Our House is Definitely Not in Paris

by Susan Cutsforth

  Cuzance Vide-grenier

  The excitement of waking to our own vide-grenier right outside our window spills over into my sleep. I creep out early, like a child up at dawn to peer in their stocking at Noël. Already there are voiture parked end to end outside our stone pillars, like horses champing at the bit, and people ready to tumble out in the crisp air. The air itself contains a shiver of barely suppressed excitement. On the curve of the road opposite our dining fenêtre, where very soon the stalls will all be set up, the golden limestone wall is a backdrop to the unfolding theatre, lit by the still-waking sun.

  I am up hours before the rest of the slumbering household. I stand heron-like, eating my pain and cherry confiture, at our window. In the pre-dawn dimness, I am filled with ever-growing exhilaration. As first light just starts to break, I can see Michel and the mayor, bobbing torches in hand, directing the first cars on the scene, headlights piercing the breaking day. The voitures stream in a steady procession past Pied de la Croix. They pause on the bend just before the village green, trailers straining at the leash like eager Henriette on her promenades. Michel and le Maire are like generals with a battle plan. Through the gloom, I can see the vide-grenier plans in their hands. They are rapidly consulting these to direct everyone to their places. Guns are blazing at seven as their long-planned strategic manoeuvres fall into place.

  As I sit on our petite porch with my espresso, I can see the red tape marking all the stall holders’ places on the green. Now I can hear the creak of shutters being flung open in rapid succession in the village. It’s not just myself who woke in the early hours. It would seem the Noël atmosphere has crept down other chimneys, too.

  It all unfolds so quickly before me, like a well-rehearsed ballet, that in just over an hour I have lost count of the number of cars filling our usually sleepy village. Never did the church bell striking seven seem so significant.

  Then something else happens that tells me perhaps Cuzance En Fête is about to take over from Gignac in the vide-grenier rivalry stakes. Instead of just large white vans and cars, their trailers so full that the treasure is positively escaping, a different type of voiture altogether appears on the scene — some very expensive European cars. They are certainly not pulling trailers. Well-shaven, well-dressed men emerge from their sleek Audis and BMWs. Dealers. And I know what they’re after. The same as me. Treasure with a capital ‘T’.

  Glenn appears several hours later. He glances out at the unfolding scene and is immediately consumed by the fever that has permeated our petite maison. He’s off, like a thoroughbred first out of the starting gate. After a five-minute reconnaissance he returns, urging me to join him. Despite by now being up for hours, so consumed have I been by watching in the wings, I am not at all ready for our long-awaited big day. I splash my face and hastily drag my brush through my hair. Thoughts of my carefully planned Cuzance vide-grenier outfit fly out the window. What could I have been thinking? There is treasure to pursue. I scrabble round for the only pair of shoes to be found — Renate’s sneakers — and we’re off. In my haste, I even forget my customary vide-grenier pannier, the usual nesting place for all my finds.

  As we race through our stone pillars, we conceive a plan on the run. Instead of being in competition, we decide to form a team. Our strategy proves to be perfect, for we are among the first to be avidly browsing in the bargain-hunt foray. By forming a team without Stuart and Renate knowing, and combining our euro and bargain-spotting acumen, we have now decided to make a combined presentation to Stuart that evening over dîner for his early fiftieth birthday celebration.

  There is simply no end of treasure to choose from. Paintings, petite bellows, walnut crackers, old stone bottles. There are even old bikes — very cheap but very wobbly — needing new tyres and new brakes. We decide to give them a miss.

  Hours later, as we are returning, Stuart and Renate are just setting off. We clumsily attempt to hide our cache behind our backs, then run home and hide everything for the evening production we are going to stage.

  We reconvene in time for the midday ceremony, when the Sunday service ends and the old veterans walk out of church on the stroke of twelve, carrying the French flag. We watch the solemn procession make its way slowly to the war memorial. It is lead by two young people from the village, who carry and lay a wreath in a touching, brief ceremony. It brings tears to my eyes, both for its tribute and the bridge that links the generations. The stirring national anthem, Le Marseille, draws the watching crowd together as one. I linger for a moment when everyone has left, to again read with reverence the names on the memorial.

  Then the mood swiftly changes, for it’s time for the long-awaited lunch in Marinette’s orchard. The sun shines warmly on the happy festivities, and everyone gathers round the long trestle tables set out in readiness. The band, whose members are all wearing red bérets,

  Brive-la-Gaillarde

  There are many times in France when I find myself both bemused and entertained by my actions. On the morning of Glenn and Renate’s return to Nuremberg, once again my plans to work in the orchard don’t eventuate. Stuart has decided that placing the castine just inside the doors of la grange where he mixes the concrete will minimise the dirt on the new paving on his trips back and forth with the wheelbarrow. Like all aspects of a rénovation life, this is not a straightforward matter. To lay the castine, the area has to be cleared. This means levelling it out by digging the dirt away. It is full of petite river pebbles that are worth salvaging. As I can’t mix, ferry or lay concrete, I offer to do it. This involves sitting in the dirt with a miniature hoe, sifting it to separate the pebbles. Ever resourceful, I utilise what is on hand. I use three empty concrete bags: une, for old farm rubbish; deux, for soil, and trois for the pebbles. I empty the bags of soil onto the bed that will one day be full of magnifique roses.

  After a hasty lunch we set off to Brive. Is it to browse and gaze into chocalatier windows, glistening in their sumptuous array of exquisite, handcrafted chocolat? Non. Is it to sit and chat idly over an espresso? Non. We are on yet another buying trip, armed with the ever-present list. We need more weed mat, which is très cher, to combat the still-encroaching les herbes. We have been told that our commune has a tractor and we know that it will be the only possible way to plough the dry, stony land where we hope to plant grass seed the following summer. Everything is always a year in the planning. The weed mat to be laid down to asphyxiate les herbes, the matter of sorting the tractor — definitely in the very difficult category, and a test for Stuart’s French — and lastly, the seed.

  So off we head to Monsieur Bricolage, as Stuart also needs an angle grinder. I find myself discussing the merits of the ones on display, including how big the cutting disk should be. Another surprise for me is that I offer to investigate the trailers on display. These are not activities I would ever engage in at home. In my usual stumbling fashion, I enquire whether there are any petite trailers available rather than just the large ones I can see. ‘Non, non,’ Monsieur Trailer says, ruefully shaking his head. ‘Merci beaucoup, it is too grande,’ I let him know. The two trailer men on the counter are quite entertained and puzzled by the fact that a foreign woman, with a clearly limited grasp of French, is enquiring about trailers in a foreign land.

  While a trip to le bricolage will never be on my list of outings of choice, I turn it to my advantage. My gardening gloves are worn to the bone. I also stock up on les herbes spray, an essential item in my arsenal. I also seize the opportunity to look at the selection of showers, toilets, taps and vanities, with an eye on le salle de bain for our fifth summer of beaucoup travail. While it is looking like the paving will extend into its third year, I am still determined to have my new bathroom. How I long to open champagne and declare, ‘Fin!’ Time, as always, will tell. That will indeed be another Cuzance summer chapter, and I fervently hope the last of our working vacances.

  Next, we go to the trocs, as it’s been weeks since we scoured them for treasure. I am bewitched by an old wood
en sleigh with steel runners and a cart behind it, that was used to carry bottles of milk through the snow. I am enchanted by the images it conjures, of chalets dripping with icicles that are like diamonds, and pristine snow in the days of Heidi.

  As we return home, Brigitte Dal is framed in her window, so I stop to give her the gift of a geranium I have bought to add to her colourful collection outside her maison. She is touched by my gesture and I try to convey that cadeaux out of the blue are the best presents of all.

  It has been weeks since I was able to go to bed before daylight shut its doors. Leaving the shutters open, I watch as another thunderstorm cracks the sky and the clouds flee before the tempest, the last of the sun smudging them in black-velvet ink. The soft rain-washed air is like a caress; the silence is absolute. This is definitely not Paris.

  Valcadis Bricolage and Jardin Pursuits

  Heavy rain overnight means three things in a country life. One, relief that the plants will be saved, at least for now, from the heat. Two, the tank for precious water for le jardin will have been filled up. And three, the soil will be soft — perfect for tackling les herbes, as rain followed by sun are lethal weapons in their armoury. This is a battle I will wage relentlessly until I win. I am realistic enough to know that it will take many Cuzance summers.

  Before the day’s plans unfold, Stuart tells me how the tempest raged in the night and he had to get up to shut the banging, clanging salon shutters. He said it was like being on a storm-tossed ship, for first you have to open the windows wide to reach out for the shutters. The rain and wind lashed in at him while serrated lightning tore the vast vault of sky and clouds apart. It is a glimpse of winter’s dark consuming corridor, when it will be summer in our other life.

  It’s off first to Martel, to market. We make time to enjoy just why it is we are here in this other French life. We head to the boulangerie, where the line stretches outside. I step in and spy two lonely hibou, its abricot owl eyes just waiting for me. There are six people in front of me. Don’t let anyone buy our pastries, I think. Everyone else is a local and as each approaches the counter, Madame Boulangerie reaches in advance for the pain she knows they will choose. All the older customers come away with half a fresh, round loaf. Our favourite noix tarts are a weekly treat for afternoon tea, often eaten under our walnut tree. The fresh walnuts and caramel icing are a magnifique marriage of taste and texture.

  Off to Intermarché as part of our weekly ritual, with Valcadis Bricolage conveniently situated next door. This time Stuart needs a joint for his nouveau gutter. He chooses an end cap for it, but is puzzled by the lack of joints on the shelves to go with it. We go to the counter and attempt to enquire about one.

  A murmur in English by our shoulder is helping Stuart to translate his request. We turn, and in a movie moment see two good-looking, well-dressed French men who do not seem to be habitual hardware customers. Non, they look like they should be strolling the streets of Paris. Clearly they are of the same mind as me that it is a perfect day for working in le jardin. They are armed with every piece of shiny new jardin tool you could ever possibly hope for. As they have been so helpful, I murmur that it is more affordable to find such garden implements at vide-grenier. They shrug nonchalantly and smile politely. Clearly it is of no concern that their purchases will be très cher. I suspect indeed that they are from Paris and it’s their country summer house they’re working on. I wish them bon courage in their jardin as we all leave.

  As I prepare our simple lunch, Stuart watches the French weather and gives me a running commentary on the forecast for the rest of the week. There will be more les nuage d’orage, storm clouds, ahead. Incroyable. More thunderstorms to sweep across the land. When they descend in a fury, the rim of ominous grey on the horizon with a single band of bright light below, soon merges with the land. The whole world becomes a sheet of shades of black and grey. He also loves telling me about the ‘fried egg’ days on the horizon. They are shown on the weather map to indicate which départements it will be very hot in. He also announces that later in the week our département will be ten degrees cooler than any other in France. Most people on vacances would be bemoaning this fact. Instead, we declare that it will be perfect for more beaucoup travail.

  At home, the weather impacts on my life only to the extent that I consider what to wear to work or whether my washing will dry. While our rénovation also continues at home without abate, I now persistently avoid it. Here, our whole country life revolves around the weather. For the first time in weeks we’ve had to eat our meals inside. Yes, we are not in Paris, where if it rains you may choose to wear your Guy Larouche trench coat. Here, it’s whether the extremes of high temperatures or rain will hinder our working week. A day of torrential rain can be tantamount to disaster in our country life; it can mean a whole day lost paving or in le jardin.

  It would seem that despite being buried in the country, a degree of vanity still prevails. So after an ‘emergency’ dash back to Martel to the beautician, it will be back to the garden for me. However, it becomes even more evident that I need to imprint the days of the week in my mind, for despite my hasty tearing along the country roads to get to my appointment in time, I discover that I have confused the day. My appointment was the day before.

  The hasty ‘dash’ is another element of French life that, along with my bright ‘Bonjours’, I seem to have definitely adopted in my Australie life. I am conscious, especially now that I have my own petite sports car, as I zoom along the breathtaking coastline with the top down, that I seem to have readily assimilated the French-style of driving. Of course, I always wear a scarf from my expanding collection, thrown on ever-so-casually. I even at times tie it around my hair, in true Princess Grace style. Life is in fact so crowded that no matter how early I get up to fit everything in, I still speed to school every day in my dashing sports cars. I feel as if I am a competitor in the Paris to Dakar rally. Since most competitors in this gruelling event are amateurs, I am quite sure that I stand a superb chance of gaining a place. As I zip and weave, dash and dart, foot pressed down to the pedal, Coldplay playing as loudly as possible in my car-cocooned world, I realise that Stuart may well be in for quite a surprise when we return to our French life. Oui, an unexpected competitor in his personal stakes in the Grand Prix he indulges in while driving on the autoroutes.

  For days I’ve been declaring that I will lay the weed mat. At home, I am usually single-minded in my pursuits. Here, I get easily sidetracked once I venture outside. I create my own adventures. Focused solely on his paving, Stuart has no awareness of my, at times, risky pursuits.

  I clamber like a goat and traverse the length of the high stone wall above my rosebed. I throw down and gather piles of more farm debris that have been tossed up there by past inhabitants of Pied de la Croix. More old shoes, more long strands of rusted wire and broken wine bottles. It is risky work as I have to step carefully among the loose rocks and edge my way gingerly along the crumbling wall. My idea of fun is when I next slither under the old oak tree on the limite that is being choked by brambles and old wire. The only way to extricate everything is to literally lie flat on the ground and peel away the wire. I discover enormous, moss-covered rocks that will be perfect to edge my new garden bed. Now, how to roll them out, considering that I am myself buried?

  More than an adventure playground, my gardening is sometimes more like an extreme sport. Completely submerged under the oak, Stuart calls out from his concreting to let me know I sound like a goat, for all he can hear is a rustle in the undergrowth. Little does he know that I have just been behaving very much like a mountain goat. Shortly after, when I’m using my digger, Stuart remarks that I now sound like an archaeologist. And indeed, that’s how I feel when I occasionally chance upon an ancient shard of patterned household tile or china.

  My secateurs and pruning saw are my second-favourite weapons in my gardening arsenal. I have now devoted day upon day to my new garden bed, and to clearing the wall and boundary. I hope my roses r
eward me richly when the day comes to choose and plant them next summer.

  I will go on the outing to Jarrige Espaces Vert with my mumma when she stays next summer. She will be on the verge of eighty, and it will be her second stay in our petite maison. The last time was three years ago, so the transformation she sees will be significant. Mumma has been a passionate gardener all her life and roses are her favourite fleurs. It will be a special occasion indeed, to choose and then plant them with love together. My glorious rose bed will be a tribute to her.

  By early August, the clouds scud more frantically across the sky in their bid to sweep away dazzling summer days. The evenings become chillier and the dark cloak of night descends more quickly. The maison shutters fold inwards ever earlier to close out the day. Their heavy clunk to ward off the night chill is a prelude to the looming winter months, when we will have long departed. The weeks start to fly, like leaves twirling in a gust of wind.

  Digging for Days

  Last year, every waking — and it seemed sleeping — thought was consumed by castine. No matter how many wheelbarrows full that I shovelled and moved, the towering mountain of gravel never seemed to diminish. This year, digging has taken over my life. By now I have been digging solidly for three weeks. Every day I declare that it will be my last. I have lost count of how many sacs and brouette loads of farm rubbish I have carted away. Along with digging my new bed, the strands of rusted wire wrap themselves around my thoughts, day in, day out.