For some very odd reason I have chosen to wear a black robe to clean. Possibly it was the first thing to hand in the demands of a rénovée life. It is the closest I will ever get to owning a little black dress from Paris. I bought it one day when a van pulled up and rapidly assembled a display of illegal racks on the footpath. Women swooped on the ten euro bargains and then, just as quickly, the van disappeared before the gendarme could swoop in turn.
To clean all the windows I have to clamber on the old kitchen sink to reach them. Naturally, the extremely ugly but extremely necessary flypaper is dangling in the window over the sink, to attract les mouches. Naturally, it gets caught in my hair and sticks to it. Mon Dieu! I exclaim.
Then, while on our petite porch, I scramble on a wicker stool to clean the fenêtre. As I reflect ruefully on my strange choice of cleaning attire, I feel sure that I will now definitely be on the tourist trail, for the dress also happens to be rather short and I do have to reach quite high while outside. However, in the way of the world and windows, the sound of late afternoon thunder rumbles just as I’m finishing. There is only one word for what I think — merde.
Before my decorating fantasies can come true, the petite chambre rénovation work needs to actually be fini. Putting skirting board and conduit in place are not in my repertoire of rénovation skills. However, I am always a willing apprentice and labourer. The luxury of a French summer when rénovation is our whole life rather than squeezed into our normal working days at home means that this year it is in many ways like playing in a French doll’s house. I hold onto my fairytale concept of rénovation until it is time to embark on the heavy manual labour that lies in wait.
After the all-day rain on our arrival, the petite porch is littered with sodden leaves from the sixty-year-old lyme tree planted just in front of it. I seize the fact that the leaden skies have cleared and grasp the stiff, ancient farm broom to vigorously sweep away the clinging leaves and sodden blossoms. A farmer passing on his tractor gives me a welcome-back wave, full of bonhomie. It is gestures like these that fill me with a sense of belonging, both in Cuzance and our other life. His cheerful smile conveys that he remembers us from previous summers. Some farmers simply sail past majestically on their enormous John Deere. I know that for some, we will always remain strange foreign interlopers.
There is no need for the incessant clamouring of the church bells at twelve, telling everyone that it is the déjeuner hour, to remind me to down tools. Enough is enough of nettoyage and acting like a French housewife, I tell myself, even if I am cleaning a French farmhouse. I would, in fact, rather engage in hours and hours of beaucoup travail in our sprawling jardin. To my enormous relief, thanks to Gérard and Dominique’s gardener, Nicolai, ours has never looked better. Thank goodness, I think, for it is our third attempt to find a gardener who meets our needs. The others were simply très cher. It is all part and parcel of starting a life in a foreign land. It is hard enough at home to source reliable tradesmen, let alone in a country where the language barrier is as high at times as the Eiffel Tower.
The pretty-as-a-picture doves flutter in the prunier tree. Later, as the sun sinks slowly, a pale pink orb at the end of another contented Cuzance day, the glow bathes le jardin in exquisite beauty. As I go into our chambre to get ready for bed our neighbour, Monsieur Chanteur, sits on his wooden bench outside the stone doorway of his maison, poignantly alone. The sadness etched in his face at the loss of Madame Chanteur, just months before, washes in waves across his jardin. His solitude fills my heart with sadness.
Pied de la Croix Reunion
Our return is not merely a matter of cleaning and setting the house to rights. This is how our summer starts, for our rapturous reunion with Pied de la Croix is nearly tainted by disaster and a potential urgent call to Gérard to return, to whisk me speedily off to le docteur in nearby Cressensac.
I’m tired after our late-night dîner in Paris with Patrick, Françoise and Alexine, and our early start to avoid previous mishaps in missing our SNCF train to Brive-la-Gaillarde. My anxiety to avoid this means that I over-compensate. We are this time an hour and a half early for our departure. This is not Stuart’s style at all. It has been an enormous compromise and concession on his behalf. Somehow, I don’t think we will ever be this early again.
Whenever we arrive at last at Pied de la Croix, the first café in our petite maison is something we eagerly anticipate. So it is that as I pour water into the coffee machine, I clumsily knock over an enormous enamel container of kitchen utensils. This nudges a long, wickedly sharp knife on the rack positioned beside it on the wall. It is longer than a baguette. It shoots like an arrow, straight into my red Converse sneakers. I watch in slow motion as blood gushes out and floods across the wooden floor in a rushing red stream, brighter now than my Converse.
It is important to know that I loathe blood. I absolutely hate it. I am, in fact, the biggest coward I know when it comes to blood.
I sink slowly to the floor, still watching in disbelief as even more blood flows across the floorboards.
Fortunately, the only plastic tub that I have so far unpacked in my search for coffee — for we have been here less than an hour — hidden away from any mice that come out to play in our long absence, also contains a roll of kitchen paper. I gingerly crawl across the floor to reach the tub. I nervously ease my sneaker off. I wrap wads of kitchen paper round my geyser-like toe. It is only at this point that I call out to Stuart, below in le cave, sorting out our water and plumbing issues. Last year, there had been energetic digging activity from a lapin; this year there’s a disturbing stream of water from the leaking hot water system. What will le cave hold in store for us next year?
I surprise myself by how calmly I call out to Stuart to let him know I need his help. Strangely, I don’t even let him know what has happened. He probably just thinks that I can’t remember how to use our coffee machine after being absent from it for a year. There are many occasions when I am not the most practical of people. Later, when I have a chance to reflect on it all, I realise how very odd indeed my behaviour is. I am more prone to histrionics and drama than a matter-of-fact approach to a possibly critical situation. For while I may have wrapped my toe in kitchen paper, I have most certainly not ventured a look at it.
As I wait for Stuart to emerge from the cellar, I ponder which of us will examine my toe. Stuart and blood are no more compatible than my relationship with anything verging on the medical.
I continue to be surprised that when he enters la cuisine, I am then also capable of directing him to where the band aids will be located in our still-packed-up house. It is then his task to peel away the blood-soaked paper and investigate the potential damage. It is to Stuart’s credit that he does not grimace too much. I am sure he is thinking of forgetting about an espresso altogether and advancing the apéritif hour. Thoughts of le docteur and stitches are not far from my mind.
Very fortunately, the vast quantity of blood does not match the severity of the gash. It was sheer good luck that the knife ricocheted off my foot, skidded across the kitchen floor and did not plunge any further down and completely pierce my toe. Even worse, when I reflect with horror on the possibilities, sliced it straight off. The theatrical start to our summer seems to bookend our dramatic departure from France the previous summer, when our train to Paris was sabotaged. We, in fact, consider ourselves lucky to be alive. This becomes even more apparent when, just a few weeks into our stay this year, a train from Paris to Brive-la-Gaillarde is in a dreadful accident and six people lose their lives.
Still astonishing myself by my degree of calmness, we both then have our first espresso on our beloved très joli steps. I then go back inside, unpack the linen from its plastic container and make up the bed for our first night. I continue to unpack and set the house to rights for another hour or so. It is only then that I start to get wobbly. Perhaps belated shock has set in? I subside, weak-kneed into our just-made bed. I lie shivering under the eiderdown. I realise that I am about
to be sick. Very sick. I crawl out of bed, across the floor and into la cuisine where, very conveniently, a plastic bucket has been left from last year when we packed up. I am just in time.
Sadly, on our very first evening, Stuart goes alone for dîner with Gerard, Dominique and Jean-Claude. Even more disappointing is when I find out the next day that Gérard, with great thoughtfulness, has prepared our favourite meal of local canard. To miss crisply roasted duck on our first evening back in Cuzance is not worth thinking about. I find out, too, that there has been much speculation and discussion over dîner about the size of the knife, where exactly it was positioned in the first place in la cuisine and where precisely it landed. Subsequently, when everyone visits, the first thing they do is rush to the knife rack for an inspection. The topic of conversation over the summer is that the next book I write should be called Murder in Cuzance. Everyone is vastly amused, except me.
Filling in the Gaps
Every year, we can rely on Jean-Claude to fill in the gaps on all that has unfolded in our absence. He always regales us with stories and shares with us the events that have taken place in Cuzance. This includes who has passed away. With the loss of our neighbour, Madame Chanteur, I know that in our village of mostly older inhabitants, there will be more in the years to come. I already know from previous visits that, in a particularly harsh winter, some of the villagers will not wake to a new sunrise. For now, I am glad that the cast of characters in Cuzance that I am familiar with and have grown fond of — despite still not being able to fully communicate with them — are still all in place.
To balance impending loss and sadness, Jean-Claude is able to share the joyous news of the arrival of their petite grandson, Basile. He announces that after a mere twenty minutes, ‘He popped out like a champagne cork.’ It is France after all, I think when I hear this original and apt description. As Françoise will now stay in Lyon for a fortnight to help Bénédicte, Jean-Claude has the responsibility for their other two grandchildren, Celeste and Balthazar, who are arriving from Berlin for their summer vacances. We wonder how he will possibly cope. As it is, when Françoise is at their apartment in Lyon, Jean-Claude exists on ready-made meals for dîner from the supermarché.
France is surely the only country in the world where discussion, and indeed a forthcoming debate, centre on the custom of kissing. I have enthusiastically embraced the de rigueur custom of exchanging a kiss on each cheek with our French amis. Indeed, it is one I have passionately transferred to my life on the other side of the world. All those who know me well, friends and even close colleagues, accustomed by now to our French life, know to expect this from me. They have entered willingly into this French cultural exchange.
Reuniting with Jean-Claude means that once again we are privy to glimpses into French protocol and customs that we would possibly never be aware of. He shares a fascinating insight into the fact that different regions have different customs when it comes to the exchange of kisses when greeting friends. We are by now very familiar with the one peck on each cheek. This exchange takes place even if it happens to be the second, or indeed, third time you have encountered your amis within the space of a single day.
Sometimes there are three exchanged, backwards and forwards on your cheeks. This is something I’ve never quite understood. What dictates that it is more than the customary two? I have simply surmised that it is a demonstration of the degree of affection. Yet it transpires that a bise and the number exchanged all depends on the département in which you live. In Paris, it would seem there are only ever two kisses. I am sure in the heady, demanding world of politics and business there would clearly be no time for any more. Mind you, the number of politicians, indeed French presidents, with a notorious predilection for affairs, would involve somewhat more than counting the number of kisses on the cheek.
In other regions, Jean-Claude tells us, four is in fact the rule of kissing. There are further complications though. Apparently, in some départements the first bise is on the left cheek, while in other regions it is on the right. I can’t grasp the simple elements of the language, let alone the complexity of kissing. Even more amazing is when he concludes this anecdote by telling us that a movement has started to reduce the exchange of kisses to a mere one. The group in Brittany opposed to the gesture of so many kisses base their stance on claiming it has all gone too far. To think a polite social greeting could generate such fervour. The jury is still out on this.
A Week Ebbs Away
When we arrive in Cuzance after four splendid nights in Paris, we are lucky enough to have the luxury of almost two glorious months at our petite maison. Though the sun rises at six and subsides in a soft glow at ten, there are simply never enough hours in the day to do all that we want to. Our body rhythms adjust quickly to the tempo of each unfurling day. We rise soon after le soleil does, when chattering birds also greet the new day. I retreat to bed each evening as their lyrical chorus sinks in synchronisation with the final splinters of sunlight. I like being in harmony with the ebb and flow of French rural life. This, I must confess, is the part of me that tends to put a romantic film over the realities of life. I am quite sure that if I had to rise before dawn and crack the ice on a well to draw water, or milk cows in the snow, my vision of country life would be altogether different.
For us, it is always a struggle to juggle the demands of rénovation, the desire to spend time with amis, the longed-for leisurely déjeuners that we dream of while far away — the ones that stretch indulgently for two luxurious hours — the necessity of shopping for all our rénovation needs (after four years the lists still loom large in our life) and, of course, the highly prized hours of relaxation under our much-loved walnut tree. Stuart whiles away his walnut-tree time by browsing through the luxury journal, Propriétés De France — Le Figaro. He tells me how many millions the extravagant, luxurious maisons and properties are in the Côte D’Azur, Provence and Paris. He informs me about the abundant number of chambres and salle de bain they have; which has a vineyard, how many acres some encompass, or a private marina or helipad. The price for each is denoted by the number of maison or châteaux symbols. There are one, two or three. Three châteaux indicate that the property is more than ten million euros. Oh là là, we constantly exclaim as he turns over the glossy pages.
Even more fascinating is when he tells me all about the unique arrangement for the buying of some apartments in Paris, an arrangement called en viager. Property is the one thing that Stuart loses himself in dreams about.
As always, the first week slips away in a flurry of frenetic activity; in and out, back and forth, here and there. By only our second weekend, we reassess how many vide-grenier we will be able to visit over the summer. The names of the villages flow like words in a French sonnet: Autoire, Bio, Catus, Cazals, Floriac, Glanes, Lanzac and Saint-Felix. This weekend there are twenty altogether to choose from in our département alone, let alone the two that border le Lot: Corrèze and Dordogne. This number in one weekend is unheard of. We are torn between all the choices and the lure of treasure that is sure to await. Even more unusual is that there are vide-grenier to go to on Saturday, for normally Sunday is the sacrosanct clear-out-the-attic day for each village every summer, no matter how petite it is. Our excitement knows no bounds.
After only a week, the temperature is already starting to soar. It has changed from just fourteen degrees on the day of arrival — and it is summer, after all — to the low thirties. As Stuart reads Le Figaro over petit déjeuner, he tells me that Paris in spring was like winter, with incessant rain and an utter absence of sun. Summer is predicted to be even more of a contrast.
This does not suit the plans we have made for our agenda at all. We have planned to tackle the next step in our crazy paving project in our third week. I’m predicting that in a superb stroke of irony, this is precisely when the mercury will truly start to rise.
For our second week, we have planned a two-night stay in a chambre d’hôte in Toulouse. This is not a mere tourist tri
p. Non. It’s been planned for many months to combine it with yet another visit to IKEA. Once again, I can’t imagine that IKEA features on the agenda for many other people on vacances. It will be our third IKEA trip in as many years — Bordeaux and now Toulouse. I’m thinking of writing a personal shopping guide to the IKEAs of France. No doubt it will be a best-seller. To ensure that it is, I will include a comprehensive IKEA cuisine guide. It still delights us that French IKEA offer menu du jour and vin. In my usual fanciful way, I imagine getting sponsorship for my shopping trips.
Irony is a word that often occurs to me in Cuzance. This is particularly so when I start my first serious foray in le jardin at the end of our first week. As I start to labour long and hard in our rambling rustique wilderness, I rant and rave at the ridiculous growth of les herbes. Why are the weeds so strong and healthy? So ferociously determined to flourish? In stark contrast, our carefully planted rows of laurier are languishing. As for the parallel row of photinia, planted by our second gardener who we have long suspected has no idea at all about gardening, they are dead. All dead.
All too quickly, my unorthodox style of gardening returns in full force. The only possible way to even try to wrench the tenacious les herbes out is to sit on the stony ground and apply all my might, which I hasten to add is not too mighty at the best of times. Baguette references once again come into play. Not the long-as-a-baguette-knife accident. Non. The tentacles of weeds descend into the rock-strewn ground, the length of a baguette. Their roots are almost invincible. Like in previous years, they jeer at me and mock my efforts. Despite my enormous determination, I simply cannot remove their intricate subterranean network. Their root system spreads under the ground like the Metro in Paris.
Our House is Definitely Not in Paris Page 4