Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (20 page)

I try my best to be more reverent and my gaze lingers on the tribute in front of me. It is a memorial to the men of Cuzance who gave their lives in the first world war. Their names are inscribed in stone, and next to them, the name of the village where they were born. Most of them were from
petite
surrounding hamlets. Only one, Albert Barre, was born in Cuzance. It is a very long list for a village and surrounding
commune
as small as ours. Its presence adds a gravity to the proceedings and provides a solemn link to the past and the hopefulness and joy of the marriage taking place before us. It is always both strange and moving to be in the very country where a war was fought and not so far away at all from Cuzance. Whenever we travel on the
autoroute
to Brive, I think about the advancing march of German soldiers' boots and the fear that would have echoed in the hearts of the villagers. The despair of the farming families seems to reverberate through the years. Not just the loss of lives, but the farms that then languished, unable to be passed on to the next generation.

To pass the time, I whisper to Dominique and share stories of my own wedding in Istanbul, a far cry from this country wedding in Cuzance. I tell her about the ferocious thunderstorm that everyone assured us would bring tremendous luck. In a soft voice, I convey how I was fortunate to even get to the ceremony at all, as the taxi driver nearly crashed on the narrow streets of Besikatas, that were awash with the torrential deluge.

In a low murmur, I describe the Nato battleships that were at anchor in the Bosphorous and featured in all our wedding photos. I tell her how I didn't understand a word of the Turkish celebrant and that my main memory is crying out at the end, ‘The rings, the rings!' Somehow, we had forgotten to exchange them. And yet, here we are now, with a
petite maison
in France. It would seem that the prophecy about thunderstorms and luck may well have indeed been true. In return, Dominique shares with me the astonishing fact that they have been married for an extraordinary forty-five years.

At long last the ceremony is over. We are not however, prepared for the collection plate that is passed round. We don't have a single
euro
between us, so we slip quietly out the door into the bright sunshine and the patient throng awaiting the bride and groom.

Jean-Claude makes his way through the groups of gathered neighbours and friends, to go up to the tower so that the bells ring in rejoicement. As we wait to meet up with Françoise and the church empties, Dominique and I, in the way of women throughout the world, chat about what everyone is wearing. A young woman in a too-tight, too-short skirt that is not flattering by any stretch of the imagination, emerges. Dominique murmurs a single word to me, ‘McDonalds'. And who said French women don't get fat?

The four of us retreat across from the church for
apéritifs
, in the welcome shade of the huge pine tree on Jean-Claude's and Françoise's upper terrace. Hours after I had rapidly shed my work clothes for wedding attire, I make my way home to inspect Stuart's progress cleaning up
la grange
. The evening ends as I am sitting at our dining table writing in my notebook and Dominique taps on the window as she and Gérard slowly wend their way home after their evening
promenade
. There is a tinge of apricot pinkness on the horizon as they wish us ‘
Bonne nuit
'. The wafting aroma from the pig farm firmly reminds us that we are in the country as we close the door on the night after another memorable Cuzance day. The only sound is the plaintive bray of a lonely donkey that drifts across the fields.

The summer Sunday afternoon tranquillity is quite unlike any other day. Families throughout France gather and settle for long, leisurely lunches. The shops are shut, the roads are quiet. This Sunday starts for us with the
vide grenier
of all
vide greniers
– Gignac. Even for the French who never venture to one and to whom a
vide grenier
is
passé
, for weeks beforehand there is speculation about the rich treasure trove that is Gignac. The farmer's huge field is already half-full when we arrive – and we are not late by any means; certainly not on a market Sunday. The stalls stretch endlessly, overflowing with possible delights, the rows of enormous walnut trees creating a natural delineation for the stallholders to have set up their tables in long rows. Though there are always dozens of people milling about – sifting, searching, scrutinizing – there is a solemn expectant hush hovering over the walnut grove. The pursuit of treasure is too serious a business to be disturbed by idle chat. While many others make their way to village churches on Sundays, for those here, the canopy of walnut leaves creates a cathedral and the reverence is reserved for the worship of all things old – and the possibility of nirvana in the form of a true antique that may be stumbled upon.

There is a definite strategy to Gignac. One quick pass, up and down each row, scanning eagerly for the esteemed finds of the day, those that leap out and clamour to be bought. A short break for a
café
and
croissant,
then fortified, off for a more leisurely stroll, to pause, to linger, to discuss and share and choose. The
petite maison
is already full to the brim – it is
petite
after all – and after only a few years, we have to exercise caution and care in our selections. There are only so many old straw baskets and glasses and pieces of ancient cutlery that you can possibly have, tempting as they all are. We have already learnt to be far more discerning, though there are items that linger long in the mind afterwards and fall into the category of regrets.

Today there is another market to head to, so we head off to Estival. We have not been to it in previous years and we don't have high hopes at all, for, unlike Gignac's repute, we have not heard a word about it. It proves to be utterly charming. There is a cluster of pretty houses in the shadow of the solidly built church. The stalls are set up in a radius that spreads out from the looming church and down the tiny village lanes.

Stuart is pleased to meet up with our roofer from last year, and even more pleased that he remembers his name straight away, ‘
Bonjour Jean-Luc, ca va
?' Jean-Luc asks if we are working as hard as last year on our
maison
and
jardin.
Stuart assures him we are not.

The first stall we encounter is crammed with an abundance of old linen. Two old women, who I think are sisters, stand behind their array of old handmade wares. I think that they have spent a lifetime sewing and hemming and embroidering the faultless pieces, for they are as old as their linen. White-hair caught up in matching buns, stooped from sitting in matching armchairs late in to the evening next to a blazing winter fire, heads bent with fastidious precision over their sewing; each piece on their stall reflects the story of their life. As always, my imagination is fired by the romance of it all. I imagine they have lived their whole life in Estival, sharing each day together in a picture-perfect cottage, surrounded by
fleurs
, perhaps meant to marry but their loss recorded on the village war memorial that they pass each day when they step out to buy their daily
pain
.

Estival proves unexpectedly to be more fruitful than Gignac. Stuart spies the prize of the day. It is a 1950s Peugeot ceramic coffee grinder. As we leave, the narrow country road is choked with
dîner
time traffic, slowed to a standstill at times. The
voitures
creep along, forced frequently to edge cautiously to the side, to allow another one to pass, so narrow is the one road in and out of Estival. The edges drop away sharply, so there is quite a skill involved in the art of French country driving.

We drive through Martel on the way home to Pied de la Croix and notice the big banners strung across the main street advertising the international sheep shearing competition. We are sure there would be Australians taking part and make plans to watch it next year.

Today our basket is piled high. When we arrive home, we make a ceremony of laying out each find on the dining table. There is often a dilemma for me about what to keep in our
petite maison
, what to take home as gifts and what to put aside for our house at the sea. I am excited to have found exquisite French summer frocks for Emmi and Macy, the two little girls of our friends Healey and Souni, who live in Sydney, as well as linen galore for presents. I especially love unearthing old tea-towels and pillowcases, though today there was a funny moment when I reached to the back of a stall to examine a pile.

As I was deliberating over my choices, I caused much amusement when the stallholder grabbed the tea-towels back. He explained they were to later wrap his
déjeuner
in and were not for sale. Another special find is two tiny original watercolours of Corsica. They will be taken home to add a touch of this exotic landscape to our bedroom walls. As usual, we leave everything displayed to show Gérard and Dominique. Sunday afternoons we can definitely count on them to drop in for we have an unspoken competition about who finds the best bargains of the day. Invariably, I win!

We break our Sunday rule of taking the whole day off; there is just always too much to do. It is perhaps not quite true after all when Stuart told Jean-Luc that this year is more of a
vacances
. He gets stuck in to plastering the spare
chambre
. Next, he has to measure for new skirting boards as the old ones have simply crumbled to dust. We know only too well what old wood and little mounds of dust signify. We hope that it is not a sign of ominous activity in the open space under the floor where the floorboards too have rotted away. We pull a piece of old lino over the hole, cross our fingers and hope, as is our tendency, that the problem simply goes away.

My next task is to sand the front door where the varnish has peeled and faded with the extreme weather conditions that batter the little house, from the searing summer heat to the icy blasts of winter snow. My new sander works like a dream as it glides efficiently across the breadth of the door. As I climb the stepladder to sand the arch over the door, I discover stencilled in to the wood – 1989. Like the window frames, the door is quite a recent one, for this year, our
petite maison
is 130 years old. New varnish will help to ward off the icy tentacles of winter when it may well drop to minus eighteen again. The only thing that will ever lure us to a white French
Noël
is if we do one day renovate
la grange
and it is fully insulated and heated. Pied de la Croix's thick stone walls provide welcome coolness on hot summer days but winter in Cuzance is an altogether different matter. I have absolutely no desire to ever stay in a house where the freezing nights can only be kept at bay by stuffing huge wads of newspaper in to every crack and crevice. I have removed the tell-tale evidence and I don't intend to ever replace the pieces of
La Figaro
. Let our
petite maison
slumber through the depths of winter; I intend to never cross its doorstep, slippery with ice. Christmas in the country can remain a romantic notion.

As the temperature soars steadily, the grass browns and becomes crisp and crunchy underfoot. At the same time, the weeds continue to flourish – the curse of country life in Cuzance. Swallows fill the evening sky and swoop in graceful curves. The hay is all cut for the season and tractors have mown the fields in both straight and rounded rows of pale gold. As the heat intensifies with the passing days, even the bird song chorus becomes more subdued.

On Mondays, we dance to the dictates of our own demands. Our fourth week sees us fully resume our old
renovation
habits
.
Up early, pull on our work clothes, a hasty
petite déjeuner
, then it's off to the spare
chambre
for me. It is not quite like last year when the very morning of Liz's arrival, this was the project I started on, yet it is very similar, for Lydia and Erick are due to stay in just two days.

The tin of paint is like rich molten chocolate as I dip my brush in. It glides on to the thirsty skirting boards as smoothly as silk. Unlike most renovating projects, I'm finished ahead of my self-imposed schedule, so I move on to varnishing the front door to bring it back to life. Next, I manage to paint the front grill that overlays the door, in a glossy black shine. And then, the gravel arrives – all twenty-five tonnes of it. This is when a new word is about to permanently enter my vocabulary; one that will be indelibly stamped into my memory:
castine
. This is not a word in vocabulary lists in guide books for a
vacances
in France. I abandon my brush, grab my camera to record this momentous moment, and dash outside to watch the proceedings in a state of high anxiety.

The truck is massive. After considerable manoeuvring, it literally just manages to squeeze in past our two stone pillars. I then clutch the purple hibiscus near the pillars, close to my chest to protect it, as the truck lumbers past, down the stretch of grass that leads to the orchard. Stuart races along next to the truck to direct it. The placement of the gravel is critical. We have to move all twenty-five tonnes of gravel by wheelbarrow and then spread it out around
la piscine
. A few feet in the wrong direction will make all the difference in the world to the number of loads we have to move. There is a heart-stopping moment when the truck tentatively approaches the far side of the pool, the one with the slope that dips towards the edge of it. My heart is in my mouth. It seems an inevitable collision course is unavoidable; gravity alone can surely not prevent the truck tipping on its side and losing its load straight into
la piscine,
with the truck tumbling after it
.
This is a moment I cannot capture on my camera. Truth be told, I can barely even watch.