The Long Hot Summer (21 page)

I can just imagine how terrible he is feeling having to deal with all of this on his own, especially after having been through such an emotionally draining couple of months. Coming from the intense heat of that French summer to grey skies, minus five degrees and a house that has been flooded and invaded by vermin.

If I had half a heart I'd jump on the next plane home to help him. But I don't.

By mid-August the heatwave in France has reached a terrifying climax. August 12 is considered the deadliest day, with literally thousands of reported deaths all over the country. More than half of the casualties are elderly patients in nursing homes. The homes and aged-care hostels are critically short of staff because so many people are on annual leave. Those that remain simply can't keep on top of the problem. People are dying of heat exhaustion, heat stroke and dehydration. The hospitals can't cope, they are overflowing and are also gravely understaffed. The morgues can't cope with the sheer volume of bodies. Refrigerated trucks are hired to store cadavers and makeshift morgues are set up in cool rooms all over Paris. At one point more than three hundred bodies remain unclaimed. Families on holiday simply aren't aware that their elderly relatives have perished.

In August alone 56,000 people die, which is 15,000 more than usual at this time of year. Most of them are considered to be heat-related deaths.

There are immediate political repercussions. Ministers and their staff start returning to Paris. There are press releases and statements denying that the heatwave could have been predicted and therefore emergency procedures put in place. The Director General of Health resigns and the American media use the situation to have a swing at the French, claiming that the disaster is a result of stupidity because the French have failed to adopt air-conditioning as a way of life in the same way people have done in the United States. This is all happening at the same time that the French and Americans are at loggerheads over the plans to invade Iraq, so the heatwave has left the French wide open for international criticism. The irony is that the French have what is considered to be the highest quality health care service in the world, but even that couldn't prevent the August catastrophe.

During the remainder of August I live in a hot and hazy cloud of muddled thoughts and ideas. I catch up with my ex-lover again when he returns from his holiday and he admits that he was indeed badly shaken by his encounter with David.

But I'm still ambivalent about what I want to do with the rest of my life. I love it here but I know that the experience of owning a French cottage has been totally spoiled for David. Probably forever. I am now yearning to go home to Australia, to the farm and to my family. I know that I don't want to give up my husband, my home, my family and my way of life for a romantic escapade. But the entire experience has left me addled. In so many ways, I really don't know who I am any more.

In an attempt to lift my flagging spirits, I throw a party to celebrate the end of the kitsch-buying season. It's the culmination of our summer-long competition to see who can find the most frightful object at one of the antique markets, sticking
strictly to a budget of 5 euros or less. After some discussion about where the exhibition is to be held, I decide I can somehow squeeze everyone into our little house – again spilling out into the courtyard.

Jan and I set the house up like a gallery exhibition, with plastic tables covered with white cloths. I ask everyone to drop off their exhibits the day before and we are amazed at the breadth of kitsch that people have managed to gather. We set up and number the objects, each with a card explaining the place of purchase and the price. The idea is that people arriving pick a number out of a hat and at the end of the evening, after the judging and announcement of winners, everyone will take home one item. Well, that's the plan, anyway.

The exhibits are truly horrific. Clocks decorated with seashells and ashtrays made in the shape of women's breasts and lamps that are ugly black ceramic hands holding flashing globes. Lots of sparkles and feathers and false deer feet. I order a pile of pizzas and serve chilled rosé by the pitcher. It's a highly amusing evening. The winner is a cruet set – salt, pepper and mustard bowl – in the shape of a toilet. The mustard is served from the toilet bowl with a wooden lid and small wooden spoon, the salt and pepper from two adjoining potties. It's quite the most awful thing I have ever seen.

At the end of the night people pour out the door laughing and happy, but I notice nobody is picking up their ‘lucky door prize' as they leave. As I should have expected, I am abandoned with a room full of ghastly objets d'art. The whole exhibition ends up in boxes in the attic. I could now hold a vide grenier of my own if I wanted to.

My tour group arrives in September just as the heatwave
breaks. They are full of enthusiasm and can't wait for the two weeks of rambling around the beautiful Lot. I feel like a wrung-out dishcloth. Not just from surviving the heatwave, but from surviving my rollercoaster ride of a life. But they are a great bunch of people and their zest for discovering the region quickly infects me with new energy. This year the tour group is small, only eight people – again because the aftermath of the Bali bombings has made Australians rather reluctant tourists.

Jan and I go to their hotel just before they are due to get off the train from Paris and leave a basket of comforting goodies for their arrival: cheese and biscuits, bottled water, fruit and chocolates. Those who have made the long journey from Australia probably won't feel like going out for dinner on the first night, and a few supplies should keep them going.

The aim of the tour is to give people a really personal introduction to this part of France, so instead of just visiting the best-known touristy destinations we try to get off the beaten track and see the ‘real' France that I have grown to love so much. We spend the mornings walking – sometimes through the woods, sometimes from one village to the next, sometimes along the banks of the winding River Lot and sometimes from a château to a vineyard. Our lunches are mostly informal picnics with a basket of local delicacies that have been packed up for us by Christiane in the village. There's something different every day and most of it is homemade in her kitchen. Terrines and pâtés and grilled chicken, cold roasted meats and salads. We try wines from different regions, mostly rosé and red, and finish with a delicious tart or gateau. In the afternoons we go sightseeing by bus.

There are so many places to visit in this region, from the prehistoric grottes (caves) at Gourdon to the ancient pilgrim
towns of Rocamadour and Puy l'Eveque. In the evenings it's time to eat seriously, and we have selected some of the best traditional restaurants we can find. Experience has taught us to vary the menu, as people tend to get ‘ducked out' after a week of stuffing their faces with foie gras and confit du canard (preserved duck); there's only so much goose fat a person can tolerate. So we try to arrange set menus with lamb, fish or beef as an alternative.

Each group that comes to do the tour has a different dynamic, depending on the personalities of the participants. This group is loud and boisterous, with several hilarious people who have us in fits of laughter all day long. The common thread is that they just want to experience this part of the world and soak up as much of the local colour and flavour as possible.

One of our favourite destinations is the Marqueyssac Gardens, just inside the Dordogne. Set high on the edge of a steep hillside overlooking the river, the garden is long and narrow and has two distinct areas: a formal parterre with clipped box hedges, and woodland which has winding paths and spectacular views. The parterre is remarkable in that it was totally derelict until seven years ago, with the hedges overgrown and indistinct with no shape or form visible. With love and care it has been cut back and restored to its former glory, and we just love rambling through the sculptured hedges, looking out over the valley with grand châteaux dotted around the landscape. It's breathtaking.

The small village of Les Arques, not fifteen minutes from where I live, is also popular with the group. The village has become an artists' centre because it was once home to the famous Russian-born sculptor Ossip Zadkine, and several of the larger buildings have been converted into lodgings where artists can come and work for months at a time. In more recent years
the village has also become famous because of its restaurant, La Récréation, which serves imaginative non-traditional food and was the subject of a popular book,
You Can't See Paris From Here
, by Michael Sanders. We always have a dinner at this delightful place and the tour group finds it a pleasant change from the richer and heavier local cuisine. The signature dish at La Récréation is an entrée of lobster ravioli – I order it every time I visit because it is just so delicious.

During the tour I try to spend a quiet little time at the house every day, just to gather my thoughts and regain my energy for the following day. There's just so much to be done keeping the group busy, and moving them from town to town every four days certainly keeps me on my toes.

I speak to David almost daily and he certainly sounds a bit more cheerful. He has had the onerous task of taking every dripping wet sheet, towel and pillowcase from the linen cupboard and washing it. The weather is too cold and damp for line drying, so he has painstakingly put every item through the clothes dryer. He has been running electric heaters in the affected rooms and the linen cupboard in the hope of drying things out. The pest exterminator has been and the rats appear to have vacated or died. I guess, in a perverse sort of way, it has taken his mind off our troubles.

We talk about our problems but not in any great detail. I know he has been relying on the children a lot for moral support. Miriam in particular has been a tower of strength for both of us. She's very approachable and offers commonsense advice. I feel badly that the kids have to put up with our trials and tribulations. They have families and lives of their own and they don't need to be burdened with our marital problems at
this stage of their lives. I keep telling David that I am looking forward to coming home and settling back into my real life. He doesn't sound very convinced but still manages to say ‘I love you' at the end of every call.

One evening during the tour Miriam phones. She tells me that she and her brothers have been talking and they have something they need to communicate to me. Something serious, and I must listen.

‘Look Mum,' she says. ‘You've got to make up your mind. You just can't go on like this. It's killing Dad. It's driving him absolutely crazy. And we are the ones here having to deal with the consequences. None of us can stand to see him like this any more. He is so unhappy. You've just got to make up your mind.'

She's right. I know damn well she's right. I have to do something. I can't just let the situation go on and on with me wanting to stay married one moment then wanting to be a carefree single woman in France the next. But I am still uncertain about the course of action I should take. I wish somebody would wave a magic wand over my head and tell me which way to go.

David and I have discussed giving ourselves some time after I get back. I am due home at the beginning of October. Within days of returning I will be thrown into the publicity tour for
Last Tango
. The plan is that David will travel with me for the first week of the tour, starting at the Brisbane Writers' Festival and then to Sydney where I am booked to speak at a Dymocks/
Sydney Morning Herald
literary lunch at the Sheraton Hotel. It is all very exciting. But once the book launch and promotion are out of the way, we will have Christmas together with the whole family and then sit down in January or February and try to make some serious long-term decisions. I know that I will be able to think more clearly and rationally when I am back at the farm. Here in France everything seems like a blur, as though my vision is clouded.

Just as they always have been, our working lives are very separate and often diverse. While I am leading the tour group through the backblocks of France, David is having meetings for a film project that he has been developing for some time. The
meetings are productive and the project seems to be moving forward, which he finds not only encouraging but also a relief. The film industry has been going through a downturn for several years, and getting projects up and running has become increasingly difficult and frustrating. But this project must be going along extremely well, because when he phones he sounds energised and enthusiastic. In fact, he sounds the most positive and upbeat that I have heard him sound for several years. He asks how the tour is going and I tell him it's fantastic. They are a great crowd and we are having tremendous fun.

‘You know, Mary, you seem to enjoy it so much that perhaps you should
live
in France,' he says. It's the first time David has ever suggested such a thing.

‘Well, I do love it here but I would miss the little ones too much,' I respond.

‘You could always come home to visit,' he continues. ‘You really should think about it.'

I find it a curious thing for him to say, given everything that has happened these last couple of years. But I am happy and relieved that he is sounding so cheerful and not his usual despondent self. I am so comforted that I even tell Jock and Jan that David is feeling great. That he is so enthusiastic about this film he really sounds just like his old self again.

But deep down I am feeling a little puzzled. It's as though something has changed. There's been a shift. A radical shift, almost overnight.

I don't get a call from David for several days. This is unusual for him, but I'm very busy with the group so I don't give it too much thought.