‘Sorry about the lights.’
Michel was now at my shoulder. ‘Has there been a power cut?’
‘Earth Hour, don’t you remember? I mentioned it this morning. Don’t let’s stand here. It’s pouring.’ I was attempting to direct our guest upstairs rather than to his bedroom at pool level because I had not left any candles in his room. I had not been expecting them back so soon, not till after the lights were back on. ‘Let me take your case, Guongchow. Go with Michel and get warm by the fire.’ I was speaking slowly, hoping to make myself understood.
‘It’s Chowguong, Carol,’ Michel growled at me.
‘Yes, sorry, Chowguong.’
Chowguong was bowing, smiling, attempting not to express confusion, still clutching his suitcase, which I was trying to wrest from him.
‘What has happened to the electricity?’ insisted Michel.
‘It’s Earth Hour!’
‘Oh, God, that’s right,’ he sighed. After a tough day of business he had, doubtless, been hoping for a more convivial welcome.
‘Guongchow, sorry, Chowguong, go with Michel, make yourself comfortable. I’ll put your case in the room and fetch some candles.’ I was communicating slowly and with sign language. He was still bowing, smiling, smiling, no notion of what I was talking about. Now, he made the gesture of hands to the side of his head as one would tell a child that it was bedtime. ‘Sweeping, pliss,’ he said.
‘Carol, he’s jetlagged and wants sleep. Can’t we turn just one light on?’
‘I’ll get candles.’ I shot upstairs by the sodden, waxy-leafed magnolia tree, grabbed boxes of candles, matches, and was about to redescend when the men entered transporting heavy loads of damp shopping for a cocktail party we were giving the following evening.
‘Ah, good, you’re here.’ We stood in the hall a little awkwardly. ‘Come in.’
Chowguong bowed again. ‘Sweeping, pliss.’
‘Follow me. Look, I’ve got candles! In twenty minutes, lights! It’s Earth Hour, Guongchow.’
‘Chowguong, Carol, why can you never get his name right?’
‘Sorry. Earth Hour, Chowguong, in China, too. All over the world.’ I was describing with my hands a big round globe. ‘Lights out – gesture for an energy-conscious planet.’ I was standing in the darkness, water dribbling down my face, a Give-Us-a-Clue pantomime actor, Chowguong, my bemused audience, nodding and bending. ‘Yes, yes, see me.’
‘Thank you for understanding.’ I escorted him into his room and lit candles by his bed. He waited at my side, still nodding. ‘Henkyou henkyou. Sweeping now.’
‘Sleep well.’ I pointed to my watch. ‘Fifteen minutes and lights on.’
‘Henkyou.’
Upstairs, I shut the door, closing out the weather, shivering. Michel was in the kitchen, about to open the fridge. ‘I need a drink.’
‘Have red, or share my white!’
‘Have we run out of rosé?’
‘No, but we … Please, don’t open the fridge …’
‘Why not?!’ he begged, exasperated.
‘The bulb ignites wh—’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘Please, it’s only twelve more minutes.’ My husband ran a hand through his moist hair. Suddenly, his mobile began to ring.
‘Yes?’
It was Chowguong ringing from his Chinese mobile. An international call from the room directly beneath us!
‘Is he all right?’ I hurried downstairs. All the lights were ablaze on the lower floor. I stood gaping, horrified, as our Chinese guest was out in the rain in complimentary white hotel slippers I had left for him, jumping gleefully between the terrace pillars. ‘Lice working now. Lice working. Chowguong fix lice.’
He must have read the distress or some other such reaction on my face because he fell silent and flipflopped towards me, slippers muddied, soaking, anything but white. ‘No good me, Chowguong?’
‘It’s fine,’ I smiled, trying not to laugh.
‘Prefer you lice problem?’
‘It was Earth Hour, but … hey …’
‘Ooooh, noooo, now, see me. Earth. Lice. Lice too many … sorry, me sorry, sorry, sorry. Lice not good. Me sweeping. Better. Sorry.’ And he bowed yet another goodnight and disappeared to get a good night’s ‘sweep’.
‘Goodnight, Chowguong,’ I called after him. ‘It’s all fine.’
Upstairs, Michel glowered.
‘It’s nine thirty. Let’s open the fridge and I’ll pour you a drink.’
‘You know, chérie, you are worse than a fundamentalist sometimes.’
A longing for a property sufficiently capacious to accommodate Michel’s family; a home where grandchildren would visit and where I did not have to face the complexities of olive farming continued to offer itself as the only real solution and so I decided to begin to search. My standards were higher than in the days before we had found this scruffy old farm because I was all too aware of what I was going to lose as well as gain. Few properties ignited a flicker of interest on my part until the file came through by email for a ‘chateau’ close to Avignon. Estate agent-speak peeled away, it was in fact a three-storey bastide with twelve bedrooms situated within three and a half hectares of forest, grasslands and fields with aromatic garden, large natural pond and swimming pool, so claimed the brochure.
Perfect.
‘Does it have olive trees?’ I asked Thierry, the Swiss-French broker. The agency handling the file was based in Geneva.
‘No, I am sorry, désolé, no olive trees. No crops are farmed on the estate at all though the region does carry an AOC for olive oil should you wish to plant some.’
It had been a working farm until the Second World War, but its vast acreage had since been divided up and sold on, a history not dissimilar to Appassionata’s.
‘It carries no agricultural ticket with it at all so, unfortunately, the annual taxes are assessed accordingly. It is used as a holiday home for the family of one of France’s noblest champagne dynasties.’
No further responsibilities. I could grow flowers and vegetables, entertain guests and surround myself with grandchildren by the busload.
‘There is, however, a vineyard abutting the property that is also for sale. The viticulteurs are happy to either dispose of it to the incoming proprietors of the chateau or they’ll keep hold of it. I don’t know if that would be of interest to you.’
I preferred to wait and see, was my response.
‘One small snag,’ continued Thierry. ‘I should warn you. There is some unsettled business about a troublesome neighbour. I don’t know the details of the story myself, but perhaps you might want to make an offer for that property as well.’
Troublesome neighbours. I was not so sure about that.
I set off alone for the Montmirail region on a warm weekday morning. I had arranged a rendezvous point with a local agent, an intermediary, at the motorway exit for Avignon North. From there, I would follow him to the estate. I had seen a few photos on the internet and I was holding out high hopes for this property. My optimism about Michel’s reaction to this act of mine was not so buoyant. I had proposed we find somewhere that did not present us with our current dilemmas, but he had refused to engage in all such conversations, concluding that he had no intention of visiting other properties. Hence my solitary outing. In any case, he had returned to Paris to direct the sound recording of one of his films and would be away for the rest of the week.
I arrived within fifteen minutes of my prearranged eleven thirty slot, in spite of heavy traffic and roadworks on the autoroute, and shook hands with a short, wiry Spaniard in gold-rimmed Cartier glasses. We set forth into the countryside, having agreed that I would follow his silver Audi. I had never visited these foothills of the Mont Ventoux before.
‘It’ll be flat for the first quarter of an hour and then a land of wines and lacy mountains,’ he had promised.
At first, it was not merely flat but ugly, overrun with low-density urban sprawl that, until a decade
or two earlier, would have belonged to Nature, to the creatures of the fields. Crossing from one A road to the next, we turned left off a roundabout and proceeded along a narrow B road flanked by meadows. From here on it grew lovely, winding lanes with early season vineyards, abutted by inviting tracks that led to undisclosed destinations. Beyond the windscreen, clouds were moving quickly. I longed to stop, to investigate those donkey paths. Once or twice I slowed, drawn to peaceful plains, hankering to be on a bicycle, before I realised I was losing my guide.
Plane trees lined the avenues, patchy solid trunks, overhanging boughs lacking leaf. The seasons came later here, inland. Still, that eternal image of endless Provence was evoked, bathed in summer and dappled shade.
Yes, I like it here, I said to myself.
Eventually, we reached a winding, potholed driveway swimming in puddles that led us to the gated entrance of the property.
‘Have you been experiencing a great deal of rain here? We had shocking downpours late last week.’ My comment as we both stepped from our cars.
‘No, not at all.’
‘It’s waterlogged, the drive.’
‘Oh, that’s something else. Let’s go.’
Cream and serene, three storeys high, partially hidden behind century-old plane trees, the house welcomed us with its principal door and many windows open. Outside, set within early leaf shade were Lloyd Loom garden chairs and a small, round table with a glass top. The guardian or housekeeper had set a perfect scene.
‘It’s a pity you are here in this season. Another two months and the gardens will be a blaze of colours.’
To the right was a large rectangular lavender bed quadrangled by a low hedgerow of rosemary bushes. There was something rather peculiar about its layout but I could not figure out what. We had parked beneath one of two towering planes. One stood sentry each side of the wooden gates. To the left was a monumental pond where carp almost the size of baby sharks were ploughing through still green water.
‘Unusual, to find a pond of that size in the front courtyard,’ I remarked, but the agent was not listening. He seemed to be in rather a hurry. I trundled off after him.
I have always loved rambling expanses of untidy land with paths that disappear and reappear without logic and this Napoleon-style early nineteenth-century property seemed to have been designed to tease with its secrets. All that it offered was, at first, immediately enchanting. It was a beautifully proportioned house, far lovelier and more graceful than our farmhouse. It carried more history and some exceptional period features about it and, importantly, it contained an ample supply of bedrooms for the two girls, their partners, their five children and any other offspring that might still arrive. Before visiting the interior, the Spaniard suggested we tour the grounds. He led the way. Beyond an oasis of greenery, paddocks and meadows, we came upon a sizeable lake fed by a distant stream and he confessed that as a boy he had spent happy hours boating on this expanse of water. Although he was Spanish, he had grown up in one of the neighbouring villages. His First Holy Communion and later Confirmation had both been celebrated in the chapel that stood to the right of the main house. He walked me to it, opening its heavy wooden door with a massive key. A cool, limed white interior with a dozen or so chairs, askew, furnishing the space.
‘Masses are still held here.’
‘When the family is in residence?’
‘Erm, well, once a year, at least. The celebration of one annual mass is obligatory if it is to keep its consecrated status. One of the local priests, a fine father from Beaumes-de-Venise, performs the service. Of course, he has his own parish. His time is spoken for but he will occasionally conduct a wedding mass here.’
I pictured the young of the champagne dynasty tying the knot on perfect summer afternoons, blessed in vintage bubbles and advantage. ‘How gloriously privileged.’
He harrumphed. ‘Erm, usually, it’s village folk, but the services for the local children, such as I knew them, well, officially, they have all come to an end.’
He did not explain for what reason.
I caught sight of a golden Labrador sleeping, spreading itself in the spring sunlight. He lifted his head at our approach but bothered us no further. I could hear a machine running. It was a gardener working somewhere close by.
‘You should meet him. He’s served this property all his life.’
‘Ah, I wondered about the dog.’
‘No, she’s not his. The dog belongs with the house. She’s very old. Too old to travel with the family, so the mistress of the place just leaves her here.’
How sad I found it just to abandon the poor beast.
‘Yes, she’s a hateful woman,’ snarled the Spaniard. I was a little taken aback. Such information struck me as rather inappropriate. ‘She fights with everyone. The entire town hates her.’
We had moved on; a pebbled yard offered a fountain decorated with a lion’s head, snarling open jaws, through which the water flowed. Now we were examining another fountain, a hidden one, buried within the lower limbs of trees and bolstered by a makeshift rockery that struck me as quite recent.
‘Ingenious, isn’t it?’
There was a story that accompanied this dark corner – was it from the past or recent? I could not get to the bottom of it – but the agent seemed uncertain of its details, or unwilling to disgorge them.
‘Where is this water destined, replenishing the carp pond?’ It had struck me as rather stagnant.
‘No, not the pond but its flow has created a rather successful reroute, I believe.’ I could have sworn he was rather smug about it. His body language suggested a bird fluffing up its feathers.
I rose from my haunches, lifting myself up out of the roots. There was not an olive tree to be seen anywhere though we were only two hours from the coast. ‘Is nothing grown, produced on the land?’
He shook his head. ‘No, it’s a holiday home, occupied for two weeks only a year. Such a waste. They descend from Champagne like an army, a massive entourage. Sixteen or eighteen of them, plus children and servants who sleep on the top floor. Otherwise, throughout the rest of the year it stands empty.’
‘Any reason why they are selling?’ I doubted that even in these difficult times one of the largest champagne dynasties in France was short of cash.
‘I think she’s fed up fighting, too many court cases. Oh, but that is all over now.’
‘What is?’
My companion quickly realised that he had disclosed too much and would not be drawn, would not elucidate, fobbing me off with inconsequentials.
We passed on to the swimming pool. It had been sunk at the far corner of a field, out of the way. It was an odd, soulless addition, lacking changing rooms or a barbecue terrace or bowery where cool drinks might be served. Hospitality, joie de vivre, were absent. So, too, the kitchen when we eventually stepped inside the house. This was certainly not a room that represented the activity required to feed a household of twelve bedrooms.
‘It needs a little freshening up, refurbishment.’ Standard agent-speak. ‘They never eat in,’ he continued.
I also found it odd that the kitchen was at the front of the house, while the central staircase to the floors above was tucked away by the back door. Its layout was unusual in a property of this period and stature. I was beginning to realise that there was something curious about the building with its library in oak and its beautiful chestnut wood floors. I loved secrets, hidden gardens, but the house itself struck me as though woven in some web of deceit. I could not quite put my finger on what was odd. I had been told that the estate was ‘competitively priced for the present market’. In fact, for the acreage and number of bedrooms, it was exceedingly reasonable, but for what reason?
After three hours, the truth had still not come out.
My escort led me to the neighbouring vineyard ringed by the mountains of lace, les Dentelles.
‘The Dentelles range extends for fifteen kilometres and contains some of the finest walking in Provence, good pa
ths, very accessible. Wild almonds pink the hillsides in early spring, followed by broom blossoms closer to summer. Tranquil countryside. You see how craggy and ragged those peaks are?’
I nodded, gazing towards sharp, teeth-like summits clawing towards a blue sky.
‘Those are the result of a Jurassic trauma here. The limestone was forced upwards out of the earth and, over millennia, wind and weather erosion have needled away at them. And the views from up there, the nature, well, it is a spectacular spot.’
He spoke with an enthusiasm that suggested he loved this region, or was he also employed by the tourist board? He puzzled me, this man.
The vineyard itself was a vast, flat field of fifty thousand square metres nurturing twenty-five thousand vines.
‘This plain – magnificent, eh? – is not a part of the domaine, but the vineyard owners would be very happy to cede it to any potential purchaser if it assisted with the sale.’
‘Cede it?’
‘Cede, sell,’ he shrugged, Provençal fashion. ‘An amicable previously established settlement. The woman who owns it paid over the odds for it twenty-five years ago, but I know she would agree to a cash sum just so long as the contract stated the legal minimum. She doesn’t want to get saddled with state taxes. And, consider, with this vineyard in the estate papers, the newcomers could register themselves as agriculturalists and thus negate all annual land tax.’
I was bemused. We continued to pay land taxes, but this was another département and it was possible that the statutes differed here.
‘You could dig up the vines and plant olive trees. And the water issues would mean nothing with hardy, drought-resistant olive trees in place.’
‘Which water issues are you speaking of?’
He eyed me beadily. ‘Olive trees need precious little water,’ he replied testily. ‘And the region boasts an AOC for its olives and oil.’
‘Yes, I know. Are farmers troubled by invasions of the oleae fly?’
‘Unfortunately, yes, but there are one or two excellent pesticides that deal with the problem.’
‘Well, then, no olive trees for me,’ I muttered.
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