Reflections of Sunflowers (7 page)

The English party from the chateau loved the fête, the food, the wine, the dancing and the relaxed and friendly atmosphere. Kevin talked about the work at the chateau, which was going well. That was when he told us about a quantity of old tiles he had replaced and for which there didn’t seem to be a market. They were the handmade Roman tiles, larger at one end than the other. This is of course so that they can overlap, but these were so old that he had been told that they
were probably made in the original way; the slabs of soft clay moulded over women’s thighs. Perhaps this accounts for the slight variations. After I’d finished pondering on whether moulding soft clay over one’s thighs would be a pleasant experience or not – I suppose like everything else it would depend on the weather – I remembered our perennial problem with the west corner of our house and our various schemes to roof it over. At least a stock of old tiles, which would blend in with our long sloping roof, would be one step nearer to a solution. When we all staggered home about midnight, we arranged to come and look at them.

A few days later we borrowed Raymond’s
fourgonette
and made several trips to the chateau. I’d forgotten just how heavy Roman tiles are. It was many years since I’d helped with the reroofing of the west terrace. Then, once back at Bel-Air, we had to unload them. And there they still were under the weeds, in the neat stack that Guy and his friend had just uncovered. We resolved to put them to use before this summer was over.

One of our first ever visitors to Bel-Air was Guy’s father, Hugh Fowles, a colleague of Mike’s at Goldsmiths’ College. Hugh and his partner Sally, en route to a tennis tournament at Bordeaux one summer, were curious to see exactly what kind of a place we had bought. In the 1970s, restoring an old property in rural France was not as popular a venture as it would later become, and many of our friends thought us quite mad to take on a house so derelict and entailing such a long journey south. When they actually saw Bel-Air, Hugh and Sally were much more sympathetic and on their return from the tennis at the end of that August, they called in again. We were already packing up to go home as our younger son, Matthew, had to return to school, but the weather was so glorious that they asked if they might stay on in our house. With anyone else I might have hesitated.

Closing up for the winter is quite a procedure. Water and electricity must be turned off, the heater tank drained, plastic covers put over the beds and sofas, just in case of a leaking roof after winter storms Garden furniture must be stored, mouse poison laid in all the rooms, the washing machine emptied, every shutter secured; the list goes on and on. But Hugh was so practical and when, after supper that evening, he had cleared the table and almost finished the washing up before I had drained my coffee cup, I had no doubts.

Hugh and Sally returned the following summer with seven-year-old Kym, Sally’s daughter. A bright pixie of a child, she clearly enjoyed playing ‘house’ at Bel-Air. Hugh, the most competent and speedy craftsman I know, helped us solve the problem of our dark and draughty earth-floored corridor which led out onto the west side of the house. The opening had once been large enough to admit a farm cart, the arching wooden lintel still visible in the stones. The doorway had since been lowered but, with the heavy doors open, a prevailing wind would still almost blow one away. With the doors shut, however, the corridor was impossibly dark. Inner glass doors were clearly the answer but the only doors in Bricomarche, the local DIY shop, were out of the question. Eventually Hugh and Mike found a pair, which were just the right size and style, leaning
amongst all the old materials in M. René, the builder’s, yard. With Hugh’s help and the necessary timber they were fitted in record time.

Hugh and Sally were delighted with our unspoilt region and began to consider the possibility of finding a ruin of their own to restore. Before they left that autumn, Raymond, who had already taken to them both, agreed to keep an eye out during the winter for anything suitable. When Mike and I arrived the following spring, Raymond, clearly pleased with himself, announced that he thought he just might have found something.

‘
Ça n’a pas était facile
,’ he declared solemnly ‘You must realise there are not many
vieilles maisons en pierre
, old stone houses, left in the region.’ Then he brightened. ‘
Mais, venez voir!
’

He took us to see quite a large house about three kilometres away, which had been part of a nearby farm.
Le patron
, whom Raymond knew, had on the death of his parents originally sold the house to an English couple. The husband and wife had then, apparently, fallen out, though whether over their French project was not clear. Nothing had been done to the house since the sale several years previously, and though not a complete ruin it was by now very neglected. The farmer had meanwhile used the main room for storage and for drying tobacco. Dusty strings hung disconsolately from the ceiling. The ex-wife of the vanished owner
– they were now divorced – was apparently living in Bangkok, which would make negotiations more difficult, and the whole place was smothered in ivy. Mike was apprehensive that the thickness of the ivy might well be the sole reason that the house was still standing but, as we had promised, we took pictures to show Hugh and Sally. Mike was at great pains to absolve himself of any responsibility should the whole enterprise prove a disaster.

As one end wall of the house collapsed before the protracted negotiations between London and Bangkok were completed, it very nearly was, but we should have had more faith in Hugh and Sally’s ability and enterprise. Within a few years the ivy-covered ruin was transformed into a stylish and elegant house with a swimming pool. Hugh and Sally and their two children (Guy was born in ’82) became regular visitors and unfailingly helpful both to us and to Raymond. Hugh moved from Goldsmiths’ to York University and, as he and Sally began to find their hectic teaching schedules increasingly onerous, at the end of each summer holiday the idea of a complete change of career enabling them to live permanently in France, started to appeal.

Fifteen years previously, a M. Bernard Francoulon had just begun to fulfil his long-held ambition. As he had gazed around the farm, which he had inherited from his parents, his vision for the future
was not of bumper harvests of maize or sunflowers, herds of strong, creamy cows, of planting strong new vineyards, or even of creating smart
gîtes
for holiday-makers. He had just one dream for his farm on the edge of the small town of Tombeboeuf, about half an hour’s drive from us. To the utter astonishment of the whole neighbourhood he began the slow transformation of his parents’ land into a golf course. The original farmhouse became the clubhouse, he kept the barns to store his machinery and, against all expectations, he succeeded in turning the whole property into a very attractive nine-hole course, with lakes and woodland, and also, in a region where golf was not then popular, he began to acquire a keen membership.

During the holidays Hugh and Sally and friends went occasionally to Tombeboeuf, to play at
le Golf de Barthe
. M. Bernard liked Hugh. He found him sympathetic. He was thinking of retiring, he said, as they played the course together. Not yet, of course, but, he shrugged, sometime in the future. As he grew older the running of the whole affair was becoming arduous. He deserved perhaps a little more leisure. But then again,
le Golf de Barthe
was like his child. To leave all this, he gestured towards the greens, the lakes and the fairway, would be very difficult. He sighed. If he ever came to selling, he would have to find the new owner agreeable. Hugh listened and
sympathised and the next summer put a tentative proposal. M. Bernard was interested. Naturally he wanted time to think about it, but…Hugh might perhaps have first refusal. Not immediately, of course. He was not quite ready to retire. This was exactly the kind of arrangement that Hugh wanted as Guy had yet to finish his A-levels.

Three years ago, on the first day of January, M. Bernard finally took his retirement and Hugh and Sally became the proud owners of a golf course. While Sally finished working out her notice in York, Hugh set off for France. It was the wettest spring on record. Hugh phoned us in London to tell us about the mother duck and seven ducklings swimming happily at that moment on one of the greens. Another of M. Bernard’s legacies were three elderly geese in permanent residence. They still expect to be fed daily but somehow never seem to get in the golfers’ way. The gander even comes into the bar from time to time and demands a drink.

Another odd arrangement came to light a few weeks after Hugh had arrived. A battered old car drew up and a large, weatherbeaten woman carrying something heavy, wrapped in a cloth, marched into the clubhouse. With a cheery ‘
Bonjour Monsieur
,’ she dumped her burden on the bar and turned to go. Hugh, unwrapping it to find a huge, barely plucked turkey complete with head and neck feathers, expressed
surprise. She explained cheerfully that this was the customary arrangement with M. Bernard for the use of the small strip of land, which her husband cultivated between the eighth tee and the road. Hugh had been vaguely aware of a few rows of maize or sunflowers in the distance when he had been playing but had hardly had time to pay it much attention. Not having a freezer, he persuaded her to take the bird back, but ever since that day she has proved a good source of corn-fed chicken.

It was the first summer that the
Golf de Barthe
opened under its new ownership that Thomas arrived by himself. His solo week passed quickly and, the tree felled and the fête over, his younger brother Elliot and his parents were due any minute. We went shopping for bedside tables as, yet again, we were rearranging beds in the boys’ room. It seemed a long time since we had first borrowed a cot from Claudette to sleep a six-month-old Thomas. The cot that had once long ago been used to sleep, in their turn, both Philippe and Véronique and had been carefully stored up in the
grenier
, for the next generation. Some five summers later, when our second grandchild, baby Elliot arrived, a sturdy wooden cot made by Jean-Michel for Océane was brought up to Bel-Air and reassembled.

For the past few years the boys had managed to share a very large double bed. On their most recent
visit, however, the early morning silence, which was normally only broken by the calling of hens before the sound of the church bell floated up from the village at seven, had been disturbed by muffled, but increasingly tense, disputes. This year, to avoid these, we had installed single beds in their room – as far apart as possible. Elliot unpacked his rucksack onto his table and looked approvingly at his bed. But early the next morning after a tentative tap on our bedroom door, it opened with a creak and a small frowning person appeared.

‘I just can’t keep quiet any longer, Grandma,’ came an anguished whisper. ‘And I’m not allowed to speak even a single word in there ’cos Thomas is still asleep!’ He climbed into our bed, arranged himself between us and we listened perforce in sleepy delight to thousands of words in an ever-ascending treble.

Naturally, the boys couldn’t wait to see Hugh and Sally’s new golfing venture. We had been once with Raymond and Claudette on a Sunday after-lunch excursion and already the clubhouse had been transformed. There was a smart new bar and french doors now opened onto the refurbished terrace, bright with pots of flowers. But Raymond had been very sceptical. He had never actually met anyone who played golf.

‘
Ce n’est pas très connu dans notre region
,’ he said dolefully, shaking his head. Clearly, to him, the idea of
putting what had presumably been good farming land to such unproductive use was incomprehensible. He was agreeably surprised and eventually, on a second visit, changed his mind when he saw the course and the way the land was being looked after, and especially when he noted that among the English, Dutch, and American players, there were also many French men and women, kitted out as always in the very latest and most elegant gear.

Thomas and Elliot were also impressed, especially when they were taken on a tour of the whole course by buggy, Elliot almost falling out of his seat with excitement at the unexpected ups and downs. Returned at last to the clubhouse, they sat on high stools in the bar and drank Pepsi while Jan, Hugh’s new assistant, drew rabbits on Elliot’s legs. This was done, he explained to Elliot, to the little French children taken on summer camp, to make sure that they took their evening shower. At any other time Elliot would have protested but he was so overcome by the whole ambience he just giggled. He and Thomas couldn’t wait to have a go at golf. They borrowed clubs and went off with their father to practise shots on the driving range. Next, Caz took them round the putting green. That was it; they were hooked!

Back at Bel-Air the usual games of
boules
were forgotten. Frisbies, footballs and badminton racquets were left untouched in the cupboard. All next day
they worked designing a golf course. Stones, pine needles, branches and heaps of cut grass were collected to construct bunkers. Their course, they decided, was to have five holes. Unable to dig actual holes in the sun-baked grass, though they did try, they made open-sided rings with small stones. I was coopted to cut up strips of cloth, which they numbered and stapled onto sticks to mark out their putting green, already under construction on the other side of the house. Thomas designed a brochure with a list of charges.

The caddy was, of course, Elliot, who was just about tall enough to drag round the bag of croquet mallets, the nearest they could get to golf clubs. All day the game continued and next morning, all disputes forgotten, they were both up and out well before the seven o’clock bell, trimming their greens with scissors. During their two weeks’ stay their enthusiasm inevitably waned a little – swimming competitions becoming a counter-attraction – but Thomas was particularly keen and announced his intention of taking up golf when he returned to England.

Other guests came to share in the fun. My god-daughter
Joanna and her sister Miranda are old hands at Bel-Air. Daughters of our dear friends, Judith and Barry Foster,
les Fostaires
, as Raymond and Claudette always called them, the girls had first come to Bel-Air as young teenagers, with their brother Jason. While Barry had to return for filming during that long ago summer, Judith and the children had stayed on with us and we had all been initiated into the harvesting of yet another crop, the tobacco.

I remember Grandma, after the large plants were cut and brought to the especially tall barn where they were to dry, showing us how to upend and grasp the heavy sheaves. We had to take great care not to bruise the large, delicate leaves, as we pushed hooks through the tough stems to attach them in fours to wires strung in a line. We then watched as Raymond hoisted each group higher and higher until they disappeared far above our heads, merging into the leafy green canopy above. When all the sheaves were safely suspended and left to dry we, with aching fingers and stiff necks, all returned to the farm and as usual ate
en famille
, the youngsters enjoying each other’s company, Philippe especially intrigued by these two budding English beauties. Raymond no longer grows tobacco and the barn is now used for storing the great round
boules
of straw and hay which have replaced the smaller square bales that we also used to arrange by hand.