Our House is Not in Paris

by Susan Cutsforth

  When we arrived, France had been gripped by drought. We had been told by Jean-Claude before we arrived that there simply hadn’t been any rain for months and that the days had been unusually hot. Coming from Australia, the land of drought, it was hard for us to grasp and yet the landscape in places was indeed strangely similar to home: dry, brown and parched. And yet now, in just mere weeks, the days were a soft grey and full of damp drizzle that pulled low clouds down from the leaden sky.

  The Search for a Gîte

  Somehow, in France, I seemed to have slightly changed my name when introducing myself. ‘Je m’appelle Susannah.’ I’m not quite sure how or why this happened. Well, to be honest, I probably do. I secretly thought that it might have made me seem more French. The lack of language proficiency was somewhat of a giveaway every time, though. And so followed what, for me, was a very significant day, careering round the narrow country lanes in search of a rural gîte while madly introducing myself over and over. Well, ‘careering’ is not quite the right word; rather, very tentatively approaching every blind corner, of which there are many, constantly fearful that I would encounter a lumbering tractor.

  Mum had decided that, on her next visit to France, she would like to stay in a rural gîte or chambre d’hôte. She was determined to have the quintessential experience of life in a small country hotel. As her time on this trip was limited, she had asked if we could find her one to stay in for a night or two. Naïvely, I thought this would be a piece of cake — or gateau (we were in France, after all).

  The countryside was dotted with signs for gîtes and chambres d’hôte, so off we set cross-country in pursuit of somewhere for her to stay for her last few nights. In a way, it was a great exercise in forcing me to find the confidence to start driving our little Renault Scenic alone on remote rural roads. Before leaving, I carefully consulted our dictionary and composed a few basic phrases — a simple request for a chambre for Mum for two nights. At the second one, I delivered my request in my halting French, only to be asked, very kindly, to, ‘Please speak English, your French is very bad.’ Well, that certainly confirmed what I already knew. Françoise had very kindly offered to give me French lessons every day and yet I could never seem to find the time. Maybe next year. What a constant refrain that seemed to be.

  Our first stop was the Bonne Famille Restaurant, as when we had lunch there we had noticed that there were also rooms available. The madame was very busy prior to her hectic lunch hour but she reluctantly agreed to show us a room. She was quite surprised that we didn’t have a reservation. Like the restaurant itself, I in turn was surprised that such a tiny, tucked-away village would be so well known that a reservation was essential for the hotel. There was one room available and it turned out to be up a steep flight of stairs, so that was out of the question. For the next few hours, we careered around narrow, rain-soaked country lanes in search of the perfect hotel chambre. Well, again, not quite ‘careered’ — ‘gingerly’ would more aptly describe my approach to the many blind corners, heart in mouth every single time, in fear of a close encounter with a piece of threatening farm equipment.

  I dashed in and out of remote gîtes and the response each time was an almost aghast reaction that I foolishly thought a chambre might be available at such short notice. ‘What? No reservation?’ To me it hardly seemed plausible that a room wouldn’t be available in all these places in the middle of nowhere. Finally, Lilliane — who implored me to speak English — had a chambre that was only available the next night but, with great kindness, offered Mum a room in her own part of the house for the night. The house had a view of the rolling green hills stretching across to Martel and the church spire, but, alas, once again, the stairs were too steep. As it was almost lunchtime and it was only for one night after all, we booked Lillian’s lovely chalet room for the following evening. I then took Mum back to Pied de la Croix and ‘booked’ her back into our bedroom for the evening. We would again have the air mattress in our less-than-desirable spare room, and so, while Stuart played bridge with Françoise in Souillac, Mum and I headed back to Martel for a much-needed lunch. While lovely, steak and frites, always my favourite, I didn’t even treat myself to glass of lunchtime rosé, not while I was driving in France. Even though I always recited to myself a little technique I learnt from Liz: ‘Stay on the right, stay on the right …’. I always worried I might forget.

  After finally finding Mum her desired rural gîte for the following night, I had another mission before lunch: to go to the bank by myself to get a statement for our account and withdraw even more euros. Monsieur Bricolage was consuming vast amounts of our money on Stuart’s daily visits. It was pouring with rain and so I had to put on my disposable plastic raincoat to dash through Martel to the bank. Naturally my driving was not sufficiently confident to find the nearest possible parking space, so it was rather more than a mere dash. By now the rain was saturating our days. The only way to find out the weather forecast at the end of a solid week of rain was to now ask our bank manager. Previously we had relied on our roofers and they proved to always be accurate. It occured to me that there was no way I would have to rely on the bank manager at home — or even contemplated asking what the weather held in store.

  I already had a short red raincoat on and now the addition of a disposable plastic one flapping over the top. At least I was able to laugh at myself, for I was hardly the image of French glamour that I was trying so hard to cultivate. As I entered the Bank Poplulaire, dripping profusely, Anne-Marie and I exchanged a warm, ‘Bonjour, ça va?’ before she burst into laughter at the sight of my less-than-attractive attire. However, it was business as usual once she recovered and, with her usual aplomb and ease, my statements were rapidly presented to me. She then created a special withdrawal card — necessary for the vast sum I needed, which exceeded our daily limit — and speedily withdrew the huge amount of cash I had asked for. Half of it was already allocated to the gardener for his three hours’ work. As I left, the fact that Anne-Marie told me that it was going to rain for another week, my glum spirits at the thought matched the gloomy day. At least she had given me another restaurant recommendation, and if it was anything like the Bonne Famille Restaurant, which she had also told us about, then it would definitely be worth going to.

  Looking at Life with New Eyes

  Renovating has taught me to look at the world in a new way. It has taught me to be creative and improvise. I have learnt to look around and use what is on hand when I need something. When I gave Françoise a bunch of bright zinnias as a ‘thank you’ for dinner, I asked her if I could have the brown paper wrapping and raffia tie back — not something I would usually do. She assured me that, of course, they would go in the recycling, but I told her that I would actually recycle them myself. I carefully flattened the wrinkled paper to wrap some gifts for our friend Liz who was coming from Wales. I had a glass dish for her from our latest vide-grenier and a jar of strawberry confiture maison, delicious homemade jam from the produce market in Martel. Well, the jam was originally destined for Mum’s friend in England but it was in her hand luggage and taken from her at customs. We hadn’t thought about the fact that it was glass. Fortunately, the airport at Brive is so small that we were still at the barrier waving her through, so it was simply handed back to us. The carefully preserved piece of raffia was to tie around sets of old spoons and forks, another brilliant vide-grenier find, to take home as gifts. I had just the friends in mind who would cherish a small piece of France as they serve their salads.

  When I needed a container for the washing-up sponges, I used a plastic container that had strawberries in it. However, I thought it was last year when we were the most inventive when we used strips of wallpaper for drop cloths. One minute on the wall, the next on the floor.

  On one of his daily afternoon visits, Jean-Claude made the astonishing statement that their house in Cuzance was like camping. I thought, ‘Look around and you’ll see what camping is really like.’ Just a matter of a few weeks before we ha
d just two bowls, two plates and one set each of cutlery. I laughed and laughed at him and asked him what on earth he meant. Their home was like a chateau compared to ours. He told us that their apartment in Lyon has parquet floors like the Palace of Versailles and it is furnished with antiques. His only regret was that it not very old at all; it is only from the 1830s. Apparently their apartment is in the centre of Lyon on the first floor of a five-storey building. When I shared with him my most prized treasure of the day, from our latest vide-grenier, a still-life painting already propped in pride of place on the mantelpiece, he metaphorically rolled his eyes. I was overjoyed that it was a mere two euros and felt enormously proud of my discovery. Somehow, though, I got the impression that their Lyon apartment might well be full of original masterpieces. His visit ended on a high note as I shared some excerpts from my book in progress. We talked about who would play the roles in the film of my book and he chose Hugh Grant. We rolled around with laughter, sitting on the très joli, round, curved steps that are quite unique and much admired by all who come to our little house. Jean-Claude is not quite of Hugh Grant’s era.

  Mum’s last day arrived very quickly, and we felt very proud of ourselves that on Sunday, the esteemed family day in France, a day when large family groups gathered in restaurants throughout the country, we walked into Bonne Famille Restaurant as the church clock struck twelve. We knew that it was a sign of honour for the French to be seated for their midday meal as the hand turns to twelve. So we were full of consternation to discover that we were in fact the first to arrive — in a restaurant that seats eighty and that we had been told was fully booked. I wondered if we had committed some dreadful faux pas and that the lunch hour was quite different on a Sunday. The madame appeared and, formally dressed in a severe black frock, indicated that service would start in about fifteen minutes. We glimpsed the staff gathered round a large table in the back room, all sharing lunch, before the busiest service of the week. I tentatively asked if we should wait outside but she graciously indicated that we could be seated at our table. I experienced a strange feeling of slight nervousness about not conforming to the correct etiquette and noted that I must try to remember to ask our French friends the protocol for the highly valued Sunday lunch and whether it was different to the rest of the week. Madame was somehow slightly forbidding; indeed, she had the air of a very stern headmistress who knows exactly what is going on in her empire at any given time. In fact, when I had returned with Mum to try to get her a room, as we were leaving she remembered that two days previously we had made a booking for Sunday lunch and that it would be three of us. I was highly impressed by that.

  I was feeling particularly pleased with how I looked that day, for I was wearing my new, second-hand Guy Laroche trench coat that Mum bought me in a little shop in Martel. It is the trench coat of my dreams. Isabelle, the owner of our little treasure trove shop — which, since discovering it only recently, we had been going to at least once a week in search of treasure — told me that, new in Paris, it would cost 500 euros. I’d teamed it with my shiny patent leather burgundy shoes that were another source of delight, at the bargain price of three euros. Mum too was wearing a ‘new’ soft pink, second-hand jacket, also with ‘Paris’ on the label. We both felt very happy with our ensembles.

  Much to our relief, before too long, some families started to arrive. Those who were ushered past our table, through the doors to the back dining room, greeted us politely, ‘Bonjour, madame, monsieur.’ Once again, we were full of admiration for the courtesy that was always shown. For instance, when we had dinner with Jean-Claude and Françoise, Mum, as the eldest person present, was seated at the head of the table as a sign of respect.

  As I sat enjoying one of the most delicious meals of my life — succulent lamb, fresh garden peas and crisp potatoes, followed by my all-time favourite and always number one choice, crème brûlée — my thoughts were momentarily sidetracked by the fact that it was the biggest dessert menu I had ever seen. There were thirteen in all, beautifully presented on a piece of slate that was held up before us to contemplate. This would have been the perfect place to film a documentary about a typical rural French restaurant, tucked away and yet with a reputation obviously bigger than the petite village of Sarrazac. The cast was all in place: the ‘finger-on the-pulse’ madame, right down to our reluctant teenage waitress. It seemed to be very much a family-run affair and I imagined that the waitress is madame’s niece, roped into working there. It was school holidays in France and, clearly, she would rather be with her friends. We were the only foreigners there and it felt like a privilege to be part of the audience for just a short while as the daily life of the meticulously run restaurant unfolded smoothly around us. There may well have been dramas backstage in the kitchen, but, revelling in the calmness of Bonne Famille, it felt just like having a meal in a cosy French country home.

  The Renovation Continues

  A new development had taken place in Pied de la Croix. Rather than the appealing sight of squirrels scampering down the road and over the moss-covered stone wall on the garden opposite, they had taken to marauding in the attic. I counter-attacked by thumping on the ceiling with a broom like a madwoman. I thought of people in crowded inner-city apartments who do the same in response to their noisy neighbours above, playing loud music and having wild parties. We had decided that, while it was only partially renovated, rather than have Stuart’s brother John sleep in the sitting room we would put him in the half-completed attic room. We had taken to calling it ‘The Squirrel Room’. We debated whether to share this information with John and decided against it.

  My morning plans for the jardin were thwarted by the rain. Getting drenched once while gardening was quite enough. We’d had a break for a week while Mum was with us, so after she left it was back into renovating mode for a while. Liz was on her way to stay with us in Pied de la Croix. We met her and her husband John five years ago in India and have maintained an email relationship ever since. She last stayed with us in our first rented house in France two years ago, and this time it would be in our very own home. Her latest appearance in my Inbox before leaving told me that she had booked her Channel ferry crossing and, after an eight-hour drive, would be with us on 25 July. By this stage our kitchen would be installed, the spare room fully renovated, and we would be more than ready for another break. Well, that was the plan. She had instructions to bring Smarties and Marmite, Stuart’s favourite English treats.

  Although Liz was due to arrive at lunchtime and I realised it would make her room somewhat damp — and as I couldn’t go out into the garden as planned — I decided to tackle her room. So, my Monday morning this week started with stripping the bright green wallpaper down in the spare room. I again reflected on the fact that my Mondays in France were hugely different to the start of my usual week at home. At least there were no more visits to the Mairie on my agenda at the moment to start my working week, so that made a change. Stuart had set off on yet another bricolage expedition, which seemed to be his usual start to our working week in France. As usual, too, he was armed with a very long list. In addition, he had to go to Piscine Ambiance, for, in just a matter of a couple of weeks, two clips on the pool cover had broken. There was a ten-year warranty but we felt sure that somehow it wouldn’t cover the clips. I had utterly refused to go ever again; I still hated the bricolage just as much as I detested hardware trips at home. I knew I would never waver in my firm resolution to not venture foot in one ever again.

  I stripped the wallpaper off in record time. My energy and enthusiasm had returned after a week’s break. Much to my surprise, I had discovered that I actually enjoyed the rewards of tearing off strips of wallpaper. It was an extremely satisfying process. I secretly hoped that Liz was late, for, as usual, once I had started a project I became obsessively caught up in it. Jean-Claude dropped in just as I was starting and remarked that he didn’t know how I did it — I wasn’t exactly built for strenuous renovating, as I was frequently aware of in all that I ta
ckled. To look at me, you wouldn’t think I’d have any idea where to start, let alone take on projects almost singlehanded. However, over the years, I’ve surprised even myself about how much I’ve learnt working alongside Stuart renovating all our houses. As Jean-Claude left, he told me that I was marvellous. I glowed with pride and considered that it was a pretty fine start to a Monday morning, despite the incessant rain.

  We’d now taken to trying to glean the weather forecast as we browsed at the vide-greniers or fresh produce market by listening in to the conversations that inevitably focused on the weather. There were conflicting statements of hopeful predictions. Would it be Tuesday or Friday that the rain finally stopped? Of course I was very glad for the farmers, as the effect of the rain had been transforming. For us, though, it was hardly the vision of summer in France that we had dreamt of.

  As I scraped and peeled the sticky under-layer of wallpaper, I kept telling myself that I must stop and eat when the church bell next chimed. The half-hour struck, then the next. I forced myself to stop and refuel, though I wasn’t really sure why, as there were only stale crackers in the house, which always made me feel very disappointed that in the land of delectable cuisine I was reduced to such a dismal lunch. At least my crackers were enlivened by a tasty blue fromage — though my peach was bruised. I knew that, when I went home, I’d feel especially regretful about such meals. At least today my emotions were not in a similarly bruised state. I was pleased with my progress and eager to continue. Stuart had our mobile phone so I had no way of knowing when Liz would arrive. As always, when I was in the house working alone, I didn’t even put the radio on. I was lost in my own little cocoon.