by Sam Juneau
Almost speechless, I managed, ‘I am terribly sorry.’
‘It is not uncommon for her. She has her black periods. For the past few years, she has tried this. It is not easy.’
It all made sense now. Who of us would not be marginal with a burden like this?
‘Of course, take the time you need and let me know later when you can return.’
‘I will.’
What is there to say, really? Our endeavour, the work, the mounting money worries, the stress of the birth, were all things chosen by us. Here Gilles was faced with a real difficulty, a tragedy of nature not of his choosing, an affliction that struck a good man and his children and his sick wife.
It became time, within the week, for Gilles to leave. He would go and not return. The puny sufferings we had so eagerly chosen faded into their rightful place of insignificance alongside this man placed in our home, quite possibly, to show us the goodness and bounty of our lives.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tempest
We didn’t really know where the tempest came from. It just blew up one night from nowhere. Crisp, jovial autumn had turned into its meaner, brooding older brother winter. Just like that. The house was colder inside than outside. The puny space heaters and 1950s radiators spluttered away trying to throw a little warmth into the vast hollow spaces of the chateau. We made do some days by turning on the hob full blast and using a good three months’ butane gaz in one morning’s coffee and baguette break. Then it came.
Our beloved workmen had been busily scraping, tapping, scrubbing, sanding, painting, plastering and plumbing away for a good few months now. On the odd day, I would lend my unlearned and woefully unskilled hand to knock down or pull out or place the odd bit here and there. Bud and I continued our examination of the outbuildings finding bits and pieces. The Irish lads had organised the hundred-something nineteenth-century oak doors laying in good repair in the stables. They managed to store them in an empty attic by stacking them neatly against the walls and separating them by size and colour. This treasure trove included all the doors that were removed from the chateau in order to make way for the new hollow-core pine doors chosen by the former owners of the institution. As we poked around, we found lovely stone tiles, octagonal in shape and sandy coloured, a fairly common pattern from the eighteenth century; and pinkish-white square marble slabs, lovely for bathrooms: both remnants of renovations past, thankfully left for us to be recycled in the chasm of this home’s endless improvements.
Of course, our real desire was to find treasure, something of such inestimable value, something so precious that magically all of our money worries would evaporate and we could restore the house to its one-time shining glory. Sadly, it was not to be. But if you needed a thresher or an old washing machine, a porcelain heater, handsome horse stalls, terracotta tiles, intricately carved wrought iron window guards or broken pieces of handmade porcelain tiles, Bonchamps was the place to find them. Bud in her infinite frugality would find a use for all these sundries.
Most of our days were spent rooting around in the outbuildings and talking to the artisans, making hundreds of small decisions that, hopefully, would turn into a harmonious whole. We spent other days shopping for furniture in brocantes, or thrift shops, less expensive antique shops and vide-greniers, or car boot sales. There were always worthy and interesting items to be had, for good prices too. We planned on six bedrooms to start the bed and breakfast. Two of the bedrooms were suites and really had two bedrooms each. So that was ten rooms to furnish, plus the dining room, library and our private salon. Generally, we stayed close to authentic, mostly nineteenth-century reproductions of older pieces while putting together a nice collection of new mattresses, towels, linens, bathmats and all the minutiae needed to create a comfortable stay for our hoped-for clients.
Bud continued to breastfeed Blue part-time, while Grim grew inordinately from mother alone. Some days, and some days all day, she had two tiny creatures lashed to two swollen breasts. Our stated and intended goal, to spend as much time with our children in their tender years, was being achieved. Some days, we weren’t quite sure we would ever meet our deadlines and plans for restoring the house. But the children were benefiting, so we told ourselves, from the constant care and endless preening of two attentive, if not harried, parents. While Bud fed the babies, I helped cook, clean and tidy the house like a good little househusband.
Ludovic continued what I considered to be the most tedious job known to man – painting all the windows on the property. He would come rain or shine, in good health and bad, with sander, paintbrush, bucket and odd panes of glass, weatherstripping and putty. I would wander out from time to time and marvel at his perseverance. I truly believed the sheer size and drudgery of the job would crush a lesser man.
Didier, meanwhile, was working his way through the house, painting and mixing colours, scraping and repainting. Mocques the plumber would come in too, install a bathroom here and there and leave. We would not see him for weeks, then all of a sudden, he appeared, his lined, smiling face a wonderful sight as the house was slowly but surely rehabilitated. He fitted and positioned and refined first one, then two, and then five bathrooms, all perfect, in our minds, for our future guests.
In early December, the air was cold, the ground damp, the wild boar were busy digging up large swathes in the apple orchard, and we shivered and felt physically miserable. Emotionally, we were quite happy with the progress. We had managed to pick and choose enough furniture to fill at least three-quarters of the rooms. The work was roughly 60 per cent done – at least the work we had planned on doing. If you looked at the overall project and included refinishing the facade, repairing the stone decorative elements, replacing the roof and heating systems and cleaning up the outbuildings, we were at three per cent. That was a generous estimate, too.
The day began as most other days began. The kids roused themselves from deep sleep, we followed, performed our daily ‘toilette’ and trundled downstairs for coffee and croissants. But this day, massive clouds could be seen on the horizon, the most enormous bank of blackness we had ever seen. All the artisans showed up, quite early, to begin their labours of love and necessity.
‘There will be a big storm tonight. So I will leave early,’ Didier said as I crossed him in the hall.
‘Will it be so bad you have to leave early?’ I asked.
‘There was a storm in ninety-eight that killed thousands of trees, winds very high. This might be such a storm.’
I had heard of this storm. It had struck with devastating force, wiping out forests and roofs and gargantuan swathes of vegetation across France. Versailles had lost thousands of old-growth trees that are just today being replaced. Our own little forest still revealed dozens of massive fallen trees. Now Didier had said there might be another. As the day advanced, the clouds closed in like forces of evil amassing for a shocking assault on our little community. By late afternoon, we were enveloped in thick blackness as the sun began its slide down behind the pond.
The workmen scurried home early as agreed amid many ‘bon courage’, hoping to install themselves in their cosy lairs to ride out the storm. By 7 p.m., all was still and eerily quiet. The trees did not move and the cats took refuge in the million hiding places around the property. When we turned into bed around 10 p.m., it was still quiet. We drifted off to sleep slightly disconcerted by the deafening silence.
I shot out of bed at Lord knows what time like a cartoon character, practically hitting my head on the three-metre ceiling. The noise, louder than anything I’d ever heard, issued from the heavens and exploded just outside the house. It also woke Bud. Amazingly, the children slept soundly. We darted through the bathroom and into the adjoining room which faced out the front of the house overlooking the pond. The room was for the kids but since they slept with us, it served as a dressing area and toy dumping ground. We stumbled over the remnants of a busy child’s day and searched for the lights but there was no electricity. We neared the window as ligh
tning illuminated the inside of the room through thick oak shutters. It shone like spotlights with the brilliance of tiny suns.
I opened the double window with a turn of the lead lever. The window flew open and banged ominously against the wall. Glass flew across the room as a massive gust encircled our dazed figures. But I wanted to see more, to feel the power of the wind, so I pushed open the shutters. The three gargantuan, ancient sycamores next to the pond were swaying in the deluge like drunken sailors. And then another crash so loud we both ducked down instinctively. We rose slowly and peered out the window.
Just over the pond, a hundred or so yards from our window, long, thick lightning bolts danced before our eyes. It was as if Poseidon and Zeus were having one final battle, exchanging thrusts and parries with their lightning bolts, performing for two cowering mortals. The bolts zigged and zagged and darted and flew and spun and struck left and right, up and down. I had seen the Northern Lights in Alaska and other phenomenal natural phenomena such as splendid, massive cloud banks and the spewing of giant volcanoes on my travels. But this – this was exceptional. We must have seen a couple of hundred lightning bolts in those endless minutes.
The tempest pursued itself well into the night as we trotted back to bed and tried to make sense of the most spectacular show we had ever witnessed. Nature had reared its head to remind us of our place in the universe.
The next morning was not so titillating. Depressing, in fact. Amidst all of the crackling and noise and fireworks, we might not have heard another crash inside the building. It was my habit to explore the chateau after any storm to look for damage. With trepidation, I made my way to the second floor and started my survey. About halfway through, I entered a small sitting room, formerly for the servants. Pine floors, nice mouldings and a small, discreet marble fireplace where the domestiques would lounge after a hard day’s work. There I found a large chunk of plaster splattered dramatically on the floor. I could see up into the attic, and beyond that, sky. We had had small leaks and minor irritations here before, but this was significantly more than minor. Also, the water had poured, apparently, in a nice steady stream into the room and down through the ceiling below. Of course, this was a room Didier had just finished painting.
I finished my rounds by moving to the third floor tower attic. There too sky, beautiful sky, and water and damp everywhere, but no visible leaks though into the room below. The roof was composed of 400 square metres of black slate hammered with small nails into laths of wood. No insulation, no lining, nothing to protect it from outside except for these thin, feeble slivers of stone.
With our money dwindling into the hands of good workmen and eager antique sellers, we made the call. For the time being, we could only see fit to patch the holes. I arranged with a local artisan roofer to replace the many missing slates on the main house and outbuildings. That was another two or three thousand euros we would never see again. There went another few beds and linens and half an armoire, or maybe a nice sofa, in one night of nature’s apocalyptic temper tantrum. This strain led to a small tempest of our own, a heated debate about the viability of our project.
One day, all the roiling tensions came to a head. We were sitting in the music room in front of a massive open fire. The children were napping upstairs. Lately, I had been impatient with Bud and the kids, short with the workmen and generally grumpy. It was at points like this I needed my wife to step in and settle the anxiety beast.
‘Sam, we need to talk,’ Bud said firmly. ‘I know the pressure of getting this going has been causing some problems. But you have to remember, we are not that far from opening. Just think of what we’ve done. There’s not much left to do. And what else are we going to do, give up now? We haven’t even really started the real work, the B&B. You’ve got to relax a little about the money.’
‘I know you’re right. But I must say you were right from the beginning. It’s too big. There’s too much to do. It seems that for every step we take forward, we take a step or two backward. And this is just to get the doors open for the first season, which will be slow in any case.’ I was calm and it felt good to acknowledge the rightness of Bud’s misgivings on that first visit to the property.
Bud proceeded patiently. ‘We really don’t have a choice. It would be impossible to sell this thing. It’s really a white elephant. I can understand why no one was willing to take it on.’
There it was. The truth. Even if we wanted to bail out, to seek higher ground, we were tied to the monster house. I couldn’t see any way we could unload the burden, despite our persistent improvements. Who in their right mind would take on such a project with so much left to do? I felt like a trapped animal, not knowing which way to turn. Unlike Sartre’s Huis Clos, hell wasn’t other people. Hell was a lack of possibility, a dearth of options.
‘You’re right. The only question is how long will we have to pay for this mistake?’ We both laughed. Somehow, the tension was lessened as we acknowledged our fate. We had made a choice and now we were bearing the consequences. There was no way but forward. Stick to the plan and try to make it work. Something would come through to help us over this last mental hurdle.
Later that day, we took a short trip with the children to the Château de Brissac. This was one of the grande dames of the Loire Valley. I had picked up a brochure at the boulangerie and discovered that each year, Brissac and its Duc and Duchesse opened its doors for a Christmas fair. After an hour of driving, we arrived at the gates of the ‘tallest chateau in France’, or so the publicity said. The house was massive, built on medieval ramparts and substantially renovated in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Spread out on the impeccable lawns, under sequoias and Lebanese cedars like our own, artisans and craftspeople had set up booths.
Inside, the little bazaar continued as wonderfully creative people offered handmade ornaments, smoked eel, delicious cakes and hand-painted pottery for sale. We made our way around the labyrinthine halls into splendid Renaissance galleries and massive rooms. As we meandered, I noted that the floor tiles and wood panelling and ceiling decorations were not so different from our own. Brissac was more splendid and more authentic than our own chateau. But Bud and I enjoyed examining the similarities and truly felt a certain pride, a contentment in being part of the select fraternity of châtelains.
As we were making our way down the main staircase, a white stone confection of carved heads and wild animals, we bumped into a handsome, tall family coming out of a hidden passageway just to the right of the staircase. They were all sporting new ski clothes and carrying skis and poles and mittens and bags. This seemed odd until, as we followed them down the stairs, the manager of the chateau greeted them and introduced them to a group of tourists. As I heard the words ‘Duc et Duchesse de Brissac et leurs enfants’, I was overcome by a sense of camaraderie and deep relief. Even the nobility had to share space with strangers and charge admission and open their private lives in some small way to strangers. In a very real sense, the lord and lady of the manor were in the exact same position as us. Owners of an unwieldy and demanding chateau forced by penury and necessity to open their lives to the scrutiny and roving eyes of people outside the family. We hadn’t really dealt extensively with the intrusions of outsiders but it was nice to know that even the privileged, the nobles, might share some of our financial woes. Why else would they let people into their house?
Bud and I drove back to our piece of paradise talking about the similarities of the two houses and sharing thoughts on the difficulties that all estate owners must bear. Constant renovations, incessant lack of funds and a persistent need to always come up with ways to keep the mission underway.
This small insight into the Brissac world gave us a new sense of perspective. In spite of the ups and downs of chateau ownership, we, like the Duc and Duchesse, were truly blessed to share our lives with a part of living history. It was things like this, the occasional readjustment of attitude, the sometime realisation of our good fortune, that gave us sustenance to continue
something that was too big, too grand for physical, mental and financial resources. Our moods were at times determined by the weather and the stubborn implacability of the estate. But my, was the chateau lovely in that storm.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Open for Business, Almost
Our first months of the new year were frenzied. We were pushing the workmen like sweaty, tired horses to get everything finished. Our money problems continued even though, now, seven months after I had made an agreement with the bank, our new loan was coming through. The extra 50,000 euros we extracted from our new loan would just cover the remainder of the work and a bit more furniture; a small plaster to help us make it through to the beginning of summer. After that, we would have to rely on the business. Such as it was. That is to say, non-existent.
As our kindly French count down the road had pointed out, we were off the beaten path. There were roughly half a dozen magnificent Loire Valley chateaux within 30 minutes of the house. But the big ones, the ones people really came to see, were 45 minutes to an hour and a half away, more towards Tours. We were closer to Angers, a lovely town and former seat of the Plantagenet dynasty. There were medieval buildings and nice squares, a grand fortress, a famous tapestry and calm, shop-lined pedestrian avenues. But it wasn’t near enough to the most visited Loire Valley chateaux of Chambord, Blois, Chenonceau and Azay-le-Rideau. We were hamstrung from the beginning, and we knew it. In our more defensive moments, we would argue, ‘Who wouldn’t want to stay in a vast seventeenth-century chateau in the French countryside?’ But the answer was clear: anyone who wanted to be near the famous sites in the region.
Because I was such a poor artisan, I would have to show my worth in the marketing of the chateau. I set about sorting out annonces, or publicity, on the best French- and UK-based accommodation websites I could find and afford. Guidebooks, I knew in spite of my ignorance, would take more time. You had to contact the book publishers, set up appointments, wait for the writers and editors to pen their glowing thoughts about the house and then, after all that, wait for the publication of the travel guide, usually a year later. We had to get a quick start on the Internet and make our way from there.