Raymond had a well-grounded fear that he was not up to the standard of the young pups who had enrolled in his Latin courses at Sydney University. Piles of holiday reading had accompanied him to the other side of the world and needed to be digested by the end of the month. He roamed around the new house in the search for a quiet corner, carting sheets of notes for forthcoming essays and a notepad covered in fluorescent pink or yellow stickers reminding him of things to do, phrases to employ or difficult Latin words to look up. A glaring omission was evident in his hoard. There were no household handy-hint manuals in either French or English. Yet another do-it-yourself trick I would have to learn: how to hang a gate to a post. I added it to the list.
Summer was setting in with a vengeance. In the early morning, the shutters were unhooked and pushed open, allowing the windows to be thrown wide open to let out the stale night air and let the coolness of the morning rush in. By nine o’clock the shutters were latched together again, and the house was plunged into darkness ready to deal with yet another hot day. Towards six or seven o’clock, in the cool of the evening, the shutters would be thrown open again for a short period until they were closed for the final time at bedtime. It was a lot of opening and shutting of heavy squeaking wooden shutters, but it was a system that worked extraordinarily well. The house remained cool and dark while the temperature outside soared towards the forty-degree mark.
The marked contrasts of my two countries, France and Australia, continued to amaze me. Through 200 years of European settlement, Australians tended to build homes with large open verandas that cut the heat from the house. Our forefathers had come from England and Ireland where unrelenting summer heat had not been a factor in their lives. Had the convicts come from the south of France, we would have incorporated the shutter system into our architecture. The Australian obsession with thick wall-to-wall carpet would make a Provençal split his sides with laughter; centuries of experience have taught them that bare tiles made from stone or earthenware are the necessities of life. Meanwhile, I was trying to put the various parts of the cultural jigsaw puzzle together and work out what Australian ideas could be integrated into the design of my latest French property without too much expense. Having spent most of my adult life living in a large city, my knowledge of alternative lifestyles was extremely limited but I had a list of questions to ask at the local handyman store in Apt, even though I could hazard a guess at the likely responses:
1. Rainwater tanks — did they exist?
2. Solar panels for hot water — did they exist?
3. Windmills — could we harness the strong Mistral wind to drive a generator for some or all of our electrical needs?
4. Water diviners — was there someone who could assess whether our property was on the all-important water table?
5. Pyrethrum sprays — were these natural sprays available to deter insects from my roses and from the vegetable garden I wanted to create behind the house?
I was trying my best to adapt and rise to the numerous challenges of the Wild Thyme Patch. Apart from the continual financial problems, with all of us living under the same roof it was evident that the house lacked space and the convenience of modern appliances such as hot water in the bathroom, cupboards in the bedrooms and heating for winter. A magic wand or a major win in the lottery was needed to create a magnificent home, because my budget had very limited stretch. Nothing was going to happen fast so, like the Provençals, I needed to slow right down, ease back and begin to learn to live the country life. Fast knowledge was best learnt slowly.
The early mornings were undoubtedly the most useful time of the day, before the heat drove the energy from our bodies and thoughts from our minds. Amanda and the children would sleep until midday, having exhausted themselves the previous day with the sun, the public pool in the village and cycling around the neighbourhood. I was so busy and stressed that I never noticed that Amanda’s sheer exhaustion was not due to the demands I made on her clerical services during the day, but more to do with her nocturnal wanderings as she sampled the village nightlife. The vast quantities of aspirin that disappeared from the bathroom cabinet should have given me a clue, since I’d been down this party-girl road myself in my younger days. The new English satellite television service that had been installed at great expense was running well into the small hours of the morning, since programs were broadcast one hour later due to the time difference, meaning the nine o’clock program started at ten o’clock in France. At midnight, Amanda and the children would stagger off to their respective beds to arise just before lunchtime the next day.
One morning Raymond and I got up early; opening shutters quietly was my task while his was to make a large pot of tea to take into the garden, where we went to sit in silence. Over our first cup of tea, he began to read some Latin poetry to me, while I stared aimlessly, lost in admiration of the wonderful purplish tinge across the Luberon hills in the distance, growing darker with the progression of the morning. Sometimes the colour of the hills was almost the same as the beautiful mauve silk kimono that I wore to cover my early morning nakedness. In the background was the low but constant chugging and whirling of the washing machine, trying to complete another load of white sheets before seven o’clock, when the electricity went from the night-time cut rate back to the regular daytime rate. We sat together under the large pine tree contemplating the forthcoming day’s events, savouring the silence of the moment. Golden moments like these would be not be possible for much longer. More family visitors were due to arrive from various parts of Europe later in the week, and then the house would positively explode with guests — aunts, uncles, grandfather and other extended family members.
I looked up sharply at Raymond:‘If you don’t mind, Raymond, go and do that downwind! What on earth have you been eating? That’s worse than rotten eggs!’
Raymond leapt up in his own defence, pulling me by my arm, dragging me to the edge of the pond.
‘It’s the fishpond that smells — not me! Come on. Move it. We have a serious problem.’
Overnight, the beautiful opaque emerald fishpond that stood in front of the house had become a putrid yellowish colour, full of fluorescent lime-green slime. The once clean and uncontaminated water was now tainted; the fetid odours were overpowering. The pond was dying before our eyes. The ponds and the fish swimming in them were really the only things of value on the whole property and they had to be saved.
I had fallen seriously in love with the fish the first time I saw them, when Mimi and I first came to the Wild Thyme Patch. The property had three large ponds. The largest was gigantic, with two small islands in the middle, one of which was reached by a high arching bridge, Japanese in style. The deepest end was over a metre deep, perfect for the pond life but not safe for humans to swim in. Swimming in the pond would never be an option, no matter how high the mercury rose. It was home to a host of aquatic life, ranging from the innocuous large croaking frogs and the pretty transparent blue dragonflies flitting between the lily pads to the odious black water snakes; in short, it was the ideal home for my massive koi carp and their friends, but not for us humans. The second and much smaller pond was close to the house and, having a much smaller volume, the fish in it were not giants. The third pond lay empty in the middle of my higgledy-piggledy orchard of plum, cherry and almond trees, the fallen cherries seeping into the cement floor in large ugly blotches, wide cracks as thick as fingers zigzagging across the cement. The ponds remained because of their beauty but none of them was particularly watertight.
I had already come to love sitting beside the large pond, watching the five magnificent koi carp gliding in the water between the leaves of the immense and prolific water lilies. This was my private little oasis where Zen calm reigned and where no dreaded eels lived. But not this morning. The calm was shattered as I began to scream slightly hysterically, rushing around begging the fish not to die in the rotten brew. Raymond, as always, was composed and unruffled: ‘Calm down. Go and get dressed. Wake the chil
dren and Amanda. We will need their help immediately. Go find some large buckets. We’ll transfer them into the other pond while we work out what to do with this one.’
At that moment, the plumber’s white van came through the gate, too fast as usual, grinding to a halt and sliding along the fine white gravel to a complete standstill. Thin plumes of chalky dust rose from the gravel as Didier descended from the van’s cabin, cigarette clenched between his yellowish teeth, hand extended.
‘Bonjour, madame. Bonjour Raymon’.’ Didier’s every action, every word, made the ire rise in me — even the polite niceties seemed to have a double meaning. Had I not asked him never to come to the house before eight o’clock unless we had a previous arrangement? Just as I had asked him not to drive into the driveway too fast as there were always children around. He had laughed, sniggered even, when I told him what I would do to him and his cigarette if I caught him smoking and throwing away his butts in my garden. He was a slippery eel, with his eyes forming narrow slits, calculating my every move. And I have always had a strong antipathy towards eels. I wished with all my might to kick him hard in the shins. But Didier and his motley crew were installing the central heating in the Villa Agapanthe, just a kilometre or two up the road. His day of reckoning would have to wait.
He walked over to shake hands. The year before, I had been initiated into the correct etiquette of a French building site. Every time I saw one of the tradesmen with their hand extended and a ‘bonjour’ rolling off their tongue, I was expected to reciprocate, shaking their forearm if their hands were dirty. I spent a lot of time shaking hands, saying bonjour and asking about their health as they tried to hide a burning cigarette in their other hand. Generally we would pass a good fifteen minutes going through the list of social niceties consisting of health, sleeping patterns and the family’s wellbeing. Then and only then was it deemed acceptable to start the morning’s sparring about the latest catastrophe.
Didier was very sprightly this particular morning, as he wanted to tell me the good news that he expected to finish the complete installation of the central heating within forty-eight hours. I waited for the large ‘but’ that tradesmen normally attached to the end of their sentences, throwing me further into doom and gloom. Instead he stood there rocking on his heels, extremely pleased with himself.
‘Eh, madame, you didn’t think that I could do it, but I would like you to come at nine o’clock and I will show you our progress.’ He wrinkled his nose in disgust as a pungent aroma wafted towards him. He looked at Raymond accusingly until he saw the bubbles rising from the pond. ‘Mon Dieu, what has happened to your pond? Oh là là! Your fish, they will die. Do not worry, madame, I will help you. You Australians are limited in your knowledge about ponds. I, on the other hand, happen to know what to do. Your favourite plumber is here to save the day.’ I was sure by the end of the day I would kick him.
Raymond cannot stand any type of confrontation, so he thought it would be best to leave Didier and me to a discussion that would be sprinkled with expletives. He excused himself to go to the attic to wake the heavily sleeping children. Fish had to be saved. Large pots to transport them had to be found. Nets to scoop them from the pond would make the job faster and safer for the distressed and dying fish. Already my voice was raised and I started to jab the air with my index finger as I itemised priorities.
Didier had come to the same conclusion and encouraged me to leave as soon as possible on a mercy dash to buy large nets at the nearest fishing shop, which was in Cavaillon, thirty-four kilometres away — at least a half hour’s drive — saying gently that I should stop flapping my arms around like a demented bird. Although he found my exotic mauve silk kimono particularly alluring, he suggested that it was perhaps not the best attire for the streets of Cavaillon. I stomped off, cross that yet again Didier was correct on too many fronts. Firstly, I had forgotten that we had made an appointment to meet before the start of the working day at Villa Agapanthe so that we could discuss some new problems I was having with the agricultural watering system in the Wild Thyme Patch. Secondly, I had forgotten that I was still in my kimono. During the course of the next two days, I found out two things that made me even crosser with myself and with Didier:
1. The sleeves of my beautiful silk kimono did not conceal the globes of my bouncing breasts.
2. There was a very large fishing shop that sold all fishing supplies, including large nets, in Apt — just ten kilometres away.
By the time I was dressed and leaving, Didier had telephoned his team and they had downed tools at Villa Agapanthe to come to the fish rescue. They arrived one after another, skidding across the white gravel. Yet again, plumes of gravel dust blew up and surrounded them as they sauntered lazily towards me. The Magnificent Trio had arrived: Didier’s nephew Nicholas, aged twenty-five; the apprentice, who was another of Didier’s nephews, Nicholas II, aged eighteen; and Nicholas the gardener, aged twenty-four. There was also Laurent the electrician, aged thirty, whom nobody particularly liked. Not one of these men would normally have an adjective like ‘magnificent’ attached to their name, but that morning I was so grateful to have three-and-a-half able-bodied men at my disposal. Laurent could only count as half as he was overweight and already perspiring heavily. He had come on Didier’s request to look at my very ancient electrical board and to give me a quote for replacing the system so that it would conform to the latest safety requirements. He slipped inside to look at the board and to get out of doing anything that resembled physical activity. Despite his bulk, Laurent was also very eel-like.
We took fifteen minutes to go through our bonjour and handshaking ritual. Everyone had slept well. Tick. Everyone was fine. Tick. No illness. Tick. Children well. Tick. Wife well. Tick. No dirty hands. Tick. Problem at hand: the water in the pond had turned and the fish needed to be removed before they all died. As I said that, the first of the tiny fish popped to the surface, belly up.
Raymond did not speak French so it was pointless leaving him in charge. Didier stepped forward and told me to hurry to Cavaillon for the nets. Luckily, he said, he had ordered the mini-digger for the day. I turned on him: ‘What mini-digger? What would you be using a mini-digger for? We have not discussed this.’
‘Madame, the digger is to dig the trenches that you will want when we discuss the problems with the agricultural water system that you have here on the property. I will need to dig some trenches and lay pipes across the back section. Ah oui, madame, it is true that we have not discussed this as our meeting was for eight o’clock this morning, nor have I given you a quote for this work as yet, but you will find that this is your only solution. Didier, your favourite plumber, will save the day once again. I ordered the digger for today so that we can start work immediately. Madame, I do not have to tell you that 1 August is just around the corner.’ Just as he made that final comment, Raymond reappeared, grasping my elbow and steering me towards the car. It was definitely shin-kicking time. I exploded into a long diatribe querying how the French economy could survive when the whole of France closed down partially for the month of July and competely for the month of August; nothing ever got done; nobody worked longer than thirty-five hours, everyone took two hours at lunchtime, and nobody ever started work before eight o’clock in the morning, regardless of the soaring temperatures. In fact, I continued, I hate the bloody French. I hate every single one of them. Raymond kissed me hard on the mouth and pressed against my body, which was shaking with rage.
‘Drive safely. Hurry back as soon as possible. You have people who need you back here in one piece. Think of the fish, not Didier. Mon capitain, their little lives depend on you.’ He stood to attention with his hand in a salute as I drove off towards Cavaillon. It enraged me that he could be so offhand about this dire situation. Raymond waltzed back and forth into our lives as he saw fit. Since he had left the year before I had been completely alone and in charge and it was important to me that I assumed complete responsibility for my financial and emotional life. I had a vague
plan for the financial side but the emotional side would have to wait.
The moment I was out of sight, the pecking order was assumed. Didier would take charge because he was a real man — he did not sit around with Latin poetry books sipping tea in the garden. Secondly and perhaps most importantly, he had a great depth of knowledge about how to deal with all problems arising from plumbing, life and that necessary evil — women.
Lavender & Linen Page 7