Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (22 page)

Lying on our bed daydreaming one stormy Saturday afternoon, I hear Stuart call out, ‘There's a wedding in the village.' I leap up, grab my camera and race out. I don't even pause to brush my hair. I simply don't want to miss a moment of it. A well-dressed crowd patiently waits outside
le mairie's
, looking up at the office where the white shutters are open wide. Only a small group of close friends and family can fit in the
petite
office upstairs. I am quite familiar with it from past years when Monday mornings started with a visit, dictionary in hand to complete official paperwork. Thankfully, those days are over. Whether there will be future visits for the complicated bureaucracy of
la grange
remains in the category of dreams.

The Cuzance wedding I went to see in the church last summer was clearly a country affair; famers, their wives and children in their Sunday best. This time, men and even some of the young boys are in smart suits, even
blanc
ones for two tiny boys. The women are coiffed and manicured, groomed and
chic
. Pretty
petite
girls are in party frocks. When the hour-long ceremony with
le Maire
concludes, there is a lengthy church service. It is just a short walk round the corner to our church, beautifully adorned with bouquets of fresh
fleurs
. After the nuptials are
fin
, the wedding guests follow the bride and groom,
voiture
horns beating a crescendo of celebration.

Now home again, I race to my
chambre
window to watch the celebratory parade pass our
petite maison
. So a new journey begins, part of life's ever-evolving cycle, echoed in our own village; Jean-Claude has told me that it was a harsh winter and many of the old villagers did not wake for another Cuzance spring.

Every day for us is a new chapter, an adventure waiting to unfold. Just a single Sunday morning contains three vignettes. The first is dramatic, the next is entertaining and the third is the pulse of true village life. In essence, life in Cuzance is a real-life soap opera. Underlying many of our daily events and adventures is that most of it is not actively sought. A straightforward drive early Sunday morning to drop John and Joe at Brive-la-Gaillarde
gare
turns into high drama and near disaster. The train times have been duly checked at the Martel
Office de Tourisme
. Trains to Limoges, to the airport for their flight home, are infrequent on a Sunday. There are two choices. Nine in the morning, or one in the afternoon, which is too late for the connection. It therefore has to be the first option, a long and convoluted trip that means changing at Perigeux and is three times longer than usual.

Everyone is up early. They leave for the station with plenty of time to spare. They arrive early. All is on track — except for the train. The ticket counter is not open. The information counter is. They check and confirm the time of the train. The computer is duly checked for the timetable.
Non
,
non
, there is not a train at 9am on a Sunday. How can this be possible?

‘There was one at 8am or there is another at 12.50pm,' they are informed. Obviously the one at eight has long departed. The only other choice means that they will be highly unlikely to connect with their flight. There is the cry of, ‘
Merde!
' all round. The three of them huddle in bewilderment and consternation, assessing the very limited options. Stuart knows that the roadworks are still continuing on the
autoroute
and had held him up considerably when he drove there to collect them. So it seems that it is also impossible for him to embark on the long round-trip to Limoges.

John approaches a taxi driver. He returns from his faltering conversation. The fare to Limoges also has to cover the taxi driver's two-hour return trip. There is little likelihood he will pick up a fare from Limoges to Brive. The cost is
très
,
très cher
. It is out of the question. It seems like they will have to return home and catch the 1pm train. This would then mean a thirty-minute dash through the streets of Limoges to the airport.

Stuart tends to travel to a fine timeframe; far too fine for my liking. Even to him, however, this seems to be an absurd plan. There seems to be no other choice, despite delays that the roadworks on the
autoroute
may well involve. As it is, even driving — and that's taking into account his typical Grand Prix style — may not connect with the flight in time. It is just as they are about to return to our
petite maison
that Stuart suggests it would be a good idea to at least buy a ticket in readiness while they are waiting. Indeed. What if the train is fully booked? It is now 9.05am. They turn. The ticket counter is now open. There is one person ahead of them in the queue. It is clear that it has only been open a matter of minutes. They step up to the counter. John asks to buy a ticket in advance. The ticket seller declares, ‘The train leaves in two minutes; you'd better hurry!'
Incroyable
. How can it be that his SNCF colleague provided completely different information?

Stuart and Joe race to the platform, while John gets the tickets. It is the very train that has already been standing at the platform.
Merde
. While the three of them had been having an
espresso
and discussing their options, they had in fact been watching a steady stream of passengers board for the past twenty minutes. Literally thirty seconds remain. Joe gets on with the
valises.
Stuart asks the conductor to hold the train. This is unheard of in France. If you are late, you are late.
Voilà
, SNCF prides itself on trains leaving on the precise second.

John appears, holding the precious tickets aloft like a runner in the final lap of the Olympics. He jumps aboard. The doors close. It is indeed to the very second. It is a triumph over bureaucracy.

When Stuart returns to Pied de La Croix and fills me in on all the events, we conclude that the apparent ineptness of Monsieur SNCF may well in fact be a collusion between himself and Monsieur Taxi Driver. In one of my customary flights of vivid imagination, I construct a fanciful scenario whereby Monsieur Taxi Driver is about to be the brother-in-law of Monsieur SNCF. The exorbitant fare to Limoges would have contributed significantly to his end-of-summer wedding.

Missed trains and missed planes averted — a script we are only too familiar with in France — we set off to Gignac later than we usually would. It is the highlight of the
vide-grenier
season and we are alarmed that most of the treasure may have already been swooped upon. Our
voiture
knows its way, for it's the third year in a row that we've been. The final approach is along a tight, tiny country lane, so narrow in places that as
voitures
approach from each direction they have to edge gingerly to the precipitous side. We drive up to a plateau where rows and rows of treasure hunter cars are already closely parked. There is a view of our
département
that we never fail to gasp at. Mile upon mile of dipping green valleys and gentle rolling hills dotted with hamlets, copses of oaks and the famed walnut groves of our region.

Despite our late arrival, Stuart swiftly sets off to scan for any significant items that may still be lying in wait for us. It is a cooler, cloudier morning after the driving downpour the previous evening. Usually the umbrella-arching walnuts provide welcome shade by this time of day. The absence of sun, however, is evident under their encompassing canopy.

I make a purchase within the first few minutes. Books in English are a highly prized find. I find Stuart shortly after, crouched over a box of books that are all fifty
centimes
. We remember the stall holder from our own Cuzance market the previous year. It only takes minutes to fill our basket with our choices. We tell her how pleased we are to find so many, and in return Linda gives us her
portable
number. She tells us she always has lots of
livres
, as friends are always giving them to her. For me, finding books is like finding prized truffles.

Stuart sets off again and, as always, I saunter — pausing, considering, selecting —picking up a jug here, a scarf there. I try on a
chapeau
in thin brown and white stripes with a bow at the back. Do I need another hat?
Non
. The answer is always
non
. I already have a collection of
chapeau
in our
petite maison
. For
une euro
though I simply can't resist.

I especially love the piles of linen, laid out in tempting stacks on a sheet on the grass. The tablecloths with matching napkins are still in their cellophane wrapping. I quickly choose one — tablecloths seem to be joining my collection of
chapeau
.

As often happens, for it is something I do too, once people notice someone avidly examining a pile of promising linen, others soon gather. People start asking me the price, for by now Madame Linen has a small crowd of ardent bargain hunters. I am soon in the swing of it and selling Madame Linen's tablecloths for her while she is busy taking
euro
from other customers. In just a few minutes, a festive atmosphere swells around her stall. I enter so enthusiastically into our unexpected enterprise that soon I even call out the
bon marché
price of
deux euro.
Who can possibly resist a new tablecloth for two
euro
? I behave in an utterly non-French manner; waving my arms in the air, extolling the excellent price and quality at Madame Linen's stall and attracting even more customers. The Irish couple we met previously are standing nearby, watching me quizzically. Joyce enquires where my quiet husband is. I wonder how it is that after meeting us only several times, she so quickly worked out the difference between us.

The crowd disperses after a few more fever-pitch moments and drifts off to the next stall. Madame Linen and I beam at each other and shake hands. Once again, there were few words I could actually exchange with her. It was, however, for its few completely unorchestrated moments, another perfect vignette in my French summer. In a moment of elation, I make an extravagant purchase of a pair of vintage Rayban sunglasses.

We wend our way happily home. As our restaurant is also a
Tabac
, Stuart drops me off to buy a copy of the local
journal
. Now that he has his television at long last, he wants to check the guide. He coaches me in the simple phrase to buy one. The courtyard is full of locals sipping
espresso
. It is a completely different atmosphere to a weekday lunchtime, when there are tourists and colleagues having
déjeuner
together. Clearly it is a day of rest for the farmers and their wives. I feel that Hotel Arnal belongs to them on a Sunday.

‘
Non
,
non
, there is no
Le Pêche journal
.' We rather suspect there may have been, but that they are scrupuously reserved for the locals. Despite our acceptance into village life, locals we most certainly are not. I meet Louis and Morgan outside. He is keen to ensure that I know it is our own
vide-grenier
the following weekend. I assure him that we are excited and even have
amis
coming to stay for it. He tells us he is glad that the ‘famous' Australians will be there, for he tells me, to my huge astonishment, this is how we are known in the village.

We have a restful
après-midi
. It is the first time for ten days we have not had family staying,
apéritif
plans or
amis
visiting. We are replenishing ourselves for another week of solid
rénovation
. Thin threads of wispy white clouds reach across the grey velvet curtains in the sky and close them for the end of another perfect Cuzance afternoon.

Jean-Louis is committed to our crazy paving project. Whether or not he thinks we are crazy for such a colossal undertaking, he keeps such thoughts to himself. Although we are far behind in our paving project, we would not nearly have made the progress we have without his hard work. Before our working week gets underway, Jean-Louis comes at seven on Saturday night to check the plans for the forthcoming week. We are impressed that he does so in his own time.

When Monday swiftly starts, just like the church bells striking at seven to signal a new week of
beaucoup travail
, you can tell the time by the punctuality of Jean-Louis' timely arrival. The bells toll, his
voiture
pulls in between our stone pillars. As always, Stuart has prepared the work site and the concrete mixer is already busily churning its first Monday morning batch. The bell emphatically tolls — seven, seven, seven — over and over. There is no possibility of not being aware of its imperious summons to work. By Friday morning, I know that our triumvirate of ‘
Bonjour, ça vas?
' will be tinged with weariness for all three of us.

For me, it is a strange amalgamation of domesticity, painting and
le jardin
. I reflect that at least my Monday morning washing day doesn't involve being stooped over a river using the ancient wooden washboards that Dominique showed me. My personal measure of time passing rapidly in our little French world is when I get out the
Aoutvide-grenier
and
brocante
guide. How is it possible that I am already checking which ones we will visit in August? I highlight the ones to take friends to when they stay. I always look forward to sharing our passion with them and hope that it will be a
magnifique
and memorable experience. By lunch time, after family staying and
amis
soon arriving, I have already quickly turned the spare
chambre
round for our next guests. I feel as if I am starting to run my own
chambre d'hôte
. By seven I have already headed to the cellar with my third armful of linen. I decide however, it is not quite my calling in life to run a charming
petite
hotel.