Our House is Not in Paris

by Susan Cutsforth

  I was annoyed by the rain, for, while urgently needed for the sun-parched soil, the cooler weather was far more conducive to hauling my interminable wheelbarrow loads. Despite the much cooler temperature, my heart still hammered and my lungs still heaved as I dragged huge tree branches right across the garden. Creating my incessant piles of branches and brambles was relatively easy compared to removing them. I’m not particularly strong physically, so I was perpetually amazed by the sheer size and weight of the tree branches that I dragged across to the towering pile I’d created almost singlehandedly. It must have been adrenaline that kept pushing me and urging me to work harder and faster to reach the goals that I set myself every day.

  Despite the downpour, the roofers still arrived. Jean-Luc repeated with a warm smile my greeting to Poppy. ‘Bonjour, Poppy,’ I would say every day now. I realised that it might not be quite respectful, yet it was the only name I knew him by and no-one seemed to mind that I’d adopted their affectionate nickname for him. Despite his age, he worked tirelessly. Poppy also always respectfully included me in his conversations with Stuart, though he would be fully aware that I could barely understand a word that was exchanged.

  The roofers had waited the night before for us to return from Figeac to watch the Tour de France — the year Cadel Evans won. It had been to tell us the bad news about our huge stone cistern. We’d asked for new gutters and pipes for it to run off the barn roof so we could use the water from the rain. However, we were told that it was very worn and cracked and would burst if any water was directed into it. Even I could grasp the horror of a grand problem of a cistern cracking and spilling gallons and gallons of water, especially if it happened when we were back in Australia. It was simply not worth contemplating the consequences and what we would have possibly done from so far away. It would have been a straightforward matter for them to simply follow our request to place the gutters and downpipes where we thought they should have gone into the cistern.

  I once again had cause to respect their commitment to their trade. Even more so as they had broken their cardinal hours of work and stayed late to tell us. I kept striving to adopt the artisans’ way of life and working hours, with a proper lunch and proper break in the middle of the day, but somehow I never seemed to succeed.

  My admiration increased even more the next day, for they had been to the home of the previous owner to discuss the cistern problem with him. He turned up in the pouring rain to convey to Stuart that the cracks in the cistern started years ago from the ice in winter. It had been damaged beyond repair over the years. He also told Stuart that the enormous tree planted in front of our little porch, which gives much-needed shade to the petite maison on hot summer days, was planted by his parents in honour of his birth sixty years ago. There had been many days when we had been very grateful for its shade — not just to eat our meals under (though swarmed by flies) but to work under as well. We’d used the space to sand old planks of wood retrieved from the barn roof and to strip the paint from our bedroom door.

  It was also the setting for many apéritifs with Jean-Claude and other friends, both old and new. It was Jean-Claude, though, whom we shared most of the rhythms of our days with. He was our guide, mentor and friend. He advised, guided, suggested and worked alongside us at times. I also sensed at times a hint of wistfulness, for he saw in Stuart the young man he was. It was over twenty years ago that he embarked on his massive renovation project — about the same age Stuart is now. I think it is a large part of why he had taken us under his protective wing.

  After we returned, Jean-Claude wrote to me in an email:

  We can see you have finally overcome the post-Cuzance rush. We are always so happy to receive news from people we love and reciprocate our love for this tiny part of France. Indeed, we are preparing our winter return to the comforts and crowds of the city. I quite understand your satisfaction at Stuart’s magnificent efforts in your Australian house and the satisfaction of the model housewife in having a dust-free home; I must say we had the same problem in Cuzance but they now make wonderful memories of times when we were still young, energetic and optimistic! I have to return to my elm, climb up it and use secateurs and saw, just like you this summer, except the tree is bigger and higher … and more slippery because of the rain that fell (at last) in autumn; but it’s so nice to look at life from above in a beautiful spring temperature!

  His last phrase metaphorically sums up life in Cuzance: looking at life from above in the beauty of spring.

  Days out in France

  Days out for us were, unfortunately, quite rare — One day, we would keep saying. One of the greatest joys of being in France was driving along the narrow, winding country lanes that link the little villages scattered everywhere. In just a few minutes, the landscape can alter quite dramatically. The towering limestone cliffs of the Lot are an impressive, distinctive feature, with rivers winding beneath them. There are signs along the river banks for canoeing, and Stuart had told me that on the trips he’d done with his brother, you could look up to see chateaux perched high on the cliffs that you wouldn’t otherwise be able to see, and that you could pull up onto sandy little beaches for a quiet lunch. I’m sure one day he’ll manage to talk me into going on a canoe trip with him. However, after our one and only memorable attempt to sea kayak together, I think that day is a long way off.

  The times that we did find for drives through the countryside were an endless source of pleasure and enchantment. Every twist and turn in the narrow roads brings a new delight and vista. One minute there are intricately created ancient stone walls, covered with moss and that border the cow pastures; the next, the road opens up to swaying swathes of corn, and then, a slate-grey donkey grazing at peace. The names of the villages on old wooden signs have a rhythm like a poem: Ginouillac, Saint-Cere, Girac, Floirac, Salviac, Cressensac, Cazals, Montcuq, Vayrac. The herds of cows are a toffee-coloured brown or black and white that stand out in stark relief against the velvet green fields. The next moment, the narrow road will curve up a steep hill; the temperature drops dramatically and the graceful trees arch over like ballerinas to clasp hands in the middle.

  The whir of cicadas by eleven marks the increasing temperature of the heat building for a summer’s day in the French countryside. Then, in the early evening, the swooping swallows dart through the orange sky, dipping for an infinitesimal moment in the rippling water of the pool. The rabbits scurry through the fields and bound home, the church bells peal for the last time; another day is finished. A day to hold in your memory.

  French Elegance

  In France, where I was especially aware of trying to look my best, sadly the opposite was in fact usually the case. Torn nails from hacking branches and pulling tenacious weeds out of the stony ground; sweat and dirt-stained clothes. On more occasions than I’d like to count, I’d run down the road to the Hotel Arnal on a mission with yet another list of questions for Monsieur Arnal and to enlist his help. For example: how to find a plombier as the septique was at an unbearable point. On one occasion, there was a very helpful friendly Belgian couple sipping an apéritif under the shade of a tree when I appeared, panting and desperate. They kindly translated for me as I asked for Monsieur Arnal’s help, and were intrigued to find out that, from across the other side of the world — and now just round the corner from the hotel — we were renovating our petite maison. Fascinated by such an undertaking (read: possibly mad), they asked if they could walk back with me and have a look. They were suitably impressed and, to our astonishment, the man announced that if they weren’t leaving early the next day he would have spent a day helping us. Who knew? Maybe on their next travels through France, they might surprise us with a visit to see how we’d progressed in the years in between.

  I’d also met any number of artisans in an utterly dishevelled state, when they had come to do work at Pied de la Croix. Fortunately for me, they seemed very nonplussed. I did check with Erick when we had to do an emergency dash to the bricolage whether I should quick
ly change out of my paint-stained clothes to look more respectable. I was surprised to find out that even in France it wasn’t necessary. Perhaps, even in France, the very nature of bricolages meant that it was perfectly acceptable. When we renovated our terrace in Sydney, we would go for lunch in our renovating clothes. No-one would blink an eye, as Newtown was the most bohemian suburb in Sydney. I was sure, though, that eating out in France, dressed like that, would have been an altogether different matter. I was certainly not ever going to put it to the test. I’d already had more than my share of sartorial renovating embarrassment.

  Like everything that happened with our Cuzance renovation, there didn’t seem to be time to linger and admire our new piscine. As always, too, the days rapidly ebbed and the day’s work was never quite completed. It was too hot to finish moving my piles of vines that had been cut down, so while Stuart plastered, I started sanding an old beam from the barn roof that would be placed as a shelf on the half-wall that we had knocked down and now divided the new kitchen and sitting room. It was something I loved doing and I finally, at the end of the day, had a huge sense of satisfaction as the 100-year old piece of oak started to smoothly shine.

  In between everything else, I yet again ran down to the Hotel Arnal, this time to try to get the name of another plombier to contact as the septic issue was becoming increasingly urgent. ‘Fosse septique, plombier,’ and a few dramatic ‘Ooh la la’s conveyed the urgency of it. As it turned out, the precise moment I arrived, the Maire was finishing his lunch — complete with an empty bottle of wine on the table. It was my second encounter with him this week at the Hotel Arnal, which was conveniently right next door to the Mairie. He again greeted me quite solemnly and shook my hand. Perhaps it was befitting his important role in our small commune to be suitably serious. Again, without a word of English on his behalf and with my faltering French, I understood that if we were to present ourselves at his office at 9am on Saturday, Martin would help us. I assumed Martin was a plombier. Ironically, that night while having dinner, the plombier we left a message for on Monday morning finally returned our call and said he would come to Pied de la Croix on Monday evening. We were now left in an awkward position, for we felt indebted to the Maire for seemingly fast-tracking our roof. We could only wait and see what transpired and base our choice on who was available first.

  Monsieur Arnal emerged from the restaurant and, as always, greeted me warmly. As always, too, I simply didn’t understand a single word that he said. Fortunately, this time a Dutch couple were enjoying an afternoon pastis and were able to translate for me. They confirmed the Maire’s arrangement for the morning and I then had a chat to them about their holiday and our mutual love of France. It, in fact, turned out that they had also had a holiday in Australia a few years previously. I apologised for my dishevelled appearance and explained that I was busy renovating. They were intrigued and so, after their pastis, they too ventured up to Pied de la Croix to inspect our house and land. It seemed that there was an endless stream of visitors.

  I was in a constant state of amazement, not only by how much we’d accumulated in just a matter of weeks, but our attention to detail also astonished me. Stuart had just put on his brightly striped apron — IKEA, of course — to make dinner, our first proper meal in our petite maison. It was more of a winter meal, yet as the weather was not what we expected at all in a French summer, we were looking forward to his hearty stew with rich red tomatoes and French beef. I looked round our extremely well-equipped kitchen: a glass juicer, a grater for parmesan cheese, plastic containers, oven gloves, a salad spinner, a sound system and even a woven rush doormat. I then looked closely at the house with new eyes. The fact that our petite maison had been transformed from an empty shell in a mere six weeks — three weeks last year and three weeks so far this year — was a constant source of surprise to me. Finally, the days were calmer and the lists of daily tasks had diminished. It was a real home now, with a shopping list in the little wooden trug on the dining table and even Erick’s aluminium jug filled with the bright faces of sunflowers from the markets in Martel.

  Everything in our little house tells its own story. The photos we took when we were unearthing treasure from Maxim’s outbuilding show an ancient room, untouched for years, full of spiders and cobwebs and piles of things accumulated from a lifetime. I had taken great care that day to wear a very French-looking black dress complete with my esteemed find in a second-hand shop of a black-and-white striped Pierre Balmain scarf. My ensemble was completed by a sweet little pale pink straw hat. However, after rummaging for treasure, I emerged festooned in cobwebs. In the photos, Brigitte and I look like we had been in a haunted house. I actually screamed at one point when I opened a set of drawers and then opened an old tin: a pile of dried sunflower seeds flew out, but I thought they were something else entirely … maggots.

  I woke up from a rare afternoon nap to discover that Jean-Claude had secretly slipped into the garden, despite his back problems, armed with an enormous pair of wire cutters, and had cut down the sagging wire fence that bisected the garden as a surprise for me. The previous day, when I was walking round the land with him, Jean-Claude had informed me that I needed to take the fence down. I explained to him that I had, in fact, taken the first section down by myself. No easy task by any means, as I didn’t even have any wire cutters at all. It involved sitting down in the dirt in the burning heat and unfurling each piece of wire, by hand, which was wrapped tightly round the sagging old wooden fence posts. I then had to rock the posts back and forth in the dry, sun-baked earth to loosen them and finally prise them out. I remember feeling hugely triumphant at this achievement. I also remember then looking at the long stretch of fence remaining and knowing that it was far beyond what I could possibly tackle. Like so many of the daunting jobs I took on in the jardin, it was usually with the feeblest of equipment. Even I knew that strong wire cutters were in order for the rest of the job.

  So it was with a very baleful look that I told Jean-Claude, yes, I knew the fence had to come down. Yet, with all my other work on the land, I simply hadn’t found the time. Plus, some of the work I did actually tackle, like dragging huge tree stumps right across the garden, were, I thought, quite extraordinary accomplishments singlehanded. So when I woke up from my afternoon sleep, Stuart told me there was a surprise. I looked out the dining room window and saw it straight away. I was utterly delighted. Later that afternoon, when we had an apéritif with Jean-Claude and Françoise, I walked round their garden with Jean-Claude, admiring their velvet red roses and yearning for the figs to ripen before we left for home. I told him that, like the gift of the wheelbarrow, taking the fence down was one of the best presents I’d ever received.

  Friends and Family

  It was our hope that, once the petite maison was fully renovated, it would be a place to gather our family and friends. However, they started to arrive while we were still in the midst of serious upheaval. The first to arrive was Sylvie, who we had, met in India when she was travelling with her friend Martine. There was no way that we would have ever expected in our wildest dreams that, five years later, she would come to visit us in our own home in France. We caught up on our little porch over gin and tonics, not very French but delicious on a hot summer evening, and she told me she would honour the house as our very first visitor to stay for a night.

  Friends and family meant that my two lives overlapped and collided. While in Cuzance, I always tried to consciously shut myself away from the ‘real world’. I did, however, finally make time to check some more chapters of Colon Art. Note: this book is not about pigs’ colons or the dreaded andouillette, but rather the art in the French colonies. Mind you, a more enviable and glorious proofreading spot would have been hard to find, as, late one afternoon, I set myself up next to their pool in their beautiful jardin. I was plied with cold drinks and ice-cream and, at the end, rewarded with a beer. Then, an impromptu dinner invitation was thrown in as well. Françoise told us it would be a casual evening supper o
f salad, homemade bread and an omelette — which was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. It was probably not quite how I ever imagined being invited to eat with friends in France, either. I was still wearing my damp swimming costume, complete with a short summer shift thrown over it. It was very cool in their home, with its flagstone floors and enormous dining room, and as we sat down for dîner I borrowed Françoise’s brown cardigan hanging on a hook in the dining room. It was a measure of the friendship we had made that I could simply grab her cardigan without even asking and feel completely relaxed about it in the way that you usually only can with very old friends.

  When we arrived home later that evening, in my usual Saturday night ritual, I got my going-to-the-vide-grenier outfit ready to pull on in the morning, counted the euros in my change purse, got my basket out, and all was ready for a quick getaway for the Sunday pursuit of bargains.

  We tried to not work constantly and made time to spend with our friends. Wandering down through the village to have an apéritif with Jean-Claude and Françoise was always a pleasure. Whenever I was sitting on their terrace overlooking the pool and garden, a sense of utter pleasure and relaxation swept over me. I always felt that I had temporarily booked into a luxury resort, for it was so magnificent and soothing.

  Week Five

  Our fifth week started differently from all the others. My mother arrived from England for a week. Nevertheless, I was up very early as the roofers were still coming and, once again, it was very cold and wet. Some summer in France. The days we worked from early in the morning to evening’s end seemed long ago. It seemed dreadfully unfair that now we’d declared we too were on holiday, with a week of activities planned, the weather was so cold and miserable. We seemed to have got it all back to front, to have worked in the blazing heat and now, when we were ready to relax and have a petite vacances, it was not like summer at all.