We always find it remarkable that somehow it just seems so easy to meet people here. It absolutely contradicts the aloof reputation that the French seem to many to have. It was yet another day when the world seemed to come to me, for shortly after a man from the village whom we had never met also dropped in. He was here to ask if he could look at the pool.

It was Liz's last evening and she had planned a celebratory meal. When the four of us were together two years previously in our rented house in Rignac, we all discovered the delicious taste of barbecued sardines. Liz too had introduced us to the French classic, snails, freshly bought from the market — something we had never tried, yet how could we possibly be in France and not try snails? It turned out that we all loved them, dripping in butter and garlic, the juice soaked up with
baguette
— what wasn't there to love? And so, a tradition had been started and this was to be the signature meal for the four of us. And the
pièce de résistance
were pears from our very own orchard, which Liz had poached in red wine. Small yet plump, they glistened in their red-wine sauce in the bottom of large white bowls. It was a true taste sensation and we declared that this too would feature every year when we were all together again. There was a cloud hanging over us yet we refused to acknowledge it. We didn't talk about what Liz would soon be enduring. Instead, ‘next year' was a constant thread running through our conversation. Her final gift to us for our farewell meal was a yellow and white gingham tablecloth, as she knew how much I loved the red and white one Françoise had lent me and was so reluctant to part with. I knew that Liz would sit at the table next year, with her tablecloth in place to welcome her return. Our last night together had been a celebration of all that is French and all that we love. Those nights would come again. Mozart was playing, the light softened, the conversation hummed, the wine flowed, and we were ecstatic to be eating our own pears.

With the precious days rapidly fleeting, I finally pulled a shutter down in my mind and let myself at long, long last relax. I closed my mind to the weeds now profusely flourishing everywhere since the sun had at last made its appearance for a belated summer. I closed my mind to the painting that still needed to be done; to the state of the crumbling outbuildings. Our hearts were heavy with sadness as we packed up and prepared to leave. Even our
petite maison
took on a forlorn air as all our precious things were packed away. In just a matter of weeks, it had been transformed from a house that was being renovated into a warm, comforting and inviting home. There was a vase of flowers, piles of magazines and books, and our own fruit in a handmade earthenware bowl.

The seasons would now come and go in our absence; the snow would fall and then the blossoms would bud and the roses bloom. It was hard to grasp the many changes that would take place without us there to witness and be part of them. The fruit would fall in a state of neglect to the ground and the little front porch would become slippery with ice. The temperature would plummet and the trees would lose their abundant glossy green leaves. The squirrels would still scamper across the barn roof, the baby rabbits would still bounce in the grass, the
vide-grenier
would take place in Cuzance without us. Yet, after this, just our second year, we felt a part of the village. We knew that Cuzance would expect us again next June, and our hearts would sing with our return.

The sun was shining and the damp drizzle had cleared. The roofers certainly knew their trade for they'd told us the weather would clear again by today. The loving border collie from a nearby house was waiting as I stepped outside to embrace the softness of the early morning. I set off to drive to Martel to buy a
baguette
for lunch and
pain au chocolat
for breakfast. I was elated as I navigated, first, the narrow road out of our village, and then the main road that leads to Martel. It didn't matter that I had been driving for more years than I cared to remember; for me, this was still an altogether new experience, to hum along the lanes alone. I returned home triumphant with our fresh pastries. I truly felt I now belonged in our other life.

Since returning home, we had reflected often on how we simply worked too hard and didn't always take the time to stop and remember why we were really in France. We vowed to slow down next year and take things at a more leisurely pace. It was a dilemma. The more we did each time, the less there would be to do in the future. We didn't want the renovation stretching on for years and years, so, in many ways, the hard work had already paid off. We also reminded ourselves that there were probably not many people who could have achieved quite so much in such a short time. It's swings and roundabouts — relax more and live in a partial renovation or work ridiculously hard and not really have a holiday. Next year would tell.

It was only because of Stuart's drive and determination and ambition that we were even able to live this life. I wouldn't have a clue how to set up a French bank account or the myriad other things that he seemed to do so effortlessly. It was all quite beyond me how he did it all. Yet I had fully embraced all that had so quickly become our French life in a way that I never imagined. So much so that, when we returned home, our hearts were still in Cuzance. Despite the dead bird on our doorstep to herald our arrival after the excruciating journey, in the short space of a year our hearts changed from sinking to soaring at the first sight of Pied de la Croix! And until next year — and part four of both our story and adventure — we would eagerly look forward to being a part of our other, privileged life in France once again.

The day I finally returned to school after nearly two months, I woke at 4.30 am — ‘first day back' nerves. Not that I had anything to feel anxious about as I was lucky: I really love my job as a teacher librarian. It was just hard to balance the two such vastly different elements of my life and it all felt very surreal. I had been a different person in France: the renovating person with little responsibility, and no alarm clock to dictate my day. It turned out to be a magnificent day and I felt like the luckiest teacher in the world. As I walked across the grass to open the library, I heard my name being called. The first student to greet me was trying to run along behind me, ready to give me my first of many ‘welcome back' hugs that day. The fact that she was hobbling along on crutches to see me was fairly impressive. Then the morning break arrived and Ryan Camps in year seven and Kaitlyn in year eleven, who live next door to each other, had made a cake with ‘Welcome Back' iced on top. They sat me down round our little kitchen table and made me a cup of tea. Other students drifted in and gathered round and the room was full of warmth. I was almost moved to tears by their joy at seeing me, especially when they also told me they tried to call the airport when we were leaving Sydney to give me a farewell message. They actually told the person on the desk that they were my colleagues but, without my Frequent Flyer number, were not able to get any further. Apparently they heard our flight number being called in the background. Ryan added that he vehemently denied to his mother that he made the calls when the phone bill came in.