How Blue Is My Valley

by Jean Gill

  Tourists ask about market days; they do not pop in and ask about rugby matches. It is exactly the same syndrome as makes my husband say ‘Yes please’ when I am holding a mug, even if what I’ve actually said is, ‘Have you considered the ideal circumference of a drinking container so that you don’t bang your nose or spill your drink?’

  On second thoughts, perhaps it’s not exactly the same syndrome, but prediction and expectation do seem to me to be stronger than sensual experience, until contradicted, in the rugby case by a very frustrated Dieulefitoise English speaker.

  Once the euro dropped, my lady couldn’t have been more helpful. The rugby boys are trained by the monsieur who owns the wine shop behind the church, but I wouldn’t find him in his shop because he would be in the Commerce Bar which is where the team meet up so I would also find notices of meetings up on the board there - and here is his phone number.

  I recognise the Commerce Bar because it has a hairy hound lolling outside it in the summer, its tongue dipping in and out of its waterbowl, conveniently placed so the brown beast moves only its head. In winter, the Commerce Dog, is by the bar, like the clients. Strangely the word ‘rugbi’ is understood instantly in the Commerce but communication is my only success; rugby stops for the Christmas holidays, three weeks in this case. Our local restaurant takes six weeks off and there are shops that close for two months. The winter holidays are infinitely flexible for the self-employed, some of whom have winter work with the snow tourists in the mountains, and some of whom just say, ‘What the hell’. No-one seems to worry that customers will not return; everyone feels entitled to holidays and a family life. I cannot imagine Welsh shopkeepers being so confident in their customer base, nor so certain of their summer earnings.

  In our experience, when they do work here, they work long hours and work hard – with the compulsory lunch break at mid-day, for at least an hour, usually two. Our plumber drops in frequently with further questions before he starts the job. There is no problem at all answering his questions; we say ‘We don’t know’ to everything.

  ‘Haven’t a bloody clue’ would be more accurate. Most of the questions start with ‘Where...’ and include the word ‘pipe’. ‘Where does the pipe go to take the spring water into the kitchen from the outside sink?’ ‘Where does the town water come into the house?’ The killer is ‘Where does the spring water come from?’

  I quite like the idea of looking for the source of ‘la source’ – very Jean de Florette - and, as my John finds himself to be extremely busy painting, this involves me walking around in the orchard with a patient plumber.

  You will remember that the spring belongs to Monsieur Dubois, who now lives in Haute Savoie and returns only occasionally to light a bonfire, check his truffle oaks and give me gardening advice. I vaguely remembered him showing me some manholes in the orchard, which supply the hosepipes for watering our garden but Monsieur Robin shakes his head. This is not the system that goes to the house. We are stuck.

  ‘What about the previous owner? Is he dead or what?’ Monsieur Robin doesn’t recognise obstacles; whether there’s a wall twelve inches thick or a fifty-year old plumbing system crossing underneath an orchard, he looks for solutions. I can do better than ‘I don’t know’ to that one but it involves phoning the builder to contact Monsieur Dubois and by this time Monsieur Robin has also visited another neighbour, who joins us for a second patrol round the orchard, armed with new information. Towards the woods, there is a concrete reservoir about ten feet square and six feet deep, which Monsieur Dubois recently fenced in, presumably to comply with recent laws aimed at reducing the number of small children drowning in ponds and swimming pools – the biggest cause of toddler death in Provence. We’ve peered in at the small black fish, with trailing fins like tropical goldfish, that seem to come and go as if heron-dropped, but we didn’t realise that the manhole cover beside it hides the source of the source.

  It is with a triumphant ‘Voilà’ that Monsieur Robin, aided by Monsieur Girard, lifts the manhole cover to reveal two ancient taps, on which all the water to our house currently depends. Magic formula is applied – WD40 actually (some things don’t change) – but there seems to be no chance of turning those taps, encrusted for fifty years. A long pause, then there is an involuntary ‘Yes!’ ‘Ca bouge!’ ‘Voilà!’ from all three of us as Monsieur Robin gives ‘one last try’ and the miracle happens.

  There is now spring water on tap outside, crystal clear and flowing smoothly thanks to a new filter – who said plumbing isn’t romantic? Inside, there is mains water. We will no longer lose the water in the kitchen if we flush the toilet or hose the garden – or if the water’s frozen underground. In theory, there is now mains water in the kitchen but we don’t yet have a kitchen, nor a kitchen sink, let alone water in it.

  Monsieur Robin observes the progress of our kitchen – and indeed our house - with sympathetic interest and a professional eye. He is keen to improve my pronunciation and makes me repeat the ‘u’ in ‘purge’, although I am not convinced I will often need to say ‘valve for bleeding a radiator’ in casual conversation. It was my letter to him, clarifying the various jobs to be done, that really amused him.

  OK, so I make things up when I don’t know the words. Apparently the French equivalent of ‘rail-thingy which heats towels’ was not quite the right term but he thought it was cute. He was polite in correcting me when, flustered by my cuteness, I asked him if he wanted a teatowel to light his way upstairs. Now I ask you; why would anyone in any language call a teatowel a ‘torchon’ if not to confuse me?

  There are things about our house that Monsieur Robin does not think cute. About the rickety staircase, which trips him up at least three times whenever he tries it, he mutters ‘Quelle horreur’.

  When we tell him we don’t use the ancient toilet, replacement of which is on his to-do list, he is relieved. He stoops throughout visits to the cellars and the attic, narrowly escaping a headache from the light in the upstairs bedroom. Student son, equally tall and less fortunate in his first encounter with low ceilings, would understand only too well. It’s not only tall people who are disadvantaged here; when slim Monsieur Robin squeezes past the new sink and queries the size we’ve bought, I explain to him that we don’t want fat visitors.

  So far, Monsieur Robin is our most frequent visitor; the electricians could be more properly described as residents. Like termites, they occupy a room, destroy it and move on, leaving rubble behind them. There are interesting discussions, again in answer to ‘where’ but this time the keyword is ‘prise’, power point.

  I never thought I would watch a tall, curly-haired electrician bouncing on our bed to show me that the wall lights needed to be higher (presumably in case a tall young Frenchman ever wants to bounce on our bed – and far be it from me to discount the possibility). The systematic destruction of our house has also led to the exciting moment when I could boil a kettle at the same time as tumble-drying and using the electric oven, without blowing the electrics. The excitement was short-lived as there is no longer a cooker in the kitchen-that-isn’t.

  Then there are the kitchen fitters, led by Monsieur Speedy, who likes using the odd English word for our benefit and who told us ‘I’m speedy’ – so we took him at his word (behind his back). There is a culture clash between Monsieur Speedy and me, and it has nothing to do with nationality. I have met his type many times. He doesn’t cook, has no time for it, but freely shares his criticism of our kitchen requirements.

  Twenty years ago I would have fought with him and brooded over every conversation which I didn’t win. Now I am older and wiser, and I am delighted when my dogs drool over his girlfriend even more than he does.

  She turns up, knowing that she is visiting a house in trauma, wearing four inch heels, a tight black skirt and full make-up, and she squeals with fear when my dogs greet her. Monsieur Speedy gestures that I should restrain my slobbering dogs and I am suddenly conscious of my paint-splattered jeans, lop-sided fringe (I must pluck
up courage and test my French at a hairdresser’s) and the distinctive smell which has been following me around for a couple of days – I had put it down to the dogs. Black is a good colour to wear here, I note – shows up the dog hairs a treat as Mademoiselle totters in to kiss the boys hello. I restrict myself to handshakes these days.

  I am still awed by the specialism of my workmen but it has its drawbacks. Each person does his own job and I am project manager, a job for which I would never be stupid enough to volunteer in my first language, never mind my poor second. I have endless discussions over who does what first and I walk the job through on the phone and in person, nervous as to what I have forgotten. So far, so good, but I now need the builder to tile one side of the kitchen before the granitier puts his granite on the cupboards.

  Monsieur Speedy explains it to me with pencil diagrams drawn on the top of the cupboards themselves. My wall is not straight (surprise, surprise) so the wall edge of the granite will need to be cut in situ after the wall is tiled. On the other hand – a finger is wagged at me – on the opposite side of the kitchen, the granite must be laid first, before the tiling, because the interior walls there are straight? OK? Yes, I’ve got it. Another set of impossible instructions for me to deliver. Didn’t we say we were going to buy a house that didn’t need renovating? What went wrong?

  At least I will get to see granite being cut after all, and in my own garden. Monsieur Speedy instructs me firmly to look but not touch; all his clients are the same, always in a rush, always wanting to put things in cupboards and use the kitchen before it is ready and ‘you have to wait.’ I feel like a four-year old who wants to go to the toilet as the finger is wagged again. I have never before been told off for being too keen to use a washing machine.

  It is very different for the Pyrenean sister, who will not have to live a nomadic existence in her own home. If her heating or electricity misbehaves she will even have The House Handyman, who has been attached to the domaine for decades and who is called Manuel. House Pyrenees will inevitably now be known as les Tours Fawlty. I am disappointed to discover that Manuel is Portuguese, not Spanish, and that the French name for the series is in fact l’Hôtel de Folles.

  My sister will not be sitting in her bedroom while there are electricians in the hall, a plumber in the cellar and kitchen fitters in the once-and-future kitchen. But there again, she won’t have the fun of trying out a brand new sunlounger on a freezing cold January day, in an otherwise empty living-room cleared for electrician action. I am also comforted to learn that, although there is indeed mains drainage for les Tours Fawlty, Madame la Previous Owner did not connect the house to it so the Pyreneans do have a septic tank – three in fact.

  My sister does not seem suitably respectful towards the Good Bacteria, having been told (yes, more local advice) that bleach in products will cause no problems. I am horrified. Have you ever notice the helpline telephone numbers on cleaning products? I could be the only person who has ever called one – to check whether Cif (the product formerly known as Jif before continental Europe’s problems with ‘J’ affected marketing) was suitable for septic tanks. But then I only have one septic tank and I do not wish to fill it in six months. I consider the time-scale. I think it as likely that I will have a kitchen, a staircase, four new radiators and a new bathroom in six months as that ‘everything will be to her taste’ for my sister.

  9.

  Chablis, Chardonnay and Cold Stone

  When you see someone looking at herself in shop windows, or even in the mirrored panels in the doorways, she is not vain; she is just curious as to what she looks like, after five months of living without any reflective surface bigger than a bathroom cabinet.

  The mirror deprivation was deliberate, as part of a doomed attempt to buy on need rather than by convention. After years of living with mirrored wardrobes there is something quite liberating about not knowing what you look like. After all, why do you need to know which clothes go together if you’re wearing the same ones you’ve worn for years? You can always draw conclusions from the expression on someone else’s face or from the inflexion in the word ‘Fine’ which is the best response you get to ‘How do I look? but it is very different to face up to the short, frowning woman with stern glasses and a very badly cut fringe, in better shape than feared but dressed like Charlie Chaplin after some slapstick with paint.

  The mirror flashes these strangers at us. John says he keeps being attacked by a madman with a knife. The madman doesn’t worry me – I’ve seen him every day for years – it’s the baglady he’s with that I worry about. As John says, perhaps we ought to reconsider our wardrobe – and I don’t think he means the wooden thing with the mirror now accosting us in our own bedroom. I wonder if it might be easier hiding the mirror but he says we’ll get used to it. I suppose we might stop behaving like Amazonian tribespeople confronted with photographs of themselves but at the moment we’re still crossing our fingers against witchcraft (what else could have turned us into these odd people?)

  Not only do I have an identity crisis but I also have the additional stress of choosing between two men. The plumber gave me clear instructions on how to close off the outside tap when the spring is likely to freeze underground. The builder gives me equally clear instructions, relayed from Monsieur Dubois, who has the authority of this being his patrimonial home, that I must leave the tap running when there is a freeze.

  I explain cautiously that the plumber has told me how to shut the system off, I also mention that it would be useful to know where the pipe is which takes the spring water to the toilet (plumbing ‘where’ question number twenty-three) and I have things explained to me very slowly.

  Running water does not freeze so if I leave the tap on, the water will not freeze underground at all. Consequently, the water to the toilet will not stop so why would we want to change the system of spring water feeding the toilet. I say, ‘D’accord,’ which is a very useful thing to say and suggests that I have understood and that I agree while not actually committing me to any promises of action.

  I have learnt some even more useful words from the electricians when they accidentally made bits of my ceiling fall down; I already knew ‘merde’ but ‘putain’ is a new one and is very very rude. It’s interesting the way taboo words in another language merely sound entertaining and the literal translation ‘whore’ just sounds silly.

  In fourteenth century Dieulefit the penalty for blasphemy started at fifty sous for a first offence, jumped to a hundred for the second and the tongue was cut out on the third conviction. Imagine the application of such laws today. On second thoughts, don’t.

  I think about water and freezing and burst pipes. If I leave the tap running, and the water doesn’t freeze (which it shouldn’t) then that will protect the tap and pipes up in the middle of the field as well as the one actually leading to my sink. On the other hand, the plumber taught me all these useful things to do with taps and pipes, and he is ... a plumber. There is also some childhood taboo that both John and I feel against leaving a tap running, even though we know that streams and rivers are doing just that.

  I wonder whether we should have left the spring water feeding the toilet but there does seem to be something just a little insecure about drawing water from someone else’s land, with a flow which varies seasonally... and if we’re not allowed to use those springs, we’ve been told that it’s easy to ‘forage’ and find our own spring. I contemplate this too.

  I will make my name as a water dowser; forget Manon des Sources, I will create a bottled water empire ‘Dieulefit l’Eau’ ‘God made the water’. No, it sounds a bit too close to the old office joke about all water in this establishment being passed by the management. Also, I remember my attempts at metal detecting.

  I had buried my wedding and engagement rings somewhere in a large vegetable plot while turning it over and, desperate to recover them, I borrowed a metal detector and found not one piece of metal. I wish I could say that the episode taught me not to put my rings
in my pocket while gardening but it was not the last time I hunted for lost treasure. I have no reason to believe that I would be any better at water divining than at metal detecting. Anything that requires faith, and the force being with me, is doomed.

  So do I choose the builder (and Monsieur Dubois) or the plumber? I turn to my mother’s memory for help. What would she have done? What were the feminine management skills I should have learnt from her and didn’t? Oh yes, now I remember. She would have said yes to both, then done what she wanted. Or she would have said she wasn’t mechanically minded and she would have asked them to do it for her.

  I am distracted from the plumbing by the granite arriving. I do get to see granite being cut, by a small man with a huge moustache who is only too pleased to explain his cutting tool to me (Yes, I am asking those questions again). It is very very expensive, looks like a sanding disc but in sharpest, shiniest metal and it has holes around it to diffuse the noise. I am surprised that there is no need for water but this is a dry cutter, for fine finishing. I watch Jean-Baptiste at work as he joins two granite slabs as worktops and uses his glue gun to mastic them to the cupboards. Monsieur Speedy was quite right and one wall is so wonky that the granite will have to be cut in situ after the tiling is done but Jean-Baptiste gives me his home number and says I must phone him, personally, and he will come out the very next day after I phone. He shows me the sealant I should use twice a year and tells me that if I do stain the granite with, for example cooking oil, the best remedy is to smear the whole surface with cooking oil. Why did my mother not teach me these things? Instead, I come from a household where my father’s idea of cleaning the oven was to take a Black and Decker sander to it when my mother was safely out of the house. Now there’s an idea ...