Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (18 page)

She now imperiously enters
la grange
. I grab our feeble torch. It seems to only ever be used for investigating disturbing noises and animals. I peer inside the barn. There is the distinctive mew of new-born kittens. Of all the places she has chosen to have them, it is the ancient cow manger, still strewn with straw. The last thing I need is the responsibility for French kittens in a foreign land.

My day starts in a way I could never have possibly predicted. In the morning light, I'm able to investigate the litter of kittens in the barn manger. There are four
petite
tabby ones, as small as my hand. Clearly, they are only a day old. I have absolutely no idea what to do about the unexpected appearance of four French kittens. For the moment, I shelve the dilemma. There is work to be done.

Fortunately, on this allocated work day, the temperature has plummeted by about ten degrees. Ironically, it is a day we fervently hope the sun doesn't break through the grey, gloomy clouds. My job is still to collect stones to fill in the edges along the sides of
la piscine
. The gap is so gaping that I'm concerned I have nearly depleted my supply of stones gleaned from the land. Then – and I don't know how I could have possibly overlooked it before – I find a mother vein. These are the sorts of things that make you jubilant on a day in Cuzance.

The cistern wall has been concreted over at some point and there is a huge pile of concrete debris. I fill pail after pail, the clouds of concrete dust, swirling and choking.

However, despite scrabbling in the dirt and weeds and concrete, the source of my in-fill makes me ecstatic. I consciously realise how quickly the focus of my world has changed.

We have indeed gone fully ‘off the grid' as Stuart has declared to people he is doing when he heads to France. However, we discover that our rural backwater is now colliding with the twenty-first century when we find out that the Hotel Arnal now has wifi connection.

It is an incongruous sight when I walk past one day and see foreigners connected to the world on their laptops. It remains a world that we avoid as much as possible. Every now and then, I pause in my labouring, to peep in at the soft bundle of French kittens.

It's been a whole year since I worked so vigorously and relentlessly. It soon comes back to me however... I have resorted to lying fully stretched out in the dirt next to
la piscine,
to carefully place the larger rocks along the wall of the pool. I then scoop in buckets full of small stones. The hard work balances the daily delights of
abricot hibou
and
pain au chocolate
. I work as if I am human digger. I scrape and dig and lay and shovel.

The wood pigeons, perched high on
la grange
roof, peer at me in puzzlement. Their soft cooing seems to be a murmuring background of incredulity at my strange actions.

Stuart has set off after
déjeuner
to the
bricolage
to buy a cement mixer. This is exactly the sort of purchase that is on everyone's list when they go on
vacances
. Across the now silent
jardin
, I hear the unusual sound of Monsieur Chanteur's raised voice. I can make out the words, ‘
Je t'aime, je t'aime
.' These are words the whole world knows. His tone is both anguished and passionate as he declares his love for his wife. From glancing across at them daily as they move ever so slowly from their
maison
to
le jardin
for their meals, I know it is his sheer strength of will and enduring love that is keeping his wife alive.

As they make their way at the pace of an
escargot
to their table under the walnut tree, Monsieur Chanteur firmly grips his wife's elbow to support her faltering steps. Even from afar, I can see his loving grasp is far firmer than last year. Madame Chanteur may be fading before our very eyes but their enduring love is clearly not.

In my musings about his fervent declaration, I decide that over
déjeuner
, perhaps Madame Chanteur has declared that it is simply too much for her equally elderly husband to continue to care for her in his steadfast way. His declaration that carries across the
jardin
is a cry of protest. I have always known that he will walk by her side with utter devotion until the very end. An end I fear is near.

As I wait for Stuart's return with our shiny red cement mixer, I consult the dictionary to compose several sentences that I certainly never expected to have to use. I carefully check my construction with Dominique when they drop in. Very fortunately, their visit coincides with Stuart's triumphant return, our
petite
Renault Scenic staggering under the weight of our mixer. I too would have been staggering if Gérard was not on hand to help haul it out. We are all astonished at what our
voiture
can manage to squeeze in. We all duly admire the cement mixer before I ask Dominique if I have the correct words for our new French family of a cat and four kittens in our
grange
.

I then leave on my French kitten quest through the village, clutching my piece of paper with the vital words. Marinette is sitting with a group of
amis
in her front
jardin
.

She calls out, ‘
Bon promenade
?'

Always conscious of protocol, and knowing my questions are highly unusual, I politely respond, ‘
Bonjour, non, non. Ca va?',
‘Hello. No, I am not promenading. How are you?' before I launch into my ‘Do you own a black cat? Do you know anyone in the village who does? If so, it has had four kittens in our barn.' Just to be quite sure that everyone grasps exactly what it is I'm saying, I also hand over my note that Dominique has written for me.
Bonjour
,
avez-vous une chat noir
? And so the note continues, explaining my French kitten dilemma. It does not change the outcome in the slightest.

Accompanied by many gestures as usual, I make sure that the piece of paper with my carefully constructed sentences, is handed round to everyone present in my attempt to explain the reason behind my walk. I am fervent and anxious. I simply cannot leave a black cat and four French kittens to fend for themselves when we leave. Their response is to collectively laugh heartily. Quite clearly, I am the highlight of their afternoon.

My quest includes visiting the
maison
in the lane behind our
grange
. I have at times seen
le chat
disappear through our orchard, headed in this direction, so I have high hopes that the cat and kittens belong very nearby. I cautiously unlatch the gate, very conscious that there is a sign attached: ‘
Attention chien
'. This is something I clearly understand; to be on alert, that there is a dog present. Engulfed by fear that I am going to be savaged by a dog – while trying to save my French kittens – I tentatively creep up the gravel path and knock hesitantly on the door. Indeed, there is frantic barking, but to my enormous relief, it is a jumping bundle of white fur that greets me rather than the savage barking
bonjour
I am dreading. My relief is not matched by the fact that my neighbour has no knowledge of
le chat;
it is certainly not his and he has no desire to adopt my four French kittens.

What happens next when I continue through the village, stumbling through my several straightforward sentences? Everyone else I encounter simply laughs too, just like Marinette and her
amis
. Yes, they all know the
noir chat;
yes, they are very familiar with its
promenades
through Cuzance, but no, nobody owns it. Everyone seems to have the same suggestion. While my French is very limited to say the least, there is no mistaking the general consensus. Asphyxiate
le chats.
I convey the full extent of my horror at the thought.

My last stop is at the Hotel Arnal where there is quite a gathering for the
apéritif
hour. I repeat my routine and entreaty. While the people in the village collectively already think we are quite mad for our endeavours – to come from the other side of the world and
rénover
on
vacances
– my request simply cements in their minds their opinions of our foolishness. Yet I continue, imploring everyone to ask their friends and neighbours if they will adopt our kittens. Despite the laughter at my expense, I end with what I am sure will be a seductive selling point. I conclude persuasively by reminding everyone that cats are excellent for mice in the country.

I return and sink disconsolately on to our
très jollie
front steps. I gather my thoughts about our French kitten quandary. Gérard and Dominique return for an
apéritif
and even they cannot quite understand my sense of responsibility for the cats. They are leaving soon for
la plage
and we are invited to a farewell
dîner
. Thoughts of them relaxing at the beach do not lift my spirits. Not only will I be working relentlessly in the summer heat, I now have an unresolved dilemma. What I do know is that it is out of the question to smuggle four French kittens home.

Talk turns to lighter matters. French people love talking about food;
cuisine
underpins their very existence; buying it, preparing it, eating it. We have bought a can of
Confit de Canard
in the
supermarché
yet we are not clear at all about how to cook duck that comes preserved in a can. I go inside to get both the can and a frying pan for an impromptu ‘cooking' demonstration on our little porch. We want to be quite sure about the instructions for creating an authentic French meal in our own
cuisine
. Gérard explains that you drain all the
confit
to roast your potatoes in the duck fat. I'd forgotten that detail from when we had
dîner
with them last year and now the memory of their crisp, delicious flavour, floats back into my tastebuds. I am looking forward immensely to this meal of our region.

The
chat
saga does not disappear however. In the following weeks, every time Jean-Claude encounters Monsieur Arnal outside his hotel, he gleefully enquires whether I have yet succumbed to smothering my French kittens. On my behalf, Jean-Claude indignantly reiterates each time, ‘
Non, non!'
Long live
le chat
I think each time he repeats his tale to me.

On the morning of our much-anticipated outing to watch the
Tour de France
in the nearby town of Souillac, I vigorously resist venturing out to
la grange
to check the kittens; they are not mine after all. It has not made matters any better though when over
dîner
the previous night, Stuart glanced out the window and remarked that ‘our cat' was walking down the road to the village. ‘
Non, non
,' I protest. ‘It is not our
le chat
.'

The
Tour de France
is going to pass just three kilometres away from Cuzance in the nearby village of Cressensac. There has been much discussion and speculation for weeks with our friends about the best vantage point. Stuart has long had his strategy worked out. He's determined to go to Souillac to see the cyclists tackle the steep hill just over the Dordogne. While Cressensac is very close, it is flat and they will simply pass by without the challenge end exertion of a vertical climb. He has even worked out precisely where to park, at Point P, Materiaux de Construction – a place he is very familiar with from ordering our sand and gravel. It is on the outskirts, will not be crowded and we should easily find a place to park. When Dominique and Gérard give us a copy of the local paper,
La Dépêche,
it is exactly the place that is suggested for locals to park. Our strategy and time to leave is further revised when Jean-Claude tells us that the main roads into Souillac will be closed from 9.30 am. He advises us to go on the back roads that only locals know, a circuitous route that goes through the hamlet with the delightful name, Le Pigeon.

Day after day, the sun plays hide-and-seek with the clouds. On the
Tour de France
day, we are very lucky – it is not wet nor too cold or hot. The weather gods are on our side. We park on the outskirts of Souillac an hour before the tour whizzes through. As we walk from near the ancient, soaring stone viaduct, to find a viewing position, an efficient, alert
gendarme
enquires where we parked. I am able to reply ‘
Derriere, du pont
,' – ‘Behind the viaduct.' So simple, yet I am so pleased with myself to be able to tell him.

With a throng of other followers of
le Tour
, we walk to the edge of the town centre. Our plan is to walk up the steep hill near a roundabout at the end of the main street, so we can see the cyclists pick up speed and swish up the incline. As we near the roundabout, there are thick crowds already lining each side of the hill. Clearly, many have been there for hours, judging by the way they are set up with their folding chairs and picnic hampers. It is then we spot the perfect vantage point, a curved, arching wall that runs parallel to the hill. Behind it is a narrow road, lined with houses. Astonishingly, given the ideal view it offers, there are still spaces left. It is a superb spot, for you can see right along the main boulevard of Souillac where the cyclists will first appear, before ascending the hill right in front of us.

We don't have long to wait at all before the hour-long
caravane
starts. This is a feature of the Tour that is not shown at home but we had been told about it by our friends and seen the
caravane
the previous year when we watched
le Tour
in Figeac. It is a lively procession of advertising floats that builds up an atmosphere of anticipation. The floats blare loud, catchy music and energetic young dancers perform enthusiastically on the back of them. The atmosphere builds quickly. There are cars and vans and open-back trucks, advertising Carrefour, Vital and other big French brands. Sweets, key rings, caps and journals are tossed to the exuberant crowd.