The Long Hot Summer (10 page)

‘For heaven's sake, help yourselves to the cheeses in the fridge,' he bleated on his mobile phone from the English Channel ferry terminal. ‘They'll be off by the time I get back.'

Indeed, Claude's generosity can sometimes cause a problem, because people tend to take advantage of his ‘open house' policy. When he goes away, he often leaves the keys to the house with friends in the hope they'll keep an eye on things, and he then invites them to ‘have a dinner party' and ‘help yourselves to the wine in the fridge'. Which we have all done on occasions when he's been away travelling.

One year he left me the keys because I was clearing his phone answering machine and feeding the ducks that live on the millstream that runs under his house. As Claude's dining room is so large, I did have a party, inviting several of the locals. It was to be a progressive dinner. Miles and Anne, who come down from London to their house just outside the village several times a year, were in town and, as Miles had recently been to a
conference in Moscow, he invited a group of us for ‘vodka and caviar' as a first course. The plan was for the dinner party – which also included Jock, Jan and Philippe and Anthony from the next village – to then move down to Claude's for pizza, salad, cheese and dessert. All went to plan, except that the vodka was much stronger than most of us expected (Miles knew, but didn't really let on). So spirits were high by the time we reached Claude's, and even higher by the time we drank our supply of wine and ate the pizzas. Jan and Philippe left straight after dinner, because of their usual early start the following day.

Remembering Claude's parting words – ‘Help yourselves to the wine' – I said that I was sure he wouldn't mind if we had a couple of bottles, thinking I could probably easily replace them the following day. Miles had other ideas. He knew that, quite apart from the wine in the kitchen, Claude also had a well-stocked cellar, and he suspected there were some bottles ‘about to go off'. I am ashamed to say that, despite a few vigorous protestations (from Anne) we drank a bottle of very, very good vintage wine with all sorts of ludicrous justifications being bandied about: ‘We're really doing Claude a favour'; ‘This wine would have gone off in another six months'; ‘It's a shame to let good wine like this go to waste'.

Outrageous. I felt honour-bound to confess our misdeeds to Claude when he returned. He was not at all amused, and the aftermath caused quite a ripple for the entire summer. Being the holder of the key, I felt responsible for the episode and we had a whipround and bought Claude several bottles of good quaffing red. But nothing that could match his now totally unavailable Mouton Rothschild.

Whoops.

When David's mother Mary turned ninety we flew to her home city of Wellington in New Zealand to join her celebrations. She's an amazing woman – a combination of intelligence and strength of character, mingled with a certain fragility. She threw her own party in the quaint but rather stuffy clubhouse of the golf club where she still plays at least two rounds of nine holes a week. Despite long-term eye problems, Mary has a current driver's licence, is an avid fan of live theatre, movies and concerts, walks vigorously around the bay in the wildest and windiest of weather and swims at the nearby harbour beach many months of the year. Until last year she travelled overseas regularly, even tackling walking tours in Italy and Greece well into her eighties. She is formidable.

At her birthday lunch she took to the microphone and gave a stirring speech, stating emphatically that growing old ‘isn't for sissies'. Although she has an older brother and one younger sister, Mary has lost her husband, a sister and many of her friends and neighbours to old age. While she hasn't stopped living life
to the full, she is nevertheless saddened by the sense of loss that accompanies living to such a great age. She has a lively circle of much younger friends, many in their seventies but many my age and younger, with whom she socialises on a regular basis. It doesn't bother them that Mary is twenty, thirty or even forty years their senior; her mind is still that of a young woman. At her birthday party she surprised us all by producing a limited edition book which she had written on a recently acquired computer, beautifully bound and presented. Part memoir laced with imaginative fiction, it's a series of short stories, essays and anecdotes drawn from her life, presented as a timeless gift to her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren (of whom there are eleven).

Looking at my stalwart mother-in-law, I'm prepared to admit that I have neither the genes nor the lifestyle to reach the age of ninety. And I seriously question that I want to. David is eleven years my senior and we regularly discuss the pros and cons of the ageing process. For someone as usually positive as me, I take a negative view. For someone as usually negative as David, he takes a positive view. David is working on himself to remain as youthful and healthy as possible. He watches his diet, has shed more than 20 kilos in the last five years and goes to the gym almost daily to keep up his cardiovascular health and flexibility. He has late-onset diabetes, which he controls admirably with diet and exercise, and his blood pressure and cholesterol are fantastically low. At sixty he was delighted to receive his Seniors Card and regularly quotes from the small print on the back: ‘The holder of this card is a valued member of our community. Please extend every courtesy and assistance.' In 2004 he turned sixty-five and pronounced with some pride that if he wasn't still
working he would be eligible for the pension. I winced ever so slightly at the prospect of living with a pensioner, ashamed at my own attitudes which may appear ageist but in fact are based on fear.

My father committed suicide at sixty-two. I resolutely believe it was because he was terrified at the prospect of growing old. His lifetime of heavy drinking and smoking had taken its toll on his physical appearance and health. He suffered from undiagnosed depression, and after the dissolution of his marriage to my mother, sparked by the latest in a twenty-five-year string of infidelities, he was in a frame of mind where he saw no future for himself. Like most of his actions in life, his decision about his death was purely selfish. At the time, I was not distraught at the loss. He had been such a difficult person to deal with in life that his death seemed to me, then twenty-two and pregnant with my first child, a blessed relief.

Now, in my mid-fifties, for the first time I feel compassion for my father's plight. I am saddened that he was incapable of sharing his fears about ageing with his family and that he saw his future purely as his own to deal with. Not as part of a family unit. Although he had niggling health problems, it wouldn't have taken that much of a lifestyle adjustment to haul himself up and live for another twenty years or more. He chose not to.

That said, I fear I have similar thought patterns to those of my father when it comes to ageing and death. It alarms David when I mention my penchant for ‘living hard and dying young'. I take a rather fatalistic attitude to the whole thing. I'm not saying I'm right – and the medical profession would clearly argue against me – but I somehow feel that taking the cautious approach may ironically not pay off in the end. How disappointing it would be
to live a life of rigid self-denial, constantly worrying about healthy lifestyle, diet and exercise regimes, only to be struck down by some unexpected disease in mid-life. It certainly has happened to various friends of ours, while others we know who lead dissipated lifestyles soldier on well into their eighties. I hear the words ‘moderation in all things' ringing in my ears, but my natural inclination is to be excessive. To push the boundaries. I'm not advocating a life of total self-indulgence, but I cannot tolerate the prospect of total self-denial.

It's all relative. When I mention my fears about ageing to my mother-in-law she has every right, but doesn't, to laugh out loud at me. As do the women in their sixties and seventies I regularly meet at talks and book events. From their perspective I'm still young and shouldn't waste my time dwelling on old age – just as teenagers never for a moment contemplate the prospect of turning thirty-five. But fifty is the threshold. It's the point at which we first start to focus on ageing and mortality, to look back and reflect on our life and to ponder the prospect of the future.

In France, many of my friends are over seventy because the tranquil rural paradise of the southwest attracts lots of retirees. My friends Jock the retired journalist, Claude the English ex-photographer, and Margaret Barwick the garden designer and author are just some of those in our circle who are twenty years or more older than me. But they don't behave as though they are twenty years older, with their high spirits and a full-on approach to life that belies their years.

Jock's method of dealing with ageing is to ignore it completely. It's not a bad philosophy in many ways. Denial is a great form of self-protection and it means that Jock simply dismisses the signs and signals that tell him it might be time to
slow down, and he continues to behave like a man half his age. Most of us find it hard to keep up with Jock's predilection for socialising. It's not uncommon for him to throw his enthusiasm into a restaurant lunch that lasts from noon until well after four in the afternoon, then rest for an hour or so before going down to the bar or the Plan d'Eau to have a glass of Perrier for the purposes of rehydration before an evening of more eating and drinking and general merriment. He bowls up to all the weekly fresh produce markets in the local villages, loves to fossick for old bits of china and glasses at the antique and flea markets that are the highlight of the summer, and throws at least one four-course dinner party a week. He's an exhausting person to be around.

Apart from his wheeze, the legacy of a lifetime of asthma, he seems in robust health most of the time. In more recent years he has, however, developed the alarming habit of dismissing any indications of ill health – such as a cold that may have turned into bronchitis or, worse, pneumonia – by always saying, when asked by concerned friends, that he's feeling a lot better than he did the day before. This is usually just hours before he admits that he is actually feeling quite distressed and unable to breathe, which means that he must be rushed to the doctor or hospital for emergency assistance. In other words, he waits in the hope of a miracle recovery until he is virtually on death's door before acknowledging that he could be quite ill.

While this positive and hearty attitude is preferable to being a neurotic hypochondriac, it can be quite unnerving for those asked to assist in a crisis. Claude recounts with some horror driving Jock to Prayssac to see the long-suffering local doctor – then immediately, at speed, driving to the hospital in Cahors with Jock literally gasping for each breath in the passenger seat.
Claude was convinced he would be dead on arrival and was therefore amazed when he returned the following day to visit Jock only to find him sitting up brightly in his bed tucking into the substantial regulation hospital lunch that includes a small bottle of red wine.

Mentally, Jock is as sharp as ever and his wit and comic timing remain unchanged, making him one of the most sought-after dinner party companions in the region. He has, however, become a bit vague about details and sometimes forgets if an invitation has been issued, especially if the request has been made in the middle of a lunch or dinner when the wine is flowing. A lot of us fall into the same trap. The social scene is so casual that engagements are not written down and therefore are often not remembered. It's not that uncommon for Jock not to show up and the host or hostess to call and ask, ‘Where are you, Jock? We are about to sit down.' And for him to reply, ‘I wasn't invited.' Then quickly pick up his car keys and head for the door.

Jock's performance with cars and driving in recent years has also been somewhat alarming. A year ago he totalled his trusty Peugeot driving home after a long lunch when his foot slipped from the brake onto the accelerator while he was parking outside his ancient stone cottage in the late afternoon. His version of events was that ‘the house reared up in front of the car', and the result caused much mirth among his circle of friends, although for Jock it meant forking out for a new (second-hand) Peugeot, as he was not covered by comprehensive insurance.

This year's incident involved my house and the car of our mutual friend, Anthony. It was the first night of the Frayssinet village fête – a four-day extravaganza of music, food and family fun. The first evening event was moules frites (meal of mussels
and chips) in the salle de fête (community hall) behind the mairie (town hall) opposite my little village house. I was in Australia at the time and so have to retell this tale second-hand from those who were witnesses.

A table of more than twenty had been organised by Miles and Anne, who live just up the road from the mairie in a substantial old farmhouse, Le Clos, set back from the road in a large rambling garden. The plan was for people to leave their cars in the mairie car park and walk up to Le Clos for an aperitif or two prior to the meal. Jock arrived on time and left his car outside the mairie. Anthony arrived quite a bit later and, finding the car park full, decided to tuck his Land Rover safely into the narrow space between my house and the derelict house next door. I often park my own car in this handy spot when in residence.

At eight o'clock the group walked down towards the salle de fête and noticed Jock's car parked at an awkward angle outside my house. More than awkward – indeed, it was sticking precariously out into the road. On closer inspection it was discovered that the car had escaped from its original parking spot and careered across the narrow but always busy road, where it had crashed into Anthony's smart vehicle, removing the bumper bar and numberplate, before bouncing unceremoniously into the corner of my house (only a fraction away from my newly planted deep purple clematis). The back of Jock's car was quite badly smashed about and both lights were wrecked – another huge garage bill to add to the ongoing expense of the summer. His new car was an automatic and the general consensus was that Jock had not managed to put it into ‘park' or had forgotten to pull on the handbrake. He insists that there must have been some outside intervention – perhaps he had parked in the wrong
place and some irate local had let off the handbrake to teach him a lesson.