Our House is Not in Paris

by Susan Cutsforth

  As I worked away, I also gazed out the window at a new world, washed in a soft, soft haze of vivid green. And, somehow, the rain didn’t matter at all as I continued to restore and bring back to life our cosy little house.

  It was the most unconventional of all greetings for Liz when she finally arrived. I raced to the doorway, scraper in hand, and beckoned her in from the all-consuming rain. Her room, which had not been the most welcoming anyway, was now in state of damp wallpaper tatters. Similarly her lunch was not the fare of French gastronomic dreams. No, I hastily sliced and toasted some stale bread, practically threw it on a plate and then it was back to the room. At least her reaction on seeing our petite maison for the first time was all that I had hoped for and more. I’d sent her the photos the previous year when we bought it and then after our few weeks of work, and she had taken the time to look at them just before leaving Wales. So it was fresh in her mind and she was immediately able to grasp what we had already done this year.

  While the spare room needed conduit to cover up the wiring, new skirting boards and the wall lights were dangling precariously, I had attempted to make it a bit more welcoming the night before by placing a wicker chair, with her gifts on it, next to the air mattress. Now, on the day of her arrival, in a completely unorthodox way, I’d decided that Liz’s room was the project of the day. After her hasty lunch, I put a bentwood chair in the room so we could chat as I continued working. Stuart finally arrived home after a five-hour bricolage buying spree — broken at least by a more tasty lunch than mine, as even the bricolage was closed today for the lunch period. After a quick café with Liz and a catch-up, they set off to Martel as we had completely forgotten that she was a vegetarian. A sad lunch, a sad room and, now, no dinner planned. Well, we had, in fact, planned a barbecue in true Australian fashion, but that was now out of the question.

  Meanwhile, I kept stripping off the layers of tightly glued wallpaper. As with any renovating I ever do, despite tiredness rapidly creeping in, the more I did, and the closer I got to my goal, the more I wanted to do. So although I’d been at it for hours and hours by now, I was utterly determined to strip all the wallpaper by the evening. So after our customary evening apéritif with Jean-Claude, I moved ever closer to my goal. Before preparing dinner, Stuart then had to fit in preparing some plaster to repair some crumbling parts of the wall.

  One of the things about renovating is that, unlike the routine of going to work every day at home, when you wake up, you never quite know what the day will bring. I never lost this feeling of anticipation, no matter how hard I worked. Certainly this Monday morning, and our last whole week in Cuzance, I had no idea that the room our friend would be staying in would be the scene of such frenetic activity.

  The morning after Liz’s arrival, despite being consumed by exhaustion after a full day of wallpaper stripping, I woke after just a few hours of sleep. My mind was furiously ticking like a metronome. I finally got up, knowing that sleep would continue to elude me, and crept cautiously past Liz asleep in the sitting room. I poured a drop of hopefully mind-numbing walnut digestif, thinking that might do the trick, and ventured out into the inky-black darkness with my torch for a quiet moment. However, just a few hours later, I ventured out of our bedroom again and found myself up the ladder at six in the morning.

  So, day two in the spare room. While it would need a second coat next year, I was thrilled by the transformation in a mere two days. Another whitewashed room, perfect in its simplicity. From sixties green wallpaper, all stripped on the first day, and plastered where the old stone literally crumbled beneath my hands as I pulled the wallpaper off, to the first coat of crisp white. Just like at home, I loved living in my own little world and this room had become my whole world for two entire days. I only left it to eat and sleep briefly. I actually couldn’t believe my capacity to work so exhaustively, yet, just like when we renovated our hundred-year-old terrace in inner-city Sydney, the world stopped for me. Today the matriarch of the village, Marinette Barre — who, while reliant on a cane for her daily walks, is always a picture of elegance, complete with a straw hat decorated with ribbons, walked past. Dominique then also appeared at the window, accompanied by two friends who were staying with them. She asked if she could take them for a tour of our jardin, and I continued working up the ladder. Then, at end of a long, long day, Martina Salques drove up with her husband in their shiny new Mercedes and was quite insistent about a tour of our petite maison. I wasn’t quite in the right frame of mind for her exuberant personality but at least she was highly complimentary about all our hard work. I always found, though, that it was quite hard to convey that the extent of what we had achieved had been in, now, a mere seven weeks.

  In a rapid turnaround after only forty-eight hours, Liz was set up in the freshly painted spare room. Stuart then set off to collect his brother John, who was arriving from Yorkshire, from the airport at Brive. And so, the ebb and flow of the little house changed yet again.

  The World Comes to You

  Something else that I love about renovating is that the world just seems to come to you. While I barely left the little room for two whole days, my days were still somehow full of people anyway. As well as Jean-Claude’s daily visits, the arrival of Liz and, finally, the new plombier, I had a number of delightful encounters with French people on their daily walks — all through the window of the little room that looks straight onto the road. Late in the afternoon on my first day in the spare room, in a brief lull from the lashing rain, a middle-aged blond woman with a friendly face walked past. I smiled and said, ‘Bonjour.’ She came to the window, looked in and admired my work. Half in English, half in French, we had a chat about how Adelle Perrard was building a house in the village and how she loved the peace and quiet of Cuzance. She wondered if I was working all alone and I conveyed my husband was shopping for dinner, as he did all the cooking. Adelle told me that she loves cooking and laughed when I told her that I would be happy to sample it when she lived in the village one day. It was yet another random and warm encounter.

  With Liz’s arrival, it was like Christmas, as she came laden with gifts. Precious Marmite and Smarties for Stuart and, as a celebration of how our friendship started when we met in India, the cookbook Indian Cooking Made Easy. She stressed, for my benefit, knowing both my lack of enthusiasm and expertise in the kitchen, that it was indeed ‘made easy’. There were jars of her own homemade chutney, made with apples from her garden, and jars of jam. They were decorated with brightly coloured remnants of fabric from the wardrobe department from her days working for the Welsh Opera Company. And then there was a huge box of tantalising books, for one of the things we both love most of all in the world is curling up with a splendid book. And we also love chatting over a glass or two of a good French wine.

  The cooing of the doves created a soft background tapestry to the unravelling of the days, while the incessant buzzing of flies created a constant source of annoyance. Despite the warmer summer days, our French friends still rarely ate their meals outside, simply because the flies were such a nuisance in the country. Despite our efforts to always cover our plates with cloths, we finally had to abandon eating our lunches outside and decided to only have our evening meal on the little porch after the heat had dissipated and the flies abated somewhat. It seemed rather ironic that the flies were worse here than at home.

  John’s Arrival

  Nothing much changed with John’s arrival, in that the daily topic of conversation still centred on, ‘When will the rain stop?’ and, ‘When will it get warm?’ However, finally, the days did warm up and John soon discovered that a holiday with us was not really a holiday at all. Soon he too was off on bricolage trips with Stuart, and when they bought an enormous floor lamp with a huge rose-coloured shade in the Troc in Brive, it was soon apparent why they got it for a bargain price. The entire afternoon was spent trying to re-wire it, and after four hours attempting to make it work it was relegated to the list of tasks for next year. Oh, the lists. Sure
ly we were not already composing them for our next trip?

  My ‘official’ renovating day started at four-thirty in the afternoon. After two solid days on the spare room it was now a domestic catch-up day. While I washed and caught up on domesticity, Stuart and John were thwarted all day in their attempts to find a mere two pieces of wood to make a door to cover the pool filtration concrete box. This involved five forays to five bricolages, as, unlike hardwares at home, these didn’t stock wood and they finally discovered you have to go to a specialist shop. By the time they at last arrived home, the door could have been made. Such is the life of renovating.

  The final task I’d allocated myself — in this, our very last week — was to load up all the rubbish and do several trips to the tip. For this, I not only needed the car but also Jean-Claude’s ancient, petite trailer. Hence, it was not until they got back late in the afternoon that I could finally start my real task of the day. So, virtually as soon as they pulled up, I raced off to get the trailer; yet again, it was Jean-Claude to the rescue. It was the first time in four days that I had left my little world — and his house was, after all, only a one-minute drive away. When I want something done, I want it done now! Patience is certainly not one of my better qualities. Fortunately, Jean-Claude, as always, indulged my impatience, for he immediately abandoned his garden and hooked up his trailer. Used as he was by now to my demands, even he was quite astonished when I then asked him to drive the car back with the trailer as I’d never towed one before, petite as it might have been. I briefly greeted Françoise, who was eager to show me her Guy Laroche leather jacket, which she inherited from her mother. However, I was too intent on my current mission and simply didn’t take the time to stop to admire Parisian vintage elegance.

  So, in the early evening, when everyone else just wanted to relax and have their evening apéritif, I started hacking my way through the far-back corner of our property to dig up and collect years and years of rubbish. Secateurs in one hand were essential to at least partially prevent the brambles from ripping my face. I actually pulled out parts of what seemed to be a rusted car. It was in this utterly dishevelled state, with my head thrust into years of neglected growth, that Dominique and Gerard wandered down the garden for an afternoon visit. My concept of gardening was quite different from Dominique’s, for they had a much smaller plot and she was in the process of lovingly planting out flowers in their very manageable garden. Although, fond of us as they were, and they hadn’t said it in so many words, I knew they thought we were utterly mad for taking on such a huge challenge, especially when we could only be in Cuzance for a matter of a few weeks a year. They left quite quickly as I burrowed further and further into my far-flung outpost. The brambles periodically ripped my cap off and, by this stage, I simply flung rusty old buckets, old petrol cans and other assorted household paraphernalia over my shoulder. The others were still keeping their distance: I knew they were quite tired of my obsessiveness and my drive to keep doing, as I constantly said, ‘Just one more thing.’

  Although Stuart had had quite enough by now, after his frustrating day, he eventually appeared to kindly help with the tip runs. Liz too wandered down too; I think they had realised that I just couldn’t manage it all by myself. She then decided that a trip to the tip would be preferable to sharing my filthy and possibly quite dangerous task. There was, after all, a lot of ancient rust, broken tools and sharp shards of glass. The day was ebbing, and when I asked Jean-Claude what time the tip closed he told me it didn’t. I thought this was quite odd, until Stuart and Liz returned from their first of many trips to tell me that the tip turned out to be a place on the side of the road near the stadium where everyone just dumped their rubbish. Such is life in the country.

  Blue Sky at Last

  It was actually a whole two weeks since we’d been able to walk around le jardin due to the incessant rain. We discovered that during this time even more trees were laden with fruit — a pear and another apple tree. The apples shone with fresh organic pinkness — they would probably be worth a fortune at home — while the pears were altogether pleasing in their plump, brown roundness. By now the orchard — a source of constant delight for me and Stuart to use the phrase ‘our orchard’ — was brimming with fruit: damsons, pears, walnuts, peaches and apples. Last year it was so wild and overgrown that we couldn’t actually explore it, let alone pick and eat the fruit. It did make me sad, though, that when we left this abundance of fruit would simply fall to the ground. I only hoped that Françoise would be able to find the time to weave her magic in the kitchen and produce confiture from our fruit, which we would be able to enjoy on crispy baguettes on our return. All was at last well with the world: a blue sky and fat, white clouds, instead of ominous, grey rain-laden ones, appeared.

  We had succeeded in pushing the world away for six weeks. However, after five days with us, Liz dissolved in tears one evening after dinner while sitting on our round steps with Stuart. This was so utterly out of character for her, as she is one of the calmest, most down-to-earth people that I know, that I felt terribly alarmed. She told us her news and I was dismayed that for five whole days she had not betrayed a glimmer of her anguish. Liz informed us that she had a possible brain tumour and had to have an operation when she went back to Wales. She had just received a text to let her know there was a cancellation that she could have for the following week. She apologised for telling us, as she had meant to keep it all to herself and not ‘spoil’ our time together. We were shocked that she had been so brave.

  Stuart advised her that a week wouldn’t make any difference and she agreed, as she was off to Bordeaux to stay with another friend, Rosie, the following week before going home to face it all. Like us, but for far more grave and ominous reasons, Liz was determined to keep the real world at bay for as long as possible. The day she left, I said, ‘See you next year, same time, same place.’ To say or think otherwise was simply too unbearable.

  The next day, after her shattering news, Stuart and John had a well-deserved break and set off on a day-long canoe trip on the Dordogne, from Souillac to Gluges. Liz and I finally had a chance to go out to lunch together in Martel. Over a glass of rosé, we simply declared that it was far too inconvenient to have a brain tumour, as Liz had simply far, far too much that she still wanted to do with her life. And so I firmly believed that, despite her operation looming in just a few short weeks, her stoic personality would, through sheer strength of mind, banish this aberration.

  Prophetically, as we were later sitting under the walnut tree in the garden and I read these very words to Liz from my notebook, the sun burst through the clouds as I ended on the last word. We reached out and clasped each other’s hands.

  Our Last Weekend

  Our last weekend was our idea of a perfect one. There were four vide-greniers in total, including two on Saturday and they were never held on a Saturday. After two on Saturday at Baladou and Hôpital Saint-Jean, I was actually too ‘treasured-out’ to go to the one in Martel on Sunday as we had already been out early to Gignac, the vide-grenier of all vide-greniers. Yes, it was a surprise to me that I actually chose not to go my very last market of our time here this summer. It was a brocante in Martel, which can be quite expensive as there are a lot of antique dealers. My decision was confirmed when Stuart and John returned and declared that it was just as I suspected, expensive, and there was no treasure to be found. Later, Dominique and Gerard dropped in and confirmed that it was indeed ‘Très cher’. Gignac, however, had fully lived up to its reputation and was magnificent. Friends such as Jean-Claude even went, although they were not usually that fond of ‘clear out the attic’ markets. I knew it was going to be fabulous as soon as I arrived, for within just a few minutes I found the definitive black beret, which I immediately wore.

  Instead of going to Martel, I chose to have a rare moment sitting in the garden with my book — though ‘garden’ still remains a generous interpretation of the word and will remain a stretch of the imagination for many years to co
me. Another English expat we had met dropped in as I was sitting in front of the barn. Nigel had lived in a nearby village for thirty years, and when he’s not in France he travels the world to write books about irises. He was off to visit other English friends who had a holiday maison nearby and told us that they would love to meet us one day. We always find it remarkable that somehow it just seems so easy to meet people here. It absolutely contradicts the aloof reputation that the French seem to many to have. It was yet another day when the world seemed to come to me, for shortly after a man from the village whom we had never met also dropped in. He was here to ask if he could look at the pool.

  It was Liz’s last evening and she had planned a celebratory meal. When the four of us were together two years previously in our rented house in Rignac, we all discovered the delicious taste of barbecued sardines. Liz too had introduced us to the French classic, snails, freshly bought from the market — something we had never tried, yet how could we possibly be in France and not try snails? It turned out that we all loved them, dripping in butter and garlic, the juice soaked up with baguette — what wasn’t there to love? And so, a tradition had been started and this was to be the signature meal for the four of us. And the pièce de résistance were pears from our very own orchard, which Liz had poached in red wine. Small yet plump, they glistened in their red-wine sauce in the bottom of large white bowls. It was a true taste sensation and we declared that this too would feature every year when we were all together again. There was a cloud hanging over us yet we refused to acknowledge it. We didn’t talk about what Liz would soon be enduring. Instead, ‘next year’ was a constant thread running through our conversation. Her final gift to us for our farewell meal was a yellow and white gingham tablecloth, as she knew how much I loved the red and white one Françoise had lent me and was so reluctant to part with. I knew that Liz would sit at the table next year, with her tablecloth in place to welcome her return. Our last night together had been a celebration of all that is French and all that we love. Those nights would come again. Mozart was playing, the light softened, the conversation hummed, the wine flowed, and we were ecstatic to be eating our own pears.