Our House is Not in Paris
Page 22
The Last Days
With the precious days rapidly fleeting, I finally pulled a shutter down in my mind and let myself at long, long last relax. I closed my mind to the weeds now profusely flourishing everywhere since the sun had at last made its appearance for a belated summer. I closed my mind to the painting that still needed to be done; to the state of the crumbling outbuildings. Our hearts were heavy with sadness as we packed up and prepared to leave. Even our petite maison took on a forlorn air as all our precious things were packed away. In just a matter of weeks, it had been transformed from a house that was being renovated into a warm, comforting and inviting home. There was a vase of flowers, piles of magazines and books, and our own fruit in a handmade earthenware bowl.
The seasons would now come and go in our absence; the snow would fall and then the blossoms would bud and the roses bloom. It was hard to grasp the many changes that would take place without us there to witness and be part of them. The fruit would fall in a state of neglect to the ground and the little front porch would become slippery with ice. The temperature would plummet and the trees would lose their abundant glossy green leaves. The squirrels would still scamper across the barn roof, the baby rabbits would still bounce in the grass, the vide-grenier would take place in Cuzance without us. Yet, after this, just our second year, we felt a part of the village. We knew that Cuzance would expect us again next June, and our hearts would sing with our return.
The sun was shining and the damp drizzle had cleared. The roofers certainly knew their trade for they’d told us the weather would clear again by today. The loving border collie from a nearby house was waiting as I stepped outside to embrace the softness of the early morning. I set off to drive to Martel to buy a baguette for lunch and pain au chocolat for breakfast. I was elated as I navigated, first, the narrow road out of our village, and then the main road that leads to Martel. It didn’t matter that I had been driving for more years than I cared to remember; for me, this was still an altogether new experience, to hum along the lanes alone. I returned home triumphant with our fresh pastries. I truly felt I now belonged in our other life.
Home Again
Since returning home, we had reflected often on how we simply worked too hard and didn’t always take the time to stop and remember why we were really in France. We vowed to slow down next year and take things at a more leisurely pace. It was a dilemma. The more we did each time, the less there would be to do in the future. We didn’t want the renovation stretching on for years and years, so, in many ways, the hard work had already paid off. We also reminded ourselves that there were probably not many people who could have achieved quite so much in such a short time. It’s swings and roundabouts — relax more and live in a partial renovation or work ridiculously hard and not really have a holiday. Next year would tell.
It was only because of Stuart’s drive and determination and ambition that we were even able to live this life. I wouldn’t have a clue how to set up a French bank account or the myriad other things that he seemed to do so effortlessly. It was all quite beyond me how he did it all. Yet I had fully embraced all that had so quickly become our French life in a way that I never imagined. So much so that, when we returned home, our hearts were still in Cuzance. Despite the dead bird on our doorstep to herald our arrival after the excruciating journey, in the short space of a year our hearts changed from sinking to soaring at the first sight of Pied de la Croix! And until next year — and part four of both our story and adventure — we would eagerly look forward to being a part of our other, privileged life in France once again.
Back to School
The day I finally returned to school after nearly two months, I woke at 4.30 am — ‘first day back’ nerves. Not that I had anything to feel anxious about as I was lucky: I really love my job as a teacher librarian. It was just hard to balance the two such vastly different elements of my life and it all felt very surreal. I had been a different person in France: the renovating person with little responsibility, and no alarm clock to dictate my day. It turned out to be a magnificent day and I felt like the luckiest teacher in the world. As I walked across the grass to open the library, I heard my name being called. The first student to greet me was trying to run along behind me, ready to give me my first of many ‘welcome back’ hugs that day. The fact that she was hobbling along on crutches to see me was fairly impressive. Then the morning break arrived and Ryan Camps in year seven and Kaitlyn in year eleven, who live next door to each other, had made a cake with ‘Welcome Back’ iced on top. They sat me down round our little kitchen table and made me a cup of tea. Other students drifted in and gathered round and the room was full of warmth. I was almost moved to tears by their joy at seeing me, especially when they also told me they tried to call the airport when we were leaving Sydney to give me a farewell message. They actually told the person on the desk that they were my colleagues but, without my Frequent Flyer number, were not able to get any further. Apparently they heard our flight number being called in the background. Ryan added that he vehemently denied to his mother that he made the calls when the phone bill came in.
Ryan, who was thirteen at the time, typed up a little paragraph to explain what they had done. This is exactly how he wrote it:
Well me Kaitlyn Munro and I (Ryan Camps) had an idea of calling the airport to say good bye to Mrs.
The idea cam about 2 o’clock an hour and a half before mrs flight left syd airport so kaitlyn came round my house for tea then I told her the idea so then I got the phonebook looked up airport Qantas etc. Then I was on the phone for an hour and a half then I heard in the back ground that the boarding gate is now closed just before that I asked if they could ask the captin they said I will go cheek I new this would make mrs cry but the door to the plane was locked and closed for takeoff.
What had been even more touching before I left was, in these days of email and Facebook, both Kaitlyn and Ryan actually asked me to send them a postcard. I was very touched by their request and Kaitlyn later told me that their cards both arrived on the same day. I had taken care to write different things to both of them, and, sure enough, Kaitlyn informed me that they both rushed round to share their postcards. I sent very few postcards to my friends and family, as we were simply so busy working, but I was so glad I sent theirs — especially when Kaitlyn said it had been a difficult week and my postcard was the highlight of her week.
The rest of the day was full of special moments and I was told by many students how much they missed me. By now, after my second year of going to France to work on our petite maison, lots of them knew about my other life and were eager to hear all about it. As many of them live in quite desperate circumstances, I always hoped that in some small way I was helping to open up a world of possibilities to them, especially as I sometimes told them that I too was very poor when I was their age and that I was now living a life I never dreamt possible.
News from Wales
After few a weeks at home, we heard the wonderful news from Liz that she was going to be fine. I cried with relief when I got her email. My heart felt light and happy, for I had kept repeating as a mantra, ‘Next year, next year,’ as a promise to both of us. So now it was true: that every year we would have our reunion in Cuzance and Liz would cook for us and spoil us.
I emailed her in reply to say:
And the weather will be perfect and we will sit under the walnut tree and read and dip in the pool and drink wine and go to the markets and go out to lunch and all will be absolutely fine with the whole world.
And so, indeed, it is.
Fin
Published by Melbourne Books
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Copyright ©Susan Cutsforth 2012
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eisbn: 9781922129123
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