Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (5 page)

As I soak up the view of
le jardin
while I have my first
espresso
of the morning
,
I plan my day. Most pressing is to seek Jean-Claude's opinion on the source of the freshly dug, ominous mound of dirt in the cellar. I had only seen it in the fading light of the previous evening, yet what I saw was enough to sufficiently alarm me. I asked Stuart why he hadn't told me about it when he discovered it earlier in the day. In his usual inimitable manner, he told me he didn't want to worry me. It was probably only a rabbit he said.

I don't know much about the habits of rabbits but I do know enough to think that it may be more disturbing than a mere
lapin
. However, I cannot begin to imagine what creature has been marauding in our cellar. In addition, there's some highly alarming noises emanating from the attic – dubbed last year, ‘The Squirrel Room', due to the disturbing sounds of scampering and the sight of squirrels leaping across the barn roof.

Stuart informs me he will venture up there later. He can go alone, I think. There is also still a mouse in the house.

In my sleep-induced, jet-lagged haze, as I had prepared my
petite déjeuner
, I had only just managed to remember where Stuart had decided was the only safe place for the
pain
and packets of food that may be tempting for a mouse on the lookout for a tasty takeaway treat. Where else but in the oven of course?

My day gets underway despite the possibility of creatures who have taken up permanent residence in our absence. While we get our bank statements and other French accounts delivered to us at home, it occurs to me that after a year, I should probably check the post box.

It wasn't until we got our regulation-sized,
Le Bureau de Poste
approved post box late the year before and attached it to the stone wall – under Jean-Claude's guidance about what position would be deemed acceptable by
Le Bureau de Poste
– that we were considered to officially exist in France. I discover a puzzling collection of very official-looking letters. They have been posted every two months from a government office in Cahors. We have absolutely no idea what they mean. They are put aside to ask Jean-Claude about when we visit for a late afternoon
apéritif
. What does bring me enormous joy is a welcoming letter from Kaitlyn and Ryan, my students at home. I am deeply touched by their thoughtfulness that a letter is here to greet me at the start of our long summer away. This too I tuck away to share with Jean-Claude and Françoise.

It is yet another extraordinary fragment of my new life, the fact that two of the people I am the closest to, are a seventeen-year-old Australian school girl and a seventy-year-old French man.

Today I have to tackle the dust-covered linen and towels, yet even washing in France is not an ordinary experience. I venture down to the cellar and pull back the creaking, cobweb-covered wooden door. I always have to remember to stoop as I go in or I'll hit my head on the low stone doorway. I reach for my washing products that are placed in a handy little stone niche in the wall. The cellar has been here for one hundred and thirty years; like many other elements of our
petite
farmhouse, I wonder about all those before me whose footsteps I am following in the cavernous, cool space. Next I need to unpack. I have not even had to go near my suitcase yet for I've just pulled on clothes that I left in our
armoire.
What is already dawning on me, is that in my usual fashion, I have seriously over-packed. What on earth was I thinking when I filled my suitcase? In the depths of the country, I simply pull on a T-shirt and a pair of
pantaloons
every day. I seem to have packed for the Riviera or a summer of Paris
soirees.
It has never been my forte. And let's not forget, I have been lured by the promise of
solde
in Limoges in our first week
.
Indeed, as I was packing at home, even I was struck by my sheer madness at bringing clothes back to France that I'd bought just the previous year. Like our well-travelled Sim card (which I hasten to add still doesn't work), it would seem that I also aspire to have clothes that travel the world more than most people I know. Seriously, I don't know what I'm thinking at times. Later, when Gérard and Dominique drop in to see us and I'm invariably in my less than attractive
rénovation
clothes, they actually ask if when we go home I can send a photo of what I look like when I go to school every day. That seems to sum up my lack of stylishness in France, despite my best attempts at times.

Over our
apéritif
with Jean-Claude and Françoise in the soft glow of the late summer afternoon, I make plans with Françoise for my first cooking lesson to make a
tarte aux pomme,
an apple pie that will also be a French lesson, as all my instructions will be in French
.
This is why I am in France after all. Sadly though, the summer will pass and our plans will be thwarted. Next year; that seems to be our catchcry for many things. As I obsessively work later in
le jardin
in the intense summer heat, I dream of how in the following year, under Françoise's expert culinary guidance, my
tarte aux pomme
will glisten in its honey glaze.

Before we leave their
maison
, Jean-Claude translates our official letters. They are related to the new
la grange
roof and enquire whether
la grange
will now be inhabited.

Absolutely not, Jean-Claude emphatically declares, and writes accordingly on the letter for us in French. He and Stuart conspiringly agree that we should not pay any more taxes than necessary. All that our barn houses is our
voiture
and a car hardly counts. Views on taxes are clearly the same the world over. As we wish them
bonne nuit,
Françoise climbs the small wooden stepladder in the enchanting kingdom of her
petite la cuisine.
She reaches and stretches for jars of her gleaming homemade
confiture
. The most prized jar of jam is her fig one, labelled September 2009. We are then given a choice between
fraise
and rhubarb, all from her immaculate potage garden. While strawberry is a luscious choice on fresh
pain
, we choose the rhubarb as we have not tasted it before. It is touches like these, of the homemade gifts of
confiture
from the French kitchen of our dear friend, that make all the difference between simply having a
maison
in France and having a home. In such a short time, Cuzance is definitely home.

Looking into
la cuisine.

Stuart's promise of the past – which I had never quite believed – has proved to be true.

He reminds me that he had absolutely assured me, that each year the renovating and hard work would get easier. To my enormous surprise, it is indeed the case. Well, at least so far. It's early days yet. At the start of our
vacances
, time seems to stretch to infinity.

However, our frantic, feverish renovating seems to have decidedly been replaced by domesticity. On day three, Stuart tackles the enormous pile of paperwork –
voiture
insurance, the Piscine Ambiance contract we need to renew each year for opening and closing the pool, and of course, the official Cahors letters. I start to unpack our suitcases.

It is telling in itself that after three whole nights, we've had no need of anything we packed.

Our tiny wardrobe is fitted into the wall of our
chambre.
It has handmade, dark wooden doors and is very small and narrow. I carefully apportion half the
petite
space to each of us. I then meticulously layer our clothes on the hangers. There is a trick to hanging everything properly; the coat hangers have to be ever so carefully placed at an angle. Who knew there was such an art form involved in hanging clothes so precisely?

Yet what do we wear each day in Cuzance? The very clothes that have stayed in Cuzance for a year. For two people who claim to rarely shop, it seems absurd to simply have so many. Just like the delight I take in unearthing our
vide grenier
finds to display and decorate, once again, I pull on my much loved, well-worn, faded green
pantaloons
, my soft-with-age blue and white striped top and my faded denim skirt. These clothes cost me only a few
euro
and must have been washed hundreds of times by their previous owners. They are my absolute favourites, for they are like meeting up with old friends.

And the rest of the time? We pull on our old, stained, ripped work clothes to labour day after day in
le jardin
.

My life is suddenly so domestic this year, that my notes for daily life consist of asking Françoise why the water stays in the washing machine compartment each time I wash, and what is the word for stain remover. A far cry indeed from just a year ago.

This however, although I don't yet know it, is all about to rapidly change... It would seem I have a false sense of idyll.

In the short space of a year, it is hard to believe that our early days on arrival, have changed so dramatically. It is also a source of irony to me, that now our
petite maison
is no longer an empty, bare shell, waiting to be renovated and furnished, and the more Pied de la Croix becomes a home, the more there is to do before we can even start this year's huge project outside. So it is not until day four, that the house is fully restored from its packed-away, boxed-up, dust-covered state. The books are out, the
objets
artfully displayed, and it is already such a home in every sense that every single item I go to reach for, whether it is in
la cuisine
or
la salle de bain
, that there is nothing I can't find that I need. I even have a hairdryer in the bathroom. How times have changed indeed!

I feel a certain sense of pride in what we have achieved – and in a foreign country.

From just a sink and old wood stove as the entire kitchen in the first year, to a shiny new IKEA
cuisine;
a wall knocked down to create space, and the last vestige of the most recent
rénovation
in the 70s, the tartan wallpaper – all vanished. The toilet however, to my daily horror, remains a dark box, like a
petite
walk-in cupboard.

Such is our domestic devotion that we have even been to the car wash in Martel.

Domesticity reigns supreme in Cuzance. What I am already realising is that our packing up at the end of our
vacances,
will take just as long
.
And, let's face it, there is a lot of work to get underway before that time arrives. What is also creeping into my thoughts is that perhaps we are simply avoiding what lies ahead. Nevertheless, there is no denying that this more low-key approach is certainly attractive – and indeed, seductive. No endless parade of
artisans
to ‘
Bonjour
' and offer
espresso
to every day. No garden crowded in a sea of
artisan
trucks, no – for the moment anyway – phone calls to
plombiers
that are never returned. The days start now with a calmer rhythm.

We start our own Cuzance rhythm to reconnect fully once again with our French life. So, it's off to the
boulangerie
in Martel for the first of what will be many weeks of indulgent treats. At only ten thirty the display of luscious pastries is almost depleted but we are more than delighted with our
abricot hibou,
savoured with an
espresso
at the
café
across the road. The pastry simply melts in our mouths, we breathe in deep sighs of utter contentment. The equivalent of our Danish pastry at home has this intriguing name as it means ‘owl', named so for the fact that the two luscious pieces of apricot placed in its centre, represent the eyes of an owl. When we tell Gérard and Dominique about our latest
boulangerie
delight, they have not even heard of an
abricot hibou.
It is no small surprise to me that Dominique is not familiar with it
.
Someone as svelte as she is probably only ever steps inside a
patisserie
once a year for
Noël
celebrations.

We love the fact that it is perfectly permissible to take your own
petite déjeuner
pastry to a
café
. Within just a few minutes, we see two people we know – Monsieur Arnal, the owner of the Hotel Arnal in our village, and Nigel, an English friend of Jean-Claude and Françoise. While my French has sadly not progressed at all in the past year, I do know enough to grasp that Monsieur Arnal is eager to know if I can now communicate with him more fully. I shake my head, ‘
Non.'
It is a disappointment both to myself and him.

Then it's off to Intermarche
,
to discover that the
supermarché
has considerably expanded in the past year. The fish display is much larger and has soft jets of water spraying the fresh
poisson
. Like all our
supermarché
visits, especially the first time back, it is the wine aisle that we linger in the longest. Most exciting of all is how affordable champagne is. We buy a bottle for Liz's arrival the following week.