Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (6 page)

For some very odd reason I have chosen to wear a black
robe
to clean. Possibly it was the first thing to hand in the demands of a
rénovée
life. It is the closest I will ever get to owning a little black dress from Paris. I bought it one day when a van pulled up and rapidly assembled a display of illegal racks on the footpath. Women swooped on the ten
euro
bargains and then, just as quickly, the van disappeared before the
gendarme
could swoop in turn.

To clean all the windows I have to clamber on the old kitchen sink to reach them. Naturally, the extremely ugly but extremely necessary flypaper is dangling in the window over the sink, to attract
les mouches
. Naturally, it gets caught in my hair and sticks to it.
Mon Dieu!
I exclaim.

Then, while on our
petite
porch, I scramble on a wicker stool to clean the
fenêtre
. As I reflect ruefully on my strange choice of cleaning attire, I feel sure that I will now definitely be on the tourist trail, for the dress also happens to be rather short and I do have to reach quite high while outside. However, in the way of the world and windows, the sound of late afternoon thunder rumbles just as I'm finishing. There is only one word for what I think —
merde
.

Before my decorating fantasies can come true, the
petite chambre rénovation
work needs to actually be
fini
. Putting skirting board and conduit in place are not in my repertoire of
rénovation
skills. However, I am always a willing apprentice and labourer. The luxury of a French summer when
rénovation
is our whole life rather than squeezed into our normal working days at home means that this year it is in many ways like playing in a French doll's house. I hold onto my fairytale concept of
rénovation
until it is time to embark on the heavy manual labour that lies in wait.

After the all-day rain on our arrival, the
petite
porch is littered with sodden leaves from the sixty-year-old lyme tree planted just in front of it. I seize the fact that the leaden skies have cleared and grasp the stiff, ancient farm broom to vigorously sweep away the clinging leaves and sodden blossoms. A farmer passing on his tractor gives me a welcome-back wave, full of
bonhomie
. It is gestures like these that fill me with a sense of belonging, both in Cuzance and our other life. His cheerful smile conveys that he remembers us from previous summers. Some farmers simply sail past majestically on their enormous John Deere. I know that for some, we will always remain strange foreign interlopers.

There is no need for the incessant clamouring of the church bells at twelve, telling everyone that it is the
déjeuner
hour, to remind me to down tools. Enough is enough of
nettoyage
and acting like a French housewife, I tell myself, even if I am cleaning a French farmhouse. I would, in fact, rather engage in hours and hours of
beaucoup travail
in our sprawling
jardin.
To my enormous relief, thanks to Gérard and Dominique's gardener, Nicolai, ours has never looked better. Thank goodness, I think, for it is our third attempt to find a gardener who meets our needs. The others were simply
très cher
. It is all part and parcel of starting a life in a foreign land. It is hard enough at home to source reliable tradesmen, let alone in a country where the language barrier is as high at times as the Eiffel Tower.

The pretty-as-a-picture doves flutter in the
prunier
tree. Later, as the sun sinks slowly, a pale pink orb at the end of another contented Cuzance day, the glow bathes
le jardin
in exquisite beauty. As I go into our
chambre
to get ready for bed our neighbour, Monsieur Chanteur, sits on his wooden bench outside the stone doorway of his
maison
, poignantly alone. The sadness etched in his face at the loss of Madame Chanteur, just months before, washes in waves across his
jardin
. His solitude fills my heart with sadness.

Our return is not merely a matter of cleaning and setting the house to rights. This is how our summer starts, for our rapturous reunion with Pied de la Croix is nearly tainted by disaster and a potential urgent call to Gérard to return, to whisk me speedily off to
le docteur
in nearby Cressensac.

I'm tired after our late-night
dîner
in Paris with Patrick, Françoise and Alexine, and our early start to avoid previous mishaps in missing our SNCF train to Brive-la-Gaillarde. My anxiety to avoid this means that I over-compensate. We are this time an hour and a half early for our departure. This is not Stuart's style at all. It has been an enormous compromise and concession on his behalf. Somehow, I don't think we will ever be this early again.

Whenever we arrive at last at Pied de la Croix, the first
café
in our
petite maison
is something we eagerly anticipate. So it is that as I pour water into the coffee machine, I clumsily knock over an enormous enamel container of kitchen utensils. This nudges a long, wickedly sharp knife on the rack positioned beside it on the wall. It is longer than a
baguette
. It shoots like an arrow, straight into my red Converse sneakers. I watch in slow motion as blood gushes out and floods across the wooden floor in a rushing red stream, brighter now than my Converse.

It is important to know that I loathe blood. I absolutely hate it. I am, in fact, the biggest coward I know when it comes to blood.

I sink slowly to the floor, still watching in disbelief as even more blood flows across the floorboards.

Fortunately, the only plastic tub that I have so far unpacked in my search for coffee — for we have been here less than an hour — hidden away from any mice that come out to play in our long absence, also contains a roll of kitchen paper. I gingerly crawl across the floor to reach the tub. I nervously ease my sneaker off. I wrap wads of kitchen paper round my geyser-like toe. It is only at this point that I call out to Stuart, below in
le cave
, sorting out our water and plumbing issues. Last year, there had been energetic digging activity from a
lapin
; this year there's a disturbing stream of water from the leaking hot water system. What will
le cave
hold in store for us next year?

I surprise myself by how calmly I call out to Stuart to let him know I need his help. Strangely, I don't even let him know what has happened. He probably just thinks that I can't remember how to use our coffee machine after being absent from it for a year. There are many occasions when I am not the most practical of people. Later, when I have a chance to reflect on it all, I realise how very odd indeed my behaviour is. I am more prone to histrionics and drama than a matter-of-fact approach to a possibly critical situation. For while I may have wrapped my toe in kitchen paper, I have most certainly not ventured a look at it.

As I wait for Stuart to emerge from the cellar, I ponder which of us will examine my toe. Stuart and blood are no more compatible than my relationship with anything verging on the medical.

I continue to be surprised that when he enters
la cuisine,
I am then also capable of directing him to where the band aids will be located in our still-packed-up house. It is then his task to peel away the blood-soaked paper and investigate the potential damage. It is to Stuart's credit that he does not grimace too much. I am sure he is thinking of forgetting about an
espresso
altogether and advancing the
apéritif
hour. Thoughts of
le docteur
and stitches are not far from my mind.

Very fortunately, the vast quantity of blood does not match the severity of the gash. It was sheer good luck that the knife ricocheted off my foot, skidded across the kitchen floor and did not plunge any further down and completely pierce my toe. Even worse, when I reflect with horror on the possibilities, sliced it straight off. The theatrical start to our summer seems to bookend our dramatic departure from France the previous summer, when our train to Paris was sabotaged. We, in fact, consider ourselves lucky to be alive. This becomes even more apparent when, just a few weeks into our stay this year, a train from Paris to Brive-la-Gaillarde is in a dreadful accident and six people lose their lives.

Still astonishing myself by my degree of calmness, we both then have our first
espresso
on our beloved
très joli
steps. I then go back inside, unpack the linen from its plastic container and make up the bed for our first night. I continue to unpack and set the house to rights for another hour or so. It is only then that I start to get wobbly. Perhaps belated shock has set in? I subside, weak-kneed into our just-made bed. I lie shivering under the eiderdown. I realise that I am about to be sick. Very sick. I crawl out of bed, across the floor and into
la cuisine
where, very conveniently, a plastic bucket has been left from last year when we packed up. I am just in time.

Sadly, on our very first evening, Stuart goes alone for
dîner
with Gerard, Dominique and Jean-Claude. Even more disappointing is when I find out the next day that Gérard, with great thoughtfulness, has prepared our favourite meal of local
canard
. To miss crisply roasted duck on our first evening back in Cuzance is not worth thinking about. I find out, too, that there has been much speculation and discussion over
dîner
about the size of the knife, where exactly it was positioned in the first place in
la cuisine
and where precisely it landed. Subsequently, when everyone visits, the first thing they do is rush to the knife rack for an inspection. The topic of conversation over the summer is that the next book I write should be called
Murder in Cuzance
. Everyone is vastly amused, except me.

Every year, we can rely on Jean-Claude to fill in the gaps on all that has unfolded in our absence. He always regales us with stories and shares with us the events that have taken place in Cuzance. This includes who has passed away. With the loss of our neighbour, Madame Chanteur, I know that in our village of mostly older inhabitants, there will be more in the years to come. I already know from previous visits that, in a particularly harsh winter, some of the villagers will not wake to a new sunrise. For now, I am glad that the cast of characters in Cuzance that I am familiar with and have grown fond of — despite still not being able to fully communicate with them — are still all in place.

To balance impending loss and sadness, Jean-Claude is able to share the joyous news of the arrival of their
petite
grandson, Basile. He announces that after a mere twenty minutes, ‘He popped out like a champagne cork.' It is France after all, I think when I hear this original and apt description. As Françoise will now stay in Lyon for a fortnight to help Bénédicte, Jean-Claude has the responsibility for their other two grandchildren, Celeste and Balthazar, who are arriving from Berlin for their summer
vacances
. We wonder how he will possibly cope. As it is, when Françoise is at their apartment in Lyon, Jean-Claude exists on ready-made meals for
dîner
from the
supermarché
.

France is surely the only country in the world where discussion, and indeed a forthcoming debate, centre on the custom of kissing. I have enthusiastically embraced the
de rigueur
custom of exchanging a kiss on each cheek with our French
amis
. Indeed, it is one I have passionately transferred to my life on the other side of the world. All those who know me well, friends and even close colleagues, accustomed by now to our French life, know to expect this from me. They have entered willingly into this French cultural exchange.

Reuniting with Jean-Claude means that once again we are privy to glimpses into French protocol and customs that we would possibly never be aware of. He shares a fascinating insight into the fact that different regions have different customs when it comes to the exchange of kisses when greeting friends. We are by now very familiar with the one peck on each cheek. This exchange takes place even if it happens to be the second, or indeed, third time you have encountered your
amis
within the space of a single day.

Sometimes there are three exchanged, backwards and forwards on your cheeks. This is something I've never quite understood. What dictates that it is more than the customary two? I have simply surmised that it is a demonstration of the degree of affection. Yet it transpires that a
bise
and the number exchanged all depends on the
département
in which you live. In Paris, it would seem there are only ever two kisses. I am sure in the heady, demanding world of politics and business there would clearly be no time for any more. Mind you, the number of politicians, indeed French presidents, with a notorious predilection for affairs, would involve somewhat more than counting the number of kisses on the cheek.

In other regions, Jean-Claude tells us, four is in fact the rule of kissing. There are further complications though. Apparently, in some
départements
the first
bise
is on the left cheek, while in other regions it is on the right. I can't grasp the simple elements of the language, let alone the complexity of kissing. Even more amazing is when he concludes this anecdote by telling us that a movement has started to reduce the exchange of kisses to a mere one. The group in Brittany opposed to the gesture of so many kisses base their stance on claiming it has all gone too far. To think a polite social greeting could generate such fervour. The jury is still out on this.