Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (10 page)

The enervating heat means that within a mere eight days after our arrival, we have to rapidly adjust how we approach each day. It is now a battle on all fronts — the creeping temperature and encroaching weeds. As such, it is just our second Sunday that we resume our ritual of rising early for our
vide-grenier
forays. This time it's off to Turenne, one of the
très
beautiful villages of France.

It more than deserves its accolade. As Stuart tears along the sun-dappled lanes, empty at this early hour, there perched high on a hill Turenne appears, dominating the surrounding hills and fields. Days of long-gone marauders appear in my imagination, for it is easy to see why such citadel towns were built in such dominant positions. Arrows would have shot fiercely from the castle battlements and invaders would have lost the battle before it started. Oh, how well I know what that feels like.

Its
maisons
cling to the hillside and climb to the summit, crowned by a grand church. It is exceptionally magnificent for such a
petite
village. On our way, we crawl through the narrow streets of Hopital St Jean, still sleeping behind the tightly drawn shutters. Just last Sunday it was brimming with stall holders and a lively market atmosphere. Now it is Turenne's turn to bask in its annual
vide-grenier
glory.

We are not disappointed. On arrival, Stuart quickly disappears on his initial reconnoitre. This is his usual style. Mine is to meander. I'm swiftly seduced by the exceptional array of second-hand clothes that most stall holders have at
vide-greniers
. They are not called ‘clear-out-the- attic' markets without a reason. A
euro
here, a
euro
there. Who can resist? Another
blanc
fine-cotton
chemise
. Another classic white shirt. Another straw
chapeau
. Why not? They are French, after all, and cost a song. Do I ever actually need anything at all? Absolutely not. Yet my rummaging and sifting and sorting always yields tremendous results. And when the label occasionally screams ‘Paris' at me, there is no end to my joy. The triumph I feel is akin to winning the French Open.

As we are leaving we encounter the Irish couple, Joy and James, who we had met the previous day with their friend Jane. We had first met them at Cazillac when Jane asked Stuart, in French, where she could buy an
espresso
. Being taken for a French person is always flattering. Of course, it is me who is more enchanted by such errant observations when they happen to me. I conveniently overlook the fact that I usually can't reply. It is enough that I have created such a convincing persona. I knew there was a perfectly valid reason for all the French clothes I seem to acquire each summer.

Today was my turn, though, to feel enormously flattered. Black
chapeau
, my
très chic
very French-looking red, black and white
robe
, straw
sac
slung over my shoulder, sauntering along, ever so casually. It is a far cry indeed from the endless days of dishevelment spent in
la jardin
. Is there any better compliment in the world than when it comes from a French man? ‘
Très bien, Madame
,' he murmured and smiled as I drifted past his stall. Oh yes, my French is good enough to understand that! Sauntering became a floating motion after that momentous moment. It is not quite what
artisans
think when they come to our
petite maison
. Oh no. I can see it clearly written on their faces that no French woman would ever renovate or garden in such a state. Perhaps that explains why Dominique gardens in a frock.

We proudly display our esteemed find of the day to the Irish trio. There is always one
vide-grenier
find that stands out as the most significant
coup de grâce
.
In fact, it was Stuart's this time; a
nouveau
Christian Dior shirt from Paris, no less, snapped up for four
euros
. Jane declares, ‘Health to wear, strength to tear. Money to buy a new one.' This is a whimsical Irish expression I've not come across before, but I rather like the ring of it. She tells us it is a local expression from where they come from in Ireland in County Tyrone. James hastily adds he's from Belfast; clearly they don't indulge in such whimsy there. Jane then goes on to tell us that she is descended from the kings of Ireland. Again James interjects to add one critical word to the conversation: ‘Allegedly.' We all then chat about where our
maisons
are, how long we have had them and the joys of having a home in France. They marvel at the fact that we travel each year from Australia to our little French home.

Basket brimming, including a long-searched-for garden trowel, we take a different route home — not intentionally. There are so many twists and turns in the spider web of rural roads that one wrong turn means that you are somewhere entirely different to where you expected to be. Dotted in the hedges are
petite
signs to
petite
hamlets; bold black names emblazoned on
blanc
backgrounds, with quixotic names like Branty and Friat. I'm always fascinated by the poetic names. As we wind our way back to Pied de la Croix, we climb imperceptibly ever higher. Valleys are arrayed below in all their picturesque beauty. Although it's Sunday, usually a revered day of rest, it is the busiest season for farmers and their harvests at the height of summer. Bright blue and shining red tractors sweep through meadows of tall grass. They are so small below us that they look like toys.

As we can never stand firm against the lure of the
vide-greniers
, I can imagine one day having our very own stall at our Cuzance
vide-grenier
. I'm convinced that the villagers and local farmers will flock to it out of curiosity. After only a few years, it is not only my market basket brimming; the little house is already almost full to the rafters. Yet I can never resist scooping up another piece of treasure that I simply can't live without. Naturally, Stuart is far more prudent and restrained than I am. Dominique and Gérard have a stall each year with his sister, who lives a 120-kilometre round-trip away. This is not a choice I would make in the searing summer heat.
Non
. I will simply set up a table right outside the stone pillars of Pied de la Croix. It's where there is always a line of end-to-end
voitures
parked when we peep outside the shutters on Cuzance
vide-grenier
mornings. I will have a captive market and the added novelty of being the foreigners who arrive each year from the opposite side of the world. Like much of the imaginary world I tend to live in, I already have it all planned. What I also know is that any
euro
I am likely to make will go straight back into my market basket fund.

Another definitive French measure of the
rapide
change in the weather is that we quickly change from our
rouge vin
of choice, La Croix de Pin, to
rosé
. The cubes of
glace
clinking are the melodious sound of a true French summer. An icy
rosé
at lunch makes a French meal
complet
. It also invariably ensues in a siesta under the walnut tree on our
plastique chaise longues.
The heat alone is enough to make you drowsy, let alone such tempting indulgences at
déjeuner
time. This is not recommended on a day when there is still a
rénovation
agenda to continue with. Just as we have declared that the weekends will be free of
rénovation,
I also declare that I absolutely will not indulge in a
déjeuner apéritif
on a working day
.
That way, disaster lies.
Apéritifs
and sharp tools are not a compatible mix, as far as I am concerned. I will not, however, ever resist the temptation of a
boulangerie
delight. The
beaucoup travail
goes some way to offsetting the daily consumption of indulgent treats; or so I always reason with myself. Since sheer hard work dominated our every waking hour on our previous working
vacances
, so too have we reasoned that all the pressing demands and never-ending lists can now be fitted into a ‘normal' working week. Not that anything at all can be deemed ‘normal' in our life in Cuzance.

It all seems to be go, go, go; here, there, in, out. Rush, rush, rush. I already know that Monday will be back to business with a vengeance. There are bills to pay and calls to make. We need to clear our debts with Nicolai, the gardener and the
maçon
who put our bathroom window in. We need to call Jena-Louis to check on his availability to help finish our huge paving project, and of course Piscine Ambiance, to sort out our missing Droopi 2 electric winder. Then there are the friends to call to catch up with,
amis
we have made over the years in France. Brigitte and Erick, when we stayed at their charming
chambre d'hôte
in Villefranche-de-Rouergue, and Marie-France and Michel whose house we rented in Puymule at the outset of our French adventure. It was the kindness of all of them that helped to start our new French life so happily and smoothly. Erick delivered our bed in our first year at the start of our new life and helped install our new
cuisine
, a huge advance on our existing kitchen — a sink and a wood stove. Marie-France lent me clothes to work in, gave us household items and even lent us their van to transport everything to start life in our
petite maison
.

It doesn't take us long at all to fall back into our Cuzance days and French habits. The lists resume their supremacy. I sigh in resignation at the superiority they have quickly regained.
Le jardin
always calls urgently and inside, all the wooden floors are eager to hungrily lap up wood oil to replenish the dryness of decades. I still face an army of marauding
les herbes
. While the
petite maison
needs love and devotion to restore it, different tactics are required altogether on the land. As I inspect the orchard, I see that dozens of clumps of new brambles have taken up residence in our absence. They need to be banished once and for all from our tiny corner of rural France. From Monday to Friday, the door of our
chambre
will be left wide open each night. This way, the first creeping slivers of daylight will reach in and touch us, ready for our working
vacances
. It is a far more gentle way to start a working day than the routine shrill of the alarm in our other working life.

In between ensuring there are some satisfying ticks on our lists, there are visits to the
troc
s,
vide-greniers
,
bricolage
,
déjeuners
and
dîners
out on balmy evenings, and endless rounds of
apéritifs
with
amis
. We also devour books about France in our moments of relaxation. One of our favourites for the summer is
Buying a Piece of Paris
. Stuart especially enjoys it, for it links in perfectly with his predilection for reading about Parisian apartments in the French real estate magazines he also avidly devours. Real estate savvy in any language or culture, he tells me that the price of apartments have more than doubled in Paris in the past six years. I head this conversation off before it goes any further; I know the way his mind works, and I don't intend to embark on the extravagance of an apartment in Paris. Seductive and alluring as the thought may be, I am more than content with our country life in Cuzance.

During our
après-midi
walnut tree time
,
Jean-Claude appears, as is still his daily custom. Unusually this time, as he rounds the side of
la grange
, Monsieur Chanteur is by his side. At eighty-eight, he remains active and spritely, incessantly tending his enormous
jardin
. In his bereft state, after only losing his wife a few months previously, I am surprised that he is visiting us, for his sadness means that he usually prefers to be alone. Henriette is a bright counterpoint to his stooped state and air of grief, as she bounds towards us cheerfully, chasing butterflies.

Jean-Claude and Monsieur Chanteur speak in
rapide
French. I swivel my head between them. It's like watching a tennis match, as I try to discern a word or two. It is impossible. I stumble for the words to even offer a cool drink:
boisson fraîche
. As it is, Stuart has to translate even this simple phrase. I raise with Jean-Claude the possibility of discussing with Monsieur Chanteur the invasive pines on our boundary. They are growing by the day, and before too long will stop the precious light from reaching our bedroom. Jean-Claude tells me that Monsieur Chanteur's trees are everything to him. It is up to me to have the chat. It would be fraught with emotion. And so I have to accept the inevitable. There is no way I will ever raise the matter with him. He is already far too sad. In fact, the more I find out about his life, the more sadness I feel.

It transpires that he can speak some English after all. This is not something even Jean-Claude knew about his closest
ami
in the village. However, his daughter has derided and mocked his accent. As such, he has lost his confidence and will no longer even attempt to communicate in English. I well remember that the Chanteurs moved several years ago to be closer to their daughter and grandchildren, who live in a nearby hamlet. Jean-Claude tells us that on Father's Day, despite it being a mere five minutes away, she did not visit. She did not even call. His large, sprawling
jardin
is crying out for the sound of his grandchildren's laughter. It may in some way fill the empty space in his heart. Not once have I even seen them visit. But as the summer rolls out its days, we find out that it is indeed always true that there are two sides to every story. Perhaps the deliberate planting of the pines should have been a clue. Time lifts its veil of sympathy and causes me to look at our neighbour with new eyes.