Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (11 page)

Until more is revealed, I have meanwhile urged Jean-Claude to suggest to Monsieur Chanteur that he gets a
petite
Henriette for company. Even though he scorns the idea of the responsibility, I think that a
petite chien
to
bonjour
each morning would add some joy to his lonely days. In a further note of sadness, he has told Jean-Claude that he does not know what would happen to his
chien
if he died. It seems he thinks this is on the near horizon.

Things are starting to fall into place so smoothly for our Cuzance summer days that it makes me feel slightly nervous. This is not Stuart's way at all. He just calmly considers it all to be a natural
fait accompli.
Jean-Claude accompanies him to visit Jean-Louis to make plans for the paving. Oh yes, the paving saga continues. We have planned to get it underway again on the Monday of our third week, following our trip to Toulouse. This will also allow us to put in a solid week's work before John and Joe arrive for their holiday. In a stroke of superb timing, it is the week that Jean-Louis will be on night rather than morning shift at the Chanel factory in Martel. He is more than willing to work with Stuart each morning. We have already decided that this year it is madness to pave in the blistering heat during the afternoons in the hottest month of the French summer. Last year we had pressed on regardless of the searing temperature and it was utterly exhausting, especially considering that laying crazy paving is relentless
beaucoup travail
. Jean-Louis had insisted on continuing to work after
déjeune
r, despite the fact that it was truly
très chaud.
It would seem that age and reason are catching up with all of us. It increases our willingness to rise with the sun and put in as many hours as possible until it beats down too ferociously to continue.

Apart from the culture and
cuisine
, if there is one single factor that distinguishes a French summer from an Australian one, it is the quality of the light. The colours represent every hue possible in tints of gold, from the softest touches of yellow at dawn to the intense bright clarity at the height of the day's heat, to its last rays at ten when the sun finally slips away in an ethereal golden glow. The final shafts bathe the orchard behind
la grange
in a light that is almost translucent. Once again, the elongated summer evenings seduce us. It is not until the heat subsides just before eight that we are able to resume work in
le jardin
. This in turn means that we eat later and later. By then it's time to fall into bed.

After eight days, just like in years past, we have still not managed a
promenade
in the evening along the many country lanes of Cuzance. This, absurdly, includes not even managing an inspection of our boundary wall along the back lane. Jean-Claude has lost no time in telling us that parts of the stone are crumbling away and are in dire need of repair. Another
rénovation
task to add to the list. Time simply vanishes in a Cuzance day. ‘
Zut alors!
' Stuart declares, as we have another simple supper of
pain
and
fromage
.

As we chat over our final
digestif
on our
très joli
steps, we make plans to re-visit many of our now beloved restaurants. I always love the anticipation of avidly scanning the blackboard menus, propped on pavements that display the
menu du jour
. For only twelve
euro
or so there is always a choice in each of the
trois
selections
. Entrée: Assiette de erudités ou Taboulé; Plat de Jour: Truite aux amandes ou Poivron farci; Dessert: Pêche Melba ou Fromage Blanc — Formule: 12.50 euro; Plat du Jour: 10 euro.

It is fortunate that my limited French allows me to translate most menus, always being very aware of the dreaded word ‘
andouillette
'; the coarse-grained French sausage made from intestines. The distinctive strong odour, not to mention taste, is one that has left an indelible impression on my culinary memory. When I see a set menu such as this, I know I can choose the three courses for just over twelve
euro
, or simply the plate of the day for ten
euro
. There is never any hesitation on our part, for the
formule
is always superb value. The first is a plate of assorted cold meat and salad that is already prepared, or the well-known tabouli (it always helps that so many words are so similar). The next choice is trout with almond or stuffed pepper, followed by the famous Peach Melba, a dessert of peaches and raspberry sauce with vanilla ice-cream. Of course, it is fascinating to make such a selection in France when it was invented in 1892 by the French chef Auguste Escoffier at the Savoy Hotel, London, to honour Nellie Melba, the Australian soprano. Like
andouillette
, although not quite in the same category of must-be-avoided-at-all-costs,
fromage blanc
is a type of soft French cheese made from cow's milk that has a unique creamy sour taste.

While I have never been to a Michelin-starred restaurant — and possibly never will, despite there being a surprising number in our
département
, for they are not just in Paris as most would assume — I love the comfort and conviviality of country
cafés
and restaurants. In just a few years, at our select favourite restaurants, it is another seam in the fabric of our French life when we are remembered each year and greeted with warmth. I always enjoy the sense of not simply being a tourist sailing through, flying to the next must-see destination to tick off on their list of sights. Yes, we have our inevitable lists, and the ticks are not always as gratifying as we might like. I do, however, know that the lists will subside one day soon; the ticks will grow, the list fade away, and a life of leisurely lunches will be ours more frequently, perhaps even the entire pattern of our days rather than
rénovée
. What dreamy, heady days they will be.

Monday starts in hurry and scurry, and a flurry. Just as planned, I fall out of bed at 6am, and I am in my dishevelled work clothes and in
le jardin
within half an hour. It is my version of a working week in France. Stuart continues to sleep.

Much later, I wake him with a cup of tea. Once he gets into action, his achievements are magnificent. Once again, the reversal in traditional roles is in full play. He washes the floor in readiness for further applications of oil. Quite possibly it is the first time it has been applied in their 120-year history. The results are truly splendid for the chestnut and walnut gleam and shine. In between he applies himself methodically to his lists of calls, not his favourite task at the best of times, no matter which country he's in. There are a satisfying number of ticks on the list. This includes leaving a message for the
maçon
to pay his bill. How very strange, we think, pursuing an
artisan
to pay our debts.

It is perplexing that two days later he has not returned the call. He did not leave a bill in our
petite maison
nor did he give
l'addition
to Jean-Claude. It is even more puzzling as the
vacances
month moves ever closer. Surely he would like to be paid in time for his annual family holiday? It has also been arranged that Albert, gardener number two who lives in nearby Le Cave, will drop off the pump for our water tank. It is the ugly
plastique tank
that he set up at the end of the carport that is one of the reasons that Monsieur Chanteur has planted his soldier-straight line of already towering pines on our
limite
. We have indicated that at some point we will relocate the tank, but it is to no avail.

A call to Gérard confirms the amount owing to gardener number
trois
, Nicolai. He will drop in to Pied de la Croix within half an hour. This ensues in the flurry part of our Monday morning. Stuart abandons his rejuvenation of the floorboards and hastily dashes out to Martel to withdraw the huge amount of
euros
. Meanwhile, I abandon
le jardin
to consult the dictionary and nursery guide,
Jarrige Espaces Verts.
I construct the most simple of lists. Two roses for our front bed next to
très joli
steps —
une rose blanche
and
une rose rouge
. I cross-check the nursery guide to write the names of possible red and white rose choices. Never was a garden design so quickly constructed. Next, the boundary for our
limite
is still exposed to
le Marie
and our neighbours. The
trois
hazelnuts that have been planted the previous
Novembre
— for this is the month to plant in the northern hemisphere — are all healthy and flourishing. I sound out each word like a five year old as I write down a simple phrase to indicate that I would like more planted, but I need to work out the exact number later.

As Stuart tears off in Formula One style to Bank Populaire, I suddenly remember that the bank will not be open, for it is Monday and most shops are shut. These are the things that we always need to try to remember in our French life. His
rapide
round trip will have been a waste of time. Time, as always, is not something we can afford to waste.

Dominique appears as I'm poring over the dictionary. Despite her and Gérard just organising with Nicolai to collect his
l'addition
, they too only just remembered that the bank will be closed on Monday. Like a
jardin
angel, she has appeared with the money to lend us.
Incroyable
, I exclaim with gratitude.

I ask if Nicolai would accept a cheque. After all, we have been surprised in previous years to see how commonplace it is to write cheques in France — in restaurants, in the
bricolage
, in
le supermarché
. Stuart has organised that we have a chequebook for our other life.
Non
,
non
, Dominique declares. I ask if we should give her a cheque instead of the fistful of
euro
she is clutching, to pay our gardener. After all, we're leaving early in the morning for Toulouse and won't be back for several days.
Non, non,
I am again told. Once again, such is the kindness of our new
amis.

Stuart pulls up in a cloud of dust, like a Grand Prix driver.
Voilà
, he announces, he was able to withdraw the huge amount of
euro
from the cash machine.

Next to appear in our hectic Monday morning is Nicolai. I tell him
très merci beaucoup
; his work in
le jardin
is
superbe
. At long last, a gardener who is not
très cher
and who seems to understand both the needs of foreigners and the dictates of our
rustique jardin
. Stuart carefully counts out his crisp bundle of
euro
notes. Dominique then indicates to Nicolai that she would like to take a
petite promenade
with him round the garden to discuss my
Novembre
plans for when we have returned to our other life. I hand over the hastily scribbled notes that convey my design. They are simple, for it is not a
grande jardin
design in Paris.
Noisette
turns out to be the word for hazelnuts you eat, not the tree.
Non
, the tree is
noisetier
. Who could possibly know that they were not one and the same?

Fortunately, Nicolai immediately grasps my idea to continue the rest of my row of hazelnuts. He paces the
limite
and announces that he will plant
huit
. Eight is just about what I had calculated. There was no need after all for my laboriously constructed sentences.

We return to our
petite
porch and I fall upon the
jardin
catalogue, as I remember another idea I had for the front bed. At all times I keep in mind that it is a
rustique jardin
and not destined to be the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris. I flick through and find the photo of hydrangeas and show Nicolai where I think two could possibly be planted in front of where we sit and watch the French world go by.
Non, non
, he declares. The conditions are not right under the tree. Instead, he shows me where
trois
could be planted in the bed along the moss-covered wall next to our stone entrance pillars. Perfect, I beam. It will be yet something else to look forward to on our next reunion with Pied de le Croix.

By now it is almost time for
déjeuner
, but I'm determined as always to finish the task I've allocated myself for the morning. The midday sun does not prove to be a good time at all for shovelling dirt and trundling across the land, pushing heavy wheelbarrowloads of soil to place around our new trees. As I work away, I reflect upon how Dominique had only just managed to mask her horror at my dirt-encrusted, sweat-stained appearance when she appeared on the scene with a bundle of
euros
. It remains a constant mystery to me how she manages to garden in her
robe
and remain ever so immaculate. Perhaps there's a book in that, I muse. As I move into the coolness of our
petite maison
for lunch, the final triumphant note in our Monday morning list of calls is to be told by Stuart that
oui
, Piscine Ambiance had indeed got our Droopi 2. There is no
désolé
at all for the inconvenience.

In our Cuzance life, Stuart has adopted his own version of the Naked Chef while preparing
dîner
. After a swim, he is fond of discarding his wet swimwear and simply wearing a sarong in
la cuisine.
I am sure this is not the sartorial style of French men at all, unless it is in French Polynesia.