Lavender & Linen

by Henrietta Taylor

  While I was busy manoeuvring Claire, she in turn was doing likewise to me. The large space in front of the machines and the rows of linen shelves was virtually empty, even with the extra large ironing board permanently set up. The large French doors that faced due south gave a beautiful view of the vines and the violet mountains in the background and allowed the sunlight to flood in. An ideal sewing space, she said under her breath.

  The upholstery that she had done for Villa Agapanthe had been meticulous. She had arrived with notepad and pen in one hand, tape measure in the other, and went through with me, room by room, working out what needed to be made to give the property that extra bit of polish and style that I was seeking. Curtains, covers for bed bases, tablecloths and slipcovers for chairs were churned from her sewing machine in record time. Everything was a perfect fit and helped make the house exactly the way I needed it to be: comfortable yet very practical. She needed the space that I had in the workroom. Although I thought that it was I who decided everything, I had a fair suspicion that Claire’s hand was guiding me gently into place.

  ‘Claire, I have an excellent idea. Why don’t you work here in this space? You could put all your bobbins, threads, zips and other haberdashery along this wall and there would be more than enough space for both of your sewing machines. You can have your own key to the workshop. Come and go as you please. What do you think?’

  ‘Yes, in fact, this is a wonderful idea. I’ll just go and get my boxes out of the car.’ I had the feeling that Claire would always have the upper hand.

  We came to an agreement that in return for the sewing area, Claire would come and help me on Saturdays with cleaning and bed making. It didn’t take her long to see that I should be confined solely to the basics: bed making, changing light bulbs, rearranging the books and videos and checking the dishwashing and washing powders. My House Fairy would take care of the cleaning and dusting. So Claire moved into my life and trod carefully until she had woven her magic around me, teaching me a few new skills every day. Suddenly I seemed to have twice as many hands:

  1. I had to put a load of washing on — tick. She had done it.

  2. The washing machine filter had to be checked once a week — tick. She had checked it.

  3. The linen had to be folded from the tumble dryer — tick. She had folded everything.

  4. The twenty-kilo bag of salt for the water softener was needed — tick. She had bought it.

  5. The massive amount of washing powder required had been bought at a discount — tick. And installed in boxes on the shelves.

  6. The small tears in the sheets needing a stitch — tick. She had done it.

  7. The floors needed to be constantly swept and washed — tick. All done.

  In fact I was starting to feel quite redundant, but we were both happy helping each other out, and best of all, she just never seemed to be around. The House Fairy seemed to have everything under control, which was handy, since hordes of family and friends were arriving soon.

  Meanwhile, Amanda had worked similar wonders with the office: coloured files and folders were set up in bookshelves, neatly labelled with a foolproof coding system of letters and numbers. It was just as well that the office was now in order because with so many houseguests and unannounced visitors at meal times, she was needed as my spare set of hands in the kitchen. Glass in hand, Amanda was chopping and dicing almost full-time in the small kitchen that did not realistically have room for more than two cooks at any one time.

  She made salads from carrots, cucumbers, chickpeas, lentils, lettuce or anything else that came her way, letting her imagination run wild. When in doubt, she sat down on the back step gleaning inspiration from the latest sensational Australian cookbooks. I, on the other hand, stayed with things that I had cooked all of my life and seen my mother Sheilagh cook a thousand times over. My favourite was ratatouille, a thick Provençal vegetable stew with zucchini, red, yellow and green peppers, thick slices of eggplant, olives, tomatoes, onions and Provençal herbs, and liberal lugs of olive oil. Since moving to Provence I realised that olive oil was akin to holy water and it had to be treated with respect and referred to only in hushed and revered tones. Vegetables, too, were a revelation: at the market, baskets swinging, we learnt to find whose vegetables were the freshest and the best. The choice was breathtaking. I looked forward to the day when I would be able to grow my own vegetables in the garden surrounding my very large gas reservoir.

  On either side of the Wild Thyme Patch stood large fallow fields; in both were crumbling cabanons — traditional small cottages — which after decades of neglect were gradually falling into heaps of unloved rubble. In Sydney, our family home was squashed into a row of similar houses, side by side. Here in the Luberon our nearest neighbours, the Two Ladies, lived more than 200 metres away in a modest little house with a wonderful garden. You could tell that it had been tended with a great deal of love and devotion. By the back fence was a tiny patch of tomatoes and other vegetables, trained carefully on wicker sticks set in a tepee shape. In the early evenings I would watch the Two Ladies walk along our unsealed road, taking their two silky terriers and one very fat cat for a walk. Catherine, cigarette hanging precariously from her lower lip, had offered advice when the gates had fallen off their hinges and in a roundabout manner said that at a later date she and her partner Geneviève could start up a vegetable patch for me. As often happens in my life, I liked the concept of a wonderful organic vegetable patch better than the reality of dirty nails, a very sore back at the end of the day and a bad dose of sunburn on the neck and arms. I wanted to show Mimi and Harry that growing our own fruit and vegetables would be cost-effective and very rewarding. I dismissed their snide remarks about worms in the salad and the difficulties of growing pineapples, kiwi fruit and mangoes in the Luberon. I was more than grateful to accept Catherine and Geneviève’s offer. Social mores can be difficult to interpret in your own culture, let alone in the French countryside. I wasn’t sure whether I was the brunt of a joke or if it was a real offer to be taken up in the not too distant future. I hoped that they had meant it and that one day they would arrive with their boots and shovels.

  The August heat was in full force and we eyed houses with pools with envy. The public pool in our village was fabulous for a social gathering but abysmal for any long-distance swimming. My father Jack became the instant star of the pool, diving in one end and coming out the other without his swimming costume. I did not want to go in and show my milky white Celtic skin to anyone, let alone have mothers at the school gate come up and give me handy hints about why French women are never fat. Watching them ash their cigarettes over their own children’s hair, I thought wistfully of my anorexia days, after my husband had passed away, but I was at least grateful that my chances of lung cancer were less than theirs. Meanwhile, with Mimi sitting next to her on her towel, watching and learning, Amanda continued to cause a sensation with the local male population wherever she went. The telephone rang nonstop and cars cruised slowly past the house, with one young man even strumming his guitar and singing about her attributes from the safe distance of the road.

  My neighbours, the Two Ladies, finally plucked up the courage to pay a visit, asking a favour that I found difficult to refuse: they wanted to use my land for an organic vegetable patch. The small strip of earth that surrounded their house was woefully inadequate. If I would agree, they wanted to prepare the soil for autumn planting. ‘I hope that you plant according to the phases of the moon,’ I quipped. Their two well-trained little dogs sat patiently at their feet as Catherine and Geneviève gave each other that look of pure complicity that takes years of understanding to build. Funnily enough, they explained, it was scientifically proven to be the only way to garden.

  Did everyone in this area have such far-reaching knowledge? Didier the plumber knew and understood women and machinery. Claire was the unwritten authority on anything and everything from natural disasters, spot removal and personal relationships to education (specialising in
mathematics, history and French verb conjugations), upholstery and anything mechanical or electrical. Sylvie Goyénèche, my friend from Apt, could whip up a delicious three-course meal for family and friends with the most basic ingredients and costing next to nothing. The other string to her bow was veterinary science, having worked as a show dog judge for over twenty years. And now there were the Two Ladies. Catherine had an encyclopaedic knowledge of anything botanical as well as veterinary science, while Geneviève seemed to excel only in dog and cat walking — though I was sure that there was some craft or skill that she was keeping well hidden from me. Everyone appeared to be experts in areas where I had little or no skills, so I felt that it wasn’t my place to mention that before they put so much time and effort into tilling the soil, I would have put up some sort of barrier to keep out marauding foxes and other beasties that might come across the land.

  Meanwhile, the ground needed to be prepared, weeded and fertilised, and the Two Ladies were always available to stay for lunch. The extra long extensions on the table remained fully extended, tablecloths washed and folded ready for the next meal and plates stacked high, while delicious aromas wafted from the barbecue as Raymond delighted in burning the sausages, saying that was an Australian tradition. The Two Ladies wanted to display their knowledge of wine: the whole process, from A-Z. Raymond explained to them that when it came to wine, Australians were impressed not with the provenance nor the year of the bottle, but with the quantity that you could guzzle. The empty plates with greasy smears would arrive beside the dishwasher waiting to be stacked, washed and unloaded ready for the next meal.

  Summer was nearly finished and soon it would be time for everyone to go home. Amanda had tested me to the limit when she spilt a full glass of red wine across the keyboard of my laptop. All the wonderful work that she had done during the summer was ruined as the computer lay inert and ruined in the workshop of the computer specialist in Avignon. She had killed it, and I wanted to do the same to her. In September, Mimi would be starting her first year of secondary schooling in Apt, while Harry was motivated and ready to start back at his school in the village. It was definitely time for the children and me to be alone together.

  Following one of our long leisurely lunches, I heard a tell-tale creak from the back door. From the kitchen window, I could see Amanda’s lithe brown legs sticking out from behind the gas reservoir. I caught sight of a cigarette in one hand, a glass of rosé in the other.

  ‘Amanda, you are smoking next to a huge gas container. Are you completely mad? Your parents will not be pleased when I have to ship your body parts back to them. I think it is time that we had a talk.’

  The gas company was coming the following week to fill the empty reservoir, but Amanda was none the wiser. Australia-bound at last, with her newly acquired honey tan and Scandinavian blond highlights, she teetered under the weight of her cumbersome backpack, ready to face the challenges of being a smart young thing around her home town of Melbourne.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Right Before Your Eyes

  Summer was over and Raymond’s visit too. For a change, his return flight was leaving from Rome, and it didn’t take much for us all to be convinced that a week’s family holiday in Rome before his flight was in order. We packed the car in record time, arranged for Sylvie, our friend and cat lover, to take the cats and we were ready. Having a business meant my freedom was severely curtailed; no longer could I grab the children and head off on a whim for a weekend by the sea. My presence was required to see new clients in to the properties, deal with suitcases that had gone astray at the airport, and begin the tedium of washing and ironing the sheets for the next lot of clients. The solution was easy. It would not break the bank if for once the sheets were sent to the laundromat and Sylvie stepped in to replace me if any problems arose. Thanks to Amanda’s specialist computer tuition, I had managed to find an outstanding hotel in Rome with a last-minute deal that included parking for our car.

  Rome has never been my favourite city; too big, noisy and difficult to navigate. So it was with a certain amount of trepidation that we pulled into the northern part of Rome, in the elegant Parioli area. Harry had just turned eleven and was showing signs of coming out from his sister’s shadow. Tired and weary from the long drive, he said that he wanted something to eat and drink. Loading him up with money, I thought that he would go downstairs to the lobby and order something from the bar. I severely underestimated the capabilities of my child. Leaving the safety of the hotel he navigated the streets of Rome in search of a supermarket. He too, made lists:

  1. Crispy rolls.

  2. Slices of ham, salami and cheese.

  3. A bottle of red wine.

  4. Fizzy drink.

  5. Large blocks of chocolate.

  ‘How on earth did you make yourself understood, Harry? How did you know where to go?’ Mimi was astounded that her little brother had beaten her to it.

  ‘No one speaks English or French around here. I just followed this lady who had the same look on her face that Maman gets sometime. You know, really busy and panicky. She had an empty shopping basket on her arm so I knew that she would lead me to food.’

  He handed Mimi one of the gigantic green crocodile sweeties that the cashier had given him for being so delightful. Harry was learning that being cute, blond and blue-eyed like his father had distinct advantages.

  Our days were spent marching up and down the Seven Hills of Rome and visiting all the museums and art galleries, and our nights were spent in restaurants eating risottos, veal scallops with sage and ham and semolina dumplings served with thick tomato sauce and parmesan cheese, followed by long walks around the streets and piazzas eating chocolate chip ice creams. Raymond guided us, talking incessantly about the history and art and showing us his latest skills in epigraphy, which meant that he could read the Latin inscriptions on monuments. Raymond and I were in a tourist bubble, neatly avoiding any subject that might lead us into an adult discussion about where we were going with our lives. We both deliberately sidestepped any of the hard issues: what did it matter that we lived on different continents? I didn’t want to ruin a good holiday by confronting the big questions. Our relationship seemed stronger than ever, but after our summer together I was beginning to question just how much it meant to Latin Ray and, more importantly, to me.

  Slivers from our life during the day started to take on monumentally huge proportions for me during the night, as I lay beside Raymond in a disturbed slumber. Although problems are rarely solved in the middle of the night, all good self-help books advise their readers to write lists and look at all the pros and cons of any situation. But how could you put emotions and life expectations into lists and make decisions depending on which column was longest? After all, the bottom line was that we were not married. We both had our freedom and were able to walk away at any time. I had set myself up as the perfect non-wife. After Norman passed away, I had read in a women’s magazine that if a couple resided together for a certain period of time and ‘the mail was sent to the same address where neither person was a lodger’, it was deemed that they had entered into a de facto relationship, with all the financial complications that followed. Raymond and I had gone out of our way to sustain the most committed non-committed relationship by maintaining two households, although we slept together many nights of the week when we were in the same country. I had made a decision soon after Norman had passed away that there would be no man, no father figure and no husband to replace him on a permanent basis until I thought that I was ready and, equally importantly, until the children were ready to have someone else in our lives. I had had a good look around at the obtainable men and even those who were unobtainable — the decision was easily made. I would rather be alone and independent. Freedom was becoming more and more of a priority for me. The children had their uncles and a grandfather whom they adored as male role models. Latin Ray was my best friend and sleeping partner. He was never allowed the role of Man of the House: that belonged to me. T
he children admired his ability to infuriate me and to torture me with his bad behaviour and his endless capability to break important things. They also saw that he gave the family some sort of lopsided stability and brought a lot of laughter to the house, usually at his own expense.

  No matter how many times I think that I have made the right choice, sleepless nights always rattle my cage. Back when I first met Raymond, we had a peculiar onoff relationship until I made the decision to move on and find someone who had similar goals to me, and I found this with Norman. We both wanted the picket fence and the two point four children, the Volvo and the house in a neighbourhood where children could play in quiet streets after school and in soccer teams on the weekend, and ballet and art classes would eat up the rest of the time. Barbecues would take place in the back yard, where the lawn had been freshly mown.

  The art classes were never taken but just about everything else happened. The big gaping hole had been Norman’s untimely death. Our marriage had given us both lashings of true happiness — although for too short a time. People continued to say that time would heal all wounds and very soon I would want to be with someone else and continue with my life. People had no idea what was going on in my head at night — people who slept well at night and didn’t wander around aimlessly for hours at a time. People, women in particular, would give me handy hints on how to improve my emotional life, disregarding the fact that their own relationships were in a precarious state and disintegrating right before their own eyes. Older and wiser now, though still in deep shock after the death of my husband, I could see that Raymond and I shared the convenience factor rather than deep love and understanding. Having had the experience of a strong marriage, I was ruined for life; I wanted a partnership, not friendship.