Our House is Definitely Not in Paris

by Susan Cutsforth

  John appears, holding the precious tickets aloft like a runner in the final lap of the Olympics. He jumps aboard. The doors close. It is indeed to the very second. It is a triumph over bureaucracy.

  When Stuart returns to Pied de La Croix and fills me in on all the events, we conclude that the apparent ineptness of Monsieur SNCF may well in fact be a collusion between himself and Monsieur Taxi Driver. In one of my customary flights of vivid imagination, I construct a fanciful scenario whereby Monsieur Taxi Driver is about to be the brother-in-law of Monsieur SNCF. The exorbitant fare to Limoges would have contributed significantly to his end-of-summer wedding.

  Gignac

  Missed trains and missed planes averted — a script we are only too familiar with in France — we set off to Gignac later than we usually would. It is the highlight of the vide-grenier season and we are alarmed that most of the treasure may have already been swooped upon. Our voiture knows its way, for it’s the third year in a row that we’ve been. The final approach is along a tight, tiny country lane, so narrow in places that as voitures approach from each direction they have to edge gingerly to the precipitous side. We drive up to a plateau where rows and rows of treasure hunter cars are already closely parked. There is a view of our département that we never fail to gasp at. Mile upon mile of dipping green valleys and gentle rolling hills dotted with hamlets, copses of oaks and the famed walnut groves of our region.

  Despite our late arrival, Stuart swiftly sets off to scan for any significant items that may still be lying in wait for us. It is a cooler, cloudier morning after the driving downpour the previous evening. Usually the umbrella-arching walnuts provide welcome shade by this time of day. The absence of sun, however, is evident under their encompassing canopy.

  I make a purchase within the first few minutes. Books in English are a highly prized find. I find Stuart shortly after, crouched over a box of books that are all fifty centimes. We remember the stall holder from our own Cuzance market the previous year. It only takes minutes to fill our basket with our choices. We tell her how pleased we are to find so many, and in return Linda gives us her portable number. She tells us she always has lots of livres, as friends are always giving them to her. For me, finding books is like finding prized truffles.

  Stuart sets off again and, as always, I saunter — pausing, considering, selecting —picking up a jug here, a scarf there. I try on a chapeau in thin brown and white stripes with a bow at the back. Do I need another hat? Non. The answer is always non. I already have a collection of chapeau in our petite maison. For une euro though I simply can’t resist.

  I especially love the piles of linen, laid out in tempting stacks on a sheet on the grass. The tablecloths with matching napkins are still in their cellophane wrapping. I quickly choose one — tablecloths seem to be joining my collection of chapeau.

  As often happens, for it is something I do too, once people notice someone avidly examining a pile of promising linen, others soon gather. People start asking me the price, for by now Madame Linen has a small crowd of ardent bargain hunters. I am soon in the swing of it and selling Madame Linen’s tablecloths for her while she is busy taking euro from other customers. In just a few minutes, a festive atmosphere swells around her stall. I enter so enthusiastically into our unexpected enterprise that soon I even call out the bon marché price of deux euro. Who can possibly resist a new tablecloth for two euro? I behave in an utterly non-French manner; waving my arms in the air, extolling the excellent price and quality at Madame Linen’s stall and attracting even more customers. The Irish couple we met previously are standing nearby, watching me quizzically. Joyce enquires where my quiet husband is. I wonder how it is that after meeting us only several times, she so quickly worked out the difference between us.

  The crowd disperses after a few more fever-pitch moments and drifts off to the next stall. Madame Linen and I beam at each other and shake hands. Once again, there were few words I could actually exchange with her. It was, however, for its few completely unorchestrated moments, another perfect vignette in my French summer. In a moment of elation, I make an extravagant purchase of a pair of vintage Rayban sunglasses.

  We wend our way happily home. As our restaurant is also a Tabac, Stuart drops me off to buy a copy of the local journal. Now that he has his television at long last, he wants to check the guide. He coaches me in the simple phrase to buy one. The courtyard is full of locals sipping espresso. It is a completely different atmosphere to a weekday lunchtime, when there are tourists and colleagues having déjeuner together. Clearly it is a day of rest for the farmers and their wives. I feel that Hotel Arnal belongs to them on a Sunday.

  ‘Non, non, there is no Le Pêche journal.’ We rather suspect there may have been, but that they are scrupuously reserved for the locals. Despite our acceptance into village life, locals we most certainly are not. I meet Louis and Morgan outside. He is keen to ensure that I know it is our own vide-grenier the following weekend. I assure him that we are excited and even have amis coming to stay for it. He tells us he is glad that the ‘famous’ Australians will be there, for he tells me, to my huge astonishment, this is how we are known in the village.

  We have a restful après-midi. It is the first time for ten days we have not had family staying, apéritif plans or amis visiting. We are replenishing ourselves for another week of solid rénovation. Thin threads of wispy white clouds reach across the grey velvet curtains in the sky and close them for the end of another perfect Cuzance afternoon.

  Oui, More Rénovation

  Jean-Louis is committed to our crazy paving project. Whether or not he thinks we are crazy for such a colossal undertaking, he keeps such thoughts to himself. Although we are far behind in our paving project, we would not nearly have made the progress we have without his hard work. Before our working week gets underway, Jean-Louis comes at seven on Saturday night to check the plans for the forthcoming week. We are impressed that he does so in his own time.

  When Monday swiftly starts, just like the church bells striking at seven to signal a new week of beaucoup travail, you can tell the time by the punctuality of Jean-Louis’ timely arrival. The bells toll, his voiture pulls in between our stone pillars. As always, Stuart has prepared the work site and the concrete mixer is already busily churning its first Monday morning batch. The bell emphatically tolls — seven, seven, seven — over and over. There is no possibility of not being aware of its imperious summons to work. By Friday morning, I know that our triumvirate of ‘Bonjour, ça vas?’ will be tinged with weariness for all three of us.

  For me, it is a strange amalgamation of domesticity, painting and le jardin. I reflect that at least my Monday morning washing day doesn’t involve being stooped over a river using the ancient wooden washboards that Dominique showed me. My personal measure of time passing rapidly in our little French world is when I get out the Aoutvide-grenier and brocante guide. How is it possible that I am already checking which ones we will visit in August? I highlight the ones to take friends to when they stay. I always look forward to sharing our passion with them and hope that it will be a magnifique and memorable experience. By lunch time, after family staying and amis soon arriving, I have already quickly turned the spare chambre round for our next guests. I feel as if I am starting to run my own chambre d’hôte. By seven I have already headed to the cellar with my third armful of linen. I decide however, it is not quite my calling in life to run a charming petite hotel.

  As I scurry like a chambermaid, Stuart is nearby, cleaning the steel drainage channel, ready to put it in place. It is full of dirt and leaves. He has more specialist tasks to attend to, like matching up the crazy paving pieces, laying them and finally cementing the jigsaw in place. I abandon yet another load of linen and set to cleaning. A chisel is needed as the dirt is so encased in the ends. It’s critical that they are entirely clean for when the laying of the channel takes place.

  When I’m engaged in mundane tasks, my mind always wanders. Ros’ words echo, when she likened ou
r Cuzance life to ‘a grown-up version of Enid Blyton’. She said it seemed like one of domesticity and innocence. I loved her allusion. At times, though, covered in filth in my oh-so-familiar work clothes, it does not always seem the carefree adventures of Enid Blyton’s happy-go-lucky characters. And yet there is always a strong thread running through my thoughts: there’s nowhere else I’d rather be at that moment in time than a Cuzance Monday morning.

  As the rain tumbles down yet again, I shake myself like a wet dog and race inside. My thoughts now are only for the freshly laid concrete that will not yet have set. At other times, the sun has been so ferocious that it has dried too quickly. Hairline cracks are already starting to stealthily creep through some of the paving in a disturbing fashion. Such is the rénovation life.

  Note to self: on washing day, when it has been raining, do not attempt to hang swathes of crisp white French linen in your carport before moving the voiture out, and remember that the raindrops bounce upward from the loose dirt that is strewn in the carport. Inevitably, it splatters and coats the ends of your billowing sheets. And the whole washing cycle has to start again.

  Second note to self: although we have fancifully toyed with the romantic notion of running a chambre d’hôte, this serves as yet another timely reminder that this is absolutely not a lifestyle choice I will be rushing into any time soon.

  By the end of another working week, I am glazed over with exhaustion. This means that my appearance is the direct opposite to the alluring, delicious, delectable glaze that adorns chocolat éclairs in the pâtisserie. There is only one word to describe how I look: fatigue. As the beaucoup travail week rolls on, the steady call of the church bell is indeed the essence of ‘for whom the bell tolls’. As we work steadily away, as friends come and go throughout the week, the sight of Monsieur Chanteur’s solitary chair under his spreading walnut tree is the loneliest sight in the world.

  Grapevines

  Village grapevine news filters in as always from Jean-Claude. Monsieur Paris has returned for the summer and has set up a tent in his weed-strewn jardin. It is surrounded by a sea of jardin chairs. It looks like a gypsy encampment. He parks his big white van halfway across the narrow lane behind his maison, making it virtually impossible for any voiture to pass. Jean-Claude remarks caustically on their return and reiterates his view, shared, he assures us, by Brigitte Dal. He emphatically states that they are ‘bohemians’. This one word is delivered in a tone of derision and scorn. I remain thankful that we are definitely not from Paris and that the village has not applied this term to us.

  He shares further news of his amie, Monsieur Chanteur. Today he is in Martel signing the final certificates for his wife and paying the hefty death duty taxes. He adds that it is the same lawyer he is using in the fiscal battle with his children. I am quite sure that Monsieur Chanteur — who is very ‘old school’, as Jean-Claude frequently reinforces — would not want us to know about such private matters.

  In the lead-up to the Cuzance vide-grenier, there is a fever-pitch of activity. As black clouds keep rolling overhead, I am certain that le Maire is in a state of high anxiety. The five-year election for a new Maire is on the Cuzance calendar. I can tell from the bright pink eight-page brochure that was left on our doorstep, emblazoned in bold capitals ‘Cuzance Fête Votive’, that the three days of activities have taken a tremendous amount of organisation. I wonder if his re-election depend on the whims of the weather. As well as the Soirée Irlandai, the Irish band that will start the free evening activities on Friday night, there is a jam-packed itinerary. There is a Concours de Petanque on Saturday afternoon. I am sure that the traditional boules competition is a highly contested one, and a battle between the older Cuzance men and younger generations. The Bal Disco on Saturday promises a ‘Maxi-Night’, while on Sunday our vide-grenier is also a marché des produits régionaux, when the well-known produce of our region will be for sale: canard, walnuts and fois gras. To end the celebrations, there is musique, then a first for Cuzance, Initiation Zumba. I am convinced that many of the villagers will be shaking their heads for a long time to come over such a performance. It is billed as Spectacle De Danses Et Percus. It will definitely form part of Cuzance lore during the long winter months. I can already hear the murmurs of, ‘Zut alors,’ across the seasons and the oceans.

  In the midst of our anticipation, our thoughts have turned to trailers. We need more sand for concreting, as it is time to tackle paving the sides of la piscine. Until now, they have been protected by long pieces of timber, salvaged from la grange. The paving leading to the pool steps has been put down, but now the three sides need to have the props carefully removed. The edges then need to be cemented before the final crazy paving needs to be meticulously placed on top. It will be an exacting, painstaking process. It’s imperative to get this completed so the pool is protected before another season of ice and snow. More beaucoup travail.

  Everything always has to be timed around the two-hour déjeuner break. Stuart sets off to organise a delivery of sand and buy a new piece of guttering. It is not a successful trip on either count. Delivery of sand is très cher — more than the cost of the sand itself. He suggests taking his empty bags back and filling them up. How many trips back and forth will this entail? Every hour lost represents one hour of rénovation. A lengthy discussion ensues about the merits of buying a trailer. We have been told that they are very expensive, but it would seem that life in the country leaves us with little choice. It is not quite the heady days of shopping on the Champs-Élysées that I am sure many at home imagine I indulge in while in France.

  I think that like last year when we bought our cement mixer, buying trailers does not feature on the average holiday itinerary. Another rénovation cost to factor in. Meanwhile, half the chimney has become detached as a result of the strong winter winds. With the chimney now half exposed, water has streamed down into the stone hearth during the last torrential downpour. Oh là là, is there no end to the outlay of euro? Thank goodness for my favourite pastime of buying second-hand clothes, for it is a bon marché indulgence. A Louis Vuitton handbag or a trailer? Clearly, there is no question which it will be. After all, this is life in rural France; Paris it is not.

  A check of our bank statement before the momentous trailer decision shows that the euro balance is plummeting. Maçon, plombier, jardin — it’s hanging off the edge of a steep limestone cliff, ready to drop directly into the Dordogne. It’s sink or swim. Thoughts of a très cher trailer are rapidly abandoned.

  Since this is a rénovation week, both Stuart and I rise with the sun. Tuesday’s tasks are pruning and painting. Today I am going to paint over the last vestige of mint-green paint remaining from our petite maison’s last renovation in the sixties. I stir the cauldron-like tin of thick blanc paint; it’s just like the dessert fromage blanc that Stuart tried. It is a while since I last painted inside our little house. I had forgotten how uneven and bumpy the old stone walls are. The mint-green merges with the white, just like fromage blanc is sometimes decorated with sprigs of fresh mint.

  I tear pages out of old copies of Madame Figaro to edge the bottom of the wall where it meets our beautiful bois floorboards. Brad Pitt’s face meets mine, staring up from the glossy pages. In an old French farmhouse, it is an incongruous moment. Just like le jardin soaks up the unexpected summer rain, so too the ancient stone walls lap up my layers of paint. In between coats, like les lapins, I scamper off to the orchard to start pruning. It is the sheer simplicity and beauty of our quiet country life, full of peace and solitude, that fills my heart and delights me. However, despite the luxury of a rare early night on Monday, I remain in a fog of weariness. Nevertheless, I am at my happiest when working steadily away in my garden. The words, ‘Nobody told me there’d be days like this,’ hum in my head as I dig and cut and prune. I translate them to bend to my own interpretation. I never expected that life would turn a corner to lead me to a French country garden.

  The song matches the other refrain I constantly h
ave in my mind. The harder and longer I work, the more ‘love and devotion’ I pour in, the more the garden yields. It was after I revived a few roses at the outset and they started to bring forth pale pink buds that I knew, just as when we started four years ago to rénovate and strip off the old wallpaper, that long ago both our little house and jardin were once truly cherished. Now, I have brought my love for it from the other side of the world.

  Once my painting is fini, I put our new cupboard back in its place. My librarian’s heart sings as I neatly line up all our livre in the bookcase. It is the sort of finishing touch that truly makes Pied de la Croix our French country home.

  In Cuzance, the clouds are just like rabbits and chase each other across the wide, open sky.

  Déjeuner and Dîner

  In the land of the famed baguette, there are far too many days to count when we don’t have any fresh bread. To buy a baguette means a drive to Martel. A simple enough thing in itself, yet in a rénovation life there isn’t always the time. Déjeuner, and often dîner too, revolve around pain. I love market day and shopping day, for there is nothing quite like a crisp fresh baguette smothered with creamy French butter. An-end-of-the-day one is not quite the same. It’s why people in towns and cities visit their boulangerie three times a day. We have learned to buy a large round loaf that, after its first-day freshness, we can lightly toast to have with pâté.