Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (30 page)

The
vacances
has been totally abandoned by now. There are even shades of prison camp moments, as Stuart informs me one cool damp afternoon when he has spent hours moving enormous rocks and attempting to dig holes for more trees to be planted. The ground is so stony, that he is forced to give up, defeated by the limestone rocks that lie in wait just below the surface. They prove impossible to move. Another plan thwarted...

We learn that the cool damp days in Cuzance are echoed at home. It would seem the weather gods are laughing right around the world. Ferocious claps of thunder reverberate in the weather gods' loud merriment.

Nature has truly reclaimed the land and exerted a strong hold on our
rustique jardin
. I continue my efforts trying to free trees on the boundary that are being choked by blackberries. They fling themselves rapaciously in my face and despite my thick gloves, the thorns are so sharp they pierce my hands with a rapier-like onslaught. I feel like a human pincushion.

By the time we stagger inside our
petite maison
, defeated by darkness, we both slump in utter weariness over our bowls of pasta, barely able to lift our forks to our mouths. The direction of the wind brings the sound of traffic speeding to Paris on the
autoroute
. Despite my consuming exhaustion, and despite my true love for it when I do visit Paris, I remain perpetually happy that our house is not in Paris. The quiet of a Cuzance evening is a balm.

Pure crisp light illuminates
le jardin
and there is now a distinctive chill in the early morning hours as the season perceptibly changes. It is time to face the reality of leaving and our return to the ‘real' world. Appointments are duly made to be ready to return to work. As the weeks have passed, so too has my confidence grown. I set off to
le coiffure
in Martel, key words all carefully checked and written down prior, for fringe, colour and cut:
frange
,
couleur
and
couper
.

What I do lack is the French to explain,
désolé,
sorry I am late as I was held up behind a slow, trundling tractor on the narrow, winding road. French drivers are the most reckless that I have ever encountered. Double lines, blind corners – no problem.

The foot goes down and off they race, frequently with no way at all of telling if there is an oncoming
voiture
beyond the narrow curve of the road. I wouldn't say that I am averse to putting my foot down at times but not on these roads and not when I am still schooling myself in the right way of driving on the wrong side... Eventually however, even the farmer turns his head round to check why I haven't bothered to overtake him.

When I arrive at
le coiffure
, it is a situation that I do not attempt to mime. Perhaps I will end up with a basin-cut if I do... Things are already looking a bit tricky, as the only word that I could find in the dictionary for ‘fringe' is ‘on the fringe of the forest'. Very fortunately for me,
frange
does turn out to be the right word.

There is only one other client in
la coiffure.
The hairdresser, Emilie, is young and attractive, and engages in a non-stop, impassioned conversation with the older woman.

I am at a complete loss to follow, though I deduce that very possibly Emilie has had her heart broken, possibly betrayed by an
amie
, possibly both her ex-boyfriend and now ex-friend have left for Paris, where possibly he has joined the
gendarme
. Then again, I may well have possibly got all this quite wrong.

After her other client leaves, I notice she writes a cheque to pay. I always find it interesting that cheques are still used so frequently in France. You see people writing them everywhere; in the
supermarché
, in restaurants and
le bricolage
.

I return home and my last Monday ends with cutting back our lavender plants. It is surreal that in just a week I will have had my first day back at school. It is immensely satisfying meanwhile to do something so pleasurable in the garden; not something I ever imagined doing in my life; cutting my own lavender in my own French
jardin
.

As my fingers brush against the stalks, the aroma wafts around me in a fragrant cloud.

By the time I finish, my round, woven French market basket is full. I take it inside and the pungent freshness of summer fills our
petite maison
. I wonder if there will be any lingering remnants of it when we return in a year.

The rain-soaked windows echo our own emotions about leaving; hearts heavy at the thought of not seeing our
petite maison
for another year. Yet the sadness is balanced by the prospect of reunions – our beloved Henri, family, friends and my students, who always stay in a corner of my heart. I think of many of them while working in
le jardin
.

I wonder if any of them will ever follow in my footsteps and one day find themselves in a
petite
village in rural France. Who knows? The seeds have been sown.

On the eve of departure, we make new
amis
in our village. Jan and her little boy, Arthur stop on their daily
promenade
for a chat and she invites us for an
apéritif
the following evening. She tells us that when she was young, she was friends with Jean Pierre who lived in our house. I then find out that Pied de la Croix did not get a bathroom until the seventies.

Jan's
maison
is in the quiet lane behind our house. It is one we have admired. On one of our evening
promenades
we had seen the extended family, gathered round tables in
le jardin
for a summer reunion and
dîner
. At the time, I had thought once again, like many other vignettes, how much it too was just like a scene in a French film – and now, we too have been invited. I ask Jan to let her mother know that we had glimpsed the whole family gathered in
le jardin
one evening, when I peeped over the hedge and that I had already felt entranced by the generations, ensconced deep in the French countryside.

Jan assures me that we will be part of those gatherings in future years. I feel profoundly touched.

Jan tells us she has been having summer holidays in Cuzance since she was a child in the seventies, when her mother first bought the house. While we are still deep in rural France, the last fifty years have seen significant changes. When she was a child, there was no water in the village. Everyone had to drive to Martel to collect their water. However, in those days, there were two shops in Cuzance. One, now Brigitte Dal's house, where the old scales for weighing are still in place, and the other, the room overlooking our village road, that Françoise now uses to iron. I learn from Jan that Françoise and Jean-Claude's
magnifique maison
is referred to by the locals as ‘the castle'. I can well understand that, for I remember being awestruck when we first visited their fairytale home.

Apéritifs
with Jan and her
mère,
Margot are served in their utterly secluded
jardin
that is surrounded by lauriers and susurrus pines. Unlike our house and barn, their
grange
was built first, followed by the
maison
in later years. Arthur swoops upon Stuart and parades his collection of toys for him to admire. The talk flows over
foie gras
and sweet white wine, served in delicate wine glasses that were Jan's great grandmother's.

Whenever we have
apéritifs or dîner
with friends, it is the same. The treasured family heirlooms are a part of everyday life, not
objets
to be locked away. Even
petite
Arthur has his orange juice in an exquisite old glass.

Jan tells us that we are ‘famous' in the village. It is very flattering but quite a surprise to us. We did know however, that the inhabitants of Cuzance have long been intrigued about why we come from so far each year, to this little corner of France and then spend our days working endlessly. Nevertheless, it is pleasing to be told that everyone appreciates and admires our efforts.

What thrills me the most as we chat about life in the village, is to be told that in fact, our
petite maison
hid
Résistance
fighters. This has long been my dream that this was the case. To have it confirmed by Margot, who has been living between Paris and Cuzance for fifty years, creates a feeling that I can hardly describe. Perhaps in part it explains the warmth our little house exudes; that it played a small part in preserving freedom. I think about the long-abandoned cross hanging on a chain in the attic – a relic that I will never remove. I now wonder even more about it and to whom it belonged.

So the
la grange
of our new
amis
and our
petite maison
are linked, just as we are forging a new friendship, for we are also told that their barn was a repository for British bombs. I try hard to peer into the past to catch a glimpse of the valour of the brave men and women who fought stealthily to save Cuzance – and France.

The layers of history and intriguing insights shared over our
apéritifs,
extend far beyond Cuzance
.
I am particularly fascinated by Margot's stories, hinted at, but not fully revealed. I am assured that the gaps in between will be filled in for me when we all gather again in the summers to come. Most mysteriously there are allusions to an exotic childhood in Morocco and Algeria. All Margot will let slip is that her father was an American in the army. She and Jan exchange glances. My curiosity has now been fully fuelled.

The other piece of this French family puzzle that I am captivated by is when Margot tells us that long ago, she lived in London, where she worked as a French teacher and was friends with one of the last suffragettes, Josephine Butler. I asked her if she had met Emmiline Pankhurst and although she had not, Josephine was a close friend of hers.

Who would have thought that I would ever learn such things in Cuzance? We may be far from Paris yet it makes me wonder even more about the older villagers who would also have more than their fair share of stories about the war, the
Résistance
and all the turbulent changes as a new century dawned. It saddens me that quite soon, all their stories will be lost forever.

For months after we return home, I think about whether our
la grange
or our
petite maison
housed British airmen or members of the
maquis
, French
Résistance
fighters.

The seams of stories held in the stones are locked in the past. What I do know, is that there are many barns and farmhouses like ours that bear witness to remarkable feats of bravery and courage. French farmers, and countless others like them, risked their lives and for the most part, their acts of selfless heroism are lost forever.

Spending time at Pied de la Croix for weeks on end, we create our own little world within the small world of the village. We work according to the weather – the heat, the rain, the damp days. We work according to what the land tells us to do. Clear brambles, move rocks and pick fruit when it is ripe. It is a life like no other I have known. It provides me with a glimpse into the past; some small insight into the life of farmers, in the past and now; and how all in a rural landscape adjust their daily pattern and rhythm according to the weather and the season. The days start to circle us like covered Indian wagons from long ago.

As we make our way home slowly through the village, after our final
promenade
for the summer, in the fading light after another endless hot summer's day, the few villagers not yet tucked up in bed, gently call out, ‘
Bonne nuit
' and ‘
Bonne soiree.
' The bell tolls at ten, the last peal drawn out to ensure that all know the day has ended; for us, it is the last evening chime of the church bell we will hear until next year. The silver sliver of a new quarter-moon hangs suspended from an invisible thread in the clear country Cuzance sky. It has been a three full-moon summer for us, a true marking of the measure of time immersed in our other life. The curtain closes on another chapter; another comforting day in the peace and quiet of our
petite
rural village – Cuzance.

Although there are discernible glimpses of autumn, August also sees the full surge of summer in Cuzance. The grass, crisp and brittle, crackles underfoot. Long loving letters arrive from home and my worlds again collide and merge. As I glide through the long summer grass in the cool early morning, I watch with delight the
lapin
bound through the orchard. I tell myself to hold on to these moments in the days of work and winter at home. If I had to recall the one strongest visual image to imprint on my memory, it would be the golden quality of the late evening light when our little world is suffused in a pale pink glow. And if there was only one sensory image to capture the essence of Cuzance, it would be the utter stillness of the country, overlaid by a soft chorus of birdsong.

By our third summer in Cuzance, our sense of belonging coalesces. Our rhythm and sense of familiarity with our French world brings endless joy. We are now well known in the string of shops we frequent in Martel –
la boulangerie
,
la pharmacie
,
Le Bureau de Poste
and our favourite
café
, Mespoulet, the one that the locals frequent. We now favour only two stallholders on our twice-weekly market visits – our jolly family of three and the man who only sells berries: raspberries, strawberries, and red currants, and just before we leave, blueberries come into season. The pungent aroma fills the centuries-old covered market place. When I ask for my favourite weekly punnet of
fraise
, the stallholder takes the time to suggest I also try the vivid blue-purple blueberries. I am not disappointed by the recommendation. I have high hopes of being greeted by all, as customers of long-standing, when we return for our fourth summer.