‘This is Matthew’s get-well book,’ said Mike, with a desperate cheerfulness. He drew on the first page. ‘This is Matthew’s get-well clown. He’s called Fred. What’s he called?’ he shouted.
Matthew focused very slowly on his father. His mouth moved and a sound came out.
‘What’s he called?’ Mike repeated.
‘F-red,’ croaked Matthew. The ward stopped. Frantically Mike turned the page to scribble another shape.
‘This is Matthew’s get-well caterpillar,’ he said. ‘What shall we call him?’
Matthew looked puzzled.
‘Carbolic,’ yelled the old man in the bed opposite. Sister came running down the ward. ‘Well done,’ she said to Mike, ‘but that’s enough for now.’ She put our son back to bed and Mike phoned me at home. Later we sat by his bed. He was asleep. When he stirred we began talking to him. We planned the redecoration of his bedroom, a new carpet, bookshelves, the next trip to France – perhaps we might fly – we just kept on talking. Suddenly he opened his eyes and looked straight at us. ‘Are-you-anticipating-my-being-in-here-a-long-time-then?’ he intoned in a loud Dalek-like voice all on one note. We cried.
The get-well book progressed daily with ever more difficult concepts. There was Doris the Dotty Dotted Dalmation who was going for a walk in the opposite direction from her master. There were the Doctors. They’re the Best in Town. The Problem is they’re Upside Down. And there was the Zebra with Horizontal stripes. All the other patients in the ward waited for the next picture. We had been warned that Matthew’s memory might be affected and so we brought in enlargements of photographs that we had taken that summer at Bel-Air.
Matthew had asked Philippe what the signs for BALL TRAP meant which we often saw in country lanes. He told us it was clay pigeon shooting and that he would show us how it was done. The village fête which had taken place before our arrival had included a contest in one of their meadows and afterwards Grandpa had collected up all the undamaged clay discs. We had borrowed the primitive launcher from the Mayor. A Heath Robinson-type contraption, it had been assembled by the local mécanicien using a metal seat from an ancient hay-rake and a large spring to catapult the discs. Matthew had had great fun using a twelve bore double-barrelled shotgun at the shout of ‘PULL’.
‘Who’s that?’ we asked him. He glanced at the photographs then smiled. ‘It’s me. Doing Ball Trap.’ There were long weeks of physiotherapy to follow and hours of coaching for his ‘O’levels, alas only a few months ahead. We had so much to be thankful for. But it was not over. On Christmas Day he almost died again; this time from anaphylactic shock, a massive allergic reaction to eating a walnut. It was completely unconnected with his accident. Although he had always suffered from allergic asthma we were totally unprepared for such a dangerous reaction and our sheer ignorance nearly cost him his life. By the time Easter came round once more we were all in need of the quiet peace of Bel-Air.
As though especially ordered to soothe our shattered nerves, we caught the full beauty of the plum blossom that spring. Every farm was ‘en fête’. Creamy white, flowering orchards patchworked the gently rolling hillsides of Lot-et-Garonne under the clearest of blue skies. Raymond has four such orchards and the highest one was especially beautiful, being carpeted with wild yellow tulips. The cuckoos called all day from the wood and we rejoiced to watch Matthew and Philippe walking together across the fields.
One morning Raymond took us into his cave to show us the great barrique in which he had put two hundred and forty litres of vin de Pays, the product of the now well-established Cave Coopérative at Monflanquin. Apart from making a small quantity of sweet white wine for the family, he now sent all his grapes to the Coopérative and sadly his petit vin rouge, fabrication maison was now a thing of the past.
‘That barrel,’ he said, patting it gently, ‘is my best one. It’s made of oak and once held le vin noir de Cahors. I shall leave this wine to mature in here for at least four years and then, you’ll see, it will be something special. There are two hundred and forty litres there. Would you like to buy a half share?’ Naturally we agreed. He explained that each spring, à la vieille lune de Mars, which confusingly often falls in April, the wine must be taken out, the barrel washed, and the wine replaced. ‘Ça c’est le nettoyage,’ he said. ‘If you are here you can help me with it. And then of course, you’ll have to decide, in four or five years’ time that is, where you are going to keep all those bottles. All these alterations you are planning. Don’t forget somewhere for your wine!’ Slowly the house was beginning to take shape; as Grandpa always says, ‘petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid.’ Little by little the bird makes its nest.
The living room seemed larger with its handsome, freshly-tiled floor. There was a wonderful variety of tone and I spent several hours on my hands and knees wiping each tile thoroughly with linseed oil as I had been instructed by the tiler. The new main bedroom was, as we had hoped, a splendid size and the ancient double window now included gave it added charm. We soon moved in and discovered to our delight that on a clear morning we could, sitting up in bed, see right down the valley. At other times we awoke wrapped in an eiderdown of early morning mists which the sun rolled slowly back, revealing first le grand champ, then a thread of smoke curling up from Grandma’s chimney, next the church spire and finally the distant horizon, clear and sharp against the sky. We vowed never to plant anything that would obscure that view.
We were invited to faire le tourin again that holiday. Twice in fact; they seemed to have got the taste for it. On the first occasion it was M. René, the mason, who plotted to surprise Raymond and Claudette and the rendezvous was at his snug little house in the village. There we gathered soon after eleven to find Simone, his wife, busily preparing the soup and the sausages. There were shouts of welcome at each new arrival in the steamy kitchen.
Towards midnight we all crept along the road, collars turned up against a chill wind, the sky full of stars. Philippe, in the plot, had arranged to switch off the porch light when he judged his parents to be asleep. Across the crossroads, past the village shop, we carted the bottles and the bread, the piles of hot sausages and the huge pot of soup. There was consternation when, on arriving at the end of the village, we saw that Raymond’s light still burned brightly. There was nothing to be done but to carry it all back again and play another game of cards.
Half an hour later, the light went out, and the whole operation began again. Muffling our giggles we tiptoed up the gravel drive with M. René, as excited as a child, organising everyone in a stage whisper. Up the steps we went and into the veranda room. There were subdued clinks as the food and drink were laid quietly on the table and in we crept in single file, through the inner corridor, past the ornate sideboard and the stuffed birds and into the bedroom.
Total propriety! Under an enormous quilt, Claudette wore her neat pyjamas, as demure as any track suit. After the first startled awakening they laughed and got eagerly out of bed. We all trooped back into the still warm kitchen and in a few minutes Claudette reappeared fully dressed, even wearing her flowered pinafore. As though it were midday plates and glasses were swiftly laid while Raymond disappeared into his secret cave for some of those dusty undated bottles of vieux Cahors. Not having had a cave when we had been so visited, and, in any case, not knowing the form, we had simply drunk what had been so generously provided. Now we began to learn the obligations of those visited.
The second occasion was at the end of that holiday. This time Raymond and M. René were joint instigators but it was Simone, M. René’s wife, who provided the means of entry. She cleans the school and also cooks the dinners for the twelve pupils and she simply stole the key to the school house. Late the next night the headlights of the odd passing motorist through our mad village would have briefly illuminated a stealthy and laden cortege advancing up the silent street.
The door of the schoolhouse creaked alarmingly, as did the wooden stairs up which we climbed one behind the other, to surprise the
schoolmaster and his wife in the flat above. It was, in fact, we who were surprised. The school master had been out at a reunion and had driven home just in time to see the last intruder slipping into his house. Guessing what was afoot he merely crept up the stairs behind us and had the last laugh at our astonished faces when we found his wife in bed alone. ‘Just as well she was!’ said M. René afterwards.
At Bel-Air, the old staircase removed, we could now see the size of our bathroom to be. M. René had cut a window through the meter thick wall and had put down the first layer of cement flooring. He had also enclosed the space at the end of the corridor for the inside lavatory. M. Albert had almost finished the plumbing and we went to choose a plain white bath and bidet, and from M. Brut we ordered a pine cupboard in which to set our handbasin. As soon as the floor was finished our bathroom could be fitted.
That summer we welcomed Philippe to London for two weeks before leaving for Bel-Air. Il faut en profiter being one of Claudette’s maxims she had despatched her son to improve his already competent English and we were pleased to find him intrigued by everything and an easy guest. On his first morning he leapt up from the breakfast table with a cry at the, to him, unbelievable sight of five fat breasted pigeons browsing on my Clapham lawn. Without his gun he learned to watch them and one of my favourite memories is his astonished delight as the birds in St James’s Park fed confidently from his outstretched hand. Once he was home however he soon reverted to the national pastime and this autumn he cheerfully spent days cramped in a treetop hide waiting to gun down a passing pigeon.
His observations on going to school with Matthew were interesting. He found the discipline incredibly lax yet the teachers less friendly and more distant. He also thought the uniforms bizarre. I have to admit that the easy elegance and cleanliness of most of the schoolchildren we see in France – even the satchels they carry and the mobylettes they ride are stylish – contrast sadly with the drab, and inevitably grubby, daily-worn uniforms of so many English pupils.
We decided to buy a small motorcycle for Matthew to give him the same freedom as Philippe. Only 50cc, they can be ridden at fourteen and, as there is no public transport between thousands of French villages, they are essential. While her brother was off with the rest of the gang Véronique would often come up to the house to give me a dictée. She marked severely. ‘Une petite faute, un demi-point,’ she would say firmly as she looked over my latest effort, then her eyes would widen as her father’s did. ‘Mais, là, ça c’est terrible!’ She enjoyed playing schoolmistress and it was very good for me.
The bathroom was now installed and the dreams of luxuriating in soft and scented water a reality. Its soothing powers were even more appreciated when we were initiated into the strenuous pleasures of the potato harvest. ‘Demain,’ announced Claudette, ‘on ramasse les pommes de terre.’ At eight-thirty next morning we joined the rest of the family at the top of the wide sloping field in front of the house where all the vegetables are grown. The air was fresh and we wore the usual pullovers to be discarded as the sun climbed. Heaps of sacks were distributed the length of the four long rows of potatoes. Grandma and faithful Fernande from the next village carried baskets and rakes. Fernande wore her usual thick woollen socks and flowered overall. Her face is even wider than M. René’s and as she smiled at me, her row of large uneven teeth made her look like a friendly pumpkin lantern.
Raymond was already busy walking behind a slowly moving tractor guiding the ancient, wooden-handled plough-share. ‘Venez,’ he shouted. ‘Venoir voir. La charrue d’autrefois.’ He has a real affection for implements from ‘the olden days’. He proudly showed the plough to Matthew explaining that then it was pulled by an ox.
‘I remember that,’ shouted Grandpa, stomping down the field in his straw hat, as though nothing would be done properly unless he supervised it. ‘Not so fast! Watch what you’re doing,’ he yelled at Philippe, who was driving the tractor. As the blade moved through the dry tangle of potato plants the harvest appeared, pale, silvery and abundant.
‘Pas mauvais.’ Not bad, said Raymond picking up a large potato and rubbing it clean on his shorts. ‘The biggest ones are always at the bottom of the field – they get more rain.’ Once all the rows were turned we could begin.
Alternately squatting and bending to relieve either our backs or our legs we began at the bottom of the slope and without stopping worked upwards until midday. After the first hour I was tired but, as usual, determined not to be outdone by either Grandma or Fernande, I carried on and found that the fatigue soon disappeared. During the first half hour we were disturbed by the sounds of an engine in distress and clanking up the drive came the most disreputable old banger, with several lengths of scrap iron tied to the roof. It was hard to distinguish the driver as the car was crammed with what appeared to be more scrap metal. We glimpsed a dark face under a greasy beret, a cigarette hanging from the lower lip.
‘It’s M. Demoli,’ said Raymond resignedly.
‘Late as usual,’ muttered Grandpa without looking up. This was the infamous husband of poor Fernande about whom we had heard innumerable tales. The couple lived in a two-roomed house in the next village which was easily identifiable by the heaps of rusting metal outside the door. They had no electricity, running water, or sanitation and it was a source of wonder as to how Fernande managed to keep herself so neat and clean. M. Demoli it was said, did not bother. We could not wait to see him.
As he ambled down the field shouting something unintelligible, his swarthy, unshaven face had a wicked, unrepentant air. His bare feet were filthy under his ragged trousers which were held round his waist with string. The pocket of his check shirt bulged with folded papers and a row of pens. ‘C’est mon bureau,’ he told Matthew later, patting it proudly. Raymond introduced him with a mixture of embarrassment and affection and M. Demoli’s bold eyes glittered. He was strong and lifted the heavy baskets with ease. He made bawdy comments about each oddly shaped potato and teased the rest of us for wearing shoes. ‘You should work like me,’ he cried. ‘See how tough my feet are.’ He pulled a pin from under his collar. ‘Here,’ he challenged, ‘stick that in my foot.’ Matthew, laughing, tried unsuccessfully to penetrate his black leathery sole.
We progressed slowly up the long rows, the filled sacks standing like monuments to our labour and we were intrigued by a small decorative beetle that we kept finding among the potato roots. It had a familiar look. Philippe told us that it was called a doryphor. Suddenly we remembered where we had seen this distinctive red and black striped marking. We were handling dozens of Colorado beetles! Raymond was astonished to learn that in England posters describing them as villains are displayed outside police stations and that sightings must be reported. His eyes gleamed. ‘Now I know what to do about Madame Thatchaire,’ he said. ‘I’ll send her some in a matchbox.’
The sun was fiercer now and we were all working more slowly, but the end was in sight. Raymond led the way, encouraging us. He recited a fable by La Fontaine. He knew it almost by heart and when he faltered, Grandma prompted him. It was all about hard work.
‘Un riche laboureur, sentant sa mort prochaine, fit venir ses enfants,’ he said in his slow, careful French. A wealthy farmer, sensing his death was near, called for his sons to give them this advice.
‘Never,’ he said, ‘sell off this heritage that has been handed down to us. A treasure is hidden here. I do not know quite where, but with a little courage you will find it, in the end. Turn the soil as soon as harvest’s over. Plough it, dig it, hoe it, leave not an inch unturned.’ The father died. His sons worked every field, here, there and everywhere, so hard that in that year their yield was doubled. The treasure they could never find. Their father, wise old man, had shown them all before he died that it is work itself which is the treasure. ‘Que le travail est un trésor,’ finished Raymond, his eyes shining. Listening to these words with aching limbs, my nostrils filled with the peppery sting of newly unearthed potatoes and the sun hot on my tired back, I
felt a great shared satisfaction. Grandma and Fernande, raking the last few that we had missed, slowly brought up the rear and Raymond called, ‘C’est fini. Allez, allez manger!’
As usual Claudette had left the field some thirty minutes before us and was briskly laying the table as we came gratefully into the cool of the verandah room, each blind lowered against the heat outside. I heard her ‘tut tut’ as M. Demoli’s black feet made marks all over the tiled floor and I knew that before she returned to work she would be busy with a mop. Matthew laughed as M. Demoli took off his greasy beret to scratch his head and two boiled sweets and three hand-rolled cigarettes fell onto the table.
Replacing the beret he handed us the sweets. We dared not look at one another as we thanked him and put them in our pockets. As soon as he had finished his soup he poured the wine into his bowl and, lifting it to his stubbly chin, drained it with noisy pleasure. This custom is called faire le chabrot but is more often seen on picture postcards. M. Demoli was an incorrigible entertainer. He unloaded his bureau to show us his carte d’identité and an old photograph of a stolid young woman. ‘C’est ma fille,’ he cried, ‘elle parle très bien l’anglais.’ We looked at Fernande for confirmation but she said nothing. She just ate and ate with a silent contentment the delicious dishes which Claudette provided.
The soup was, as usual, followed by melon and home-cured ham. Then came a pâté de canard with a small circle of her foie gras in the centre of each slice. Next she served a baked dish of rice and courgettes covered in cheese and finally, roast pork, green salad and, for dessert, flan, rather like cream caramel without the caramel, and highly flavoured with vanilla. By two-thirty, rested and revived, we rose from the table, the men to load the sacks while we remained a little longer in the cool to clear the dishes. Sure enough out came the mop to remove all trace of M. Demoli!
A House in the Sunflowers Page 8