Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (16 page)

Stuart's days are consumed yet again by the intricacies and challenges of crazy paving. There is still a yawning chasm waiting to be
fini
round
la piscine
. The plan we have formed in previous years, so that
rénovation
does not devour our every waking hour, is to work Monday to Friday. There is, after all, another life to be lived in France. For now, though, it is up with the birds at dawn to beat the ever-escalating heat.

On Monday, I make my plans for the week. I decree Mondays to be washing day, and in between billowing loads of linen I prune and spray
les herbes
. A strange trio of tasks. This week I will also paint, finish setting up the spare
chambre
in readiness for friends and family to stay, as well as water all the plants by hand, late at night. This can only be done after nine when the sun starts to sink as a red orb. Each evening, I lug cans of water across the land, and our trees and plants greedily gulp their life-giving water. To complete my role of life on the land, I even found a hand-made sixties printshift at a market to wear around the house. As I ferry water across the garden, I feel that I have skipped several generations and decades, as a woman utterly immersed in her country life.

I watch anxiously as the water-line rapidly drops in our water tank. Such are the daily concerns of a rural life far from Paris. The winter and spring were exceedingly wet. I have noticed the lack of sunflowers in the markets as a result of all the rain. Now there will not be any
pluie
for a very long time.

We continue to watch and learn in our other life. As we
promenade
through the village, we notice that wooden shutters are now only flung open very early in the morning or after sunset. It is the only way to both cool the
maisons
and rid them of
les mouches
.

Relaxed and refreshed after our many walnut tree weekend hours, we tackle our working week head-on. Stuart puts on his
rénovation
clothes as soon as he gets up. This is a sure sign that he means business. Judging by the speed of the
voitures
whizzing past in their Monday morning madness, clearly Bastille Day fireworks and festivities extended until very late. Let the working week commence for all, I think.

When we assemble our collection of tools and open the far left door of
la grange
for the very first time since our return, it is like a glimpse into the future. Discussions and plans seem to have changed from ‘maybe' to ‘when' for the conversion of the barn. We will see. What I do know is that when I step out of the door in the space that lends itself to a
cuisine
, the area once used to milk cows, and onto the still-to-be
fini
paving, I imagine having
petit déjeuner
and
apéritifs
here in the solitude of a Cuzance country life. The new lavender hedge sways in a soft purple haze and draws the eye. Beyond, the laden orchard beckons. It is an enticing dream, the sort that fuels a
rénovation
life. For now, I shelve my dreams and set to work.

There is no longer just a snake in the grass. There is a snake in paradise. Stuart is very astute where people are concerned. I am not. While I feel sympathy for what I consider to be a lonely old man, Stuart has always surmised that there must be a reason Monsieur Chanteur's family doesn't visit him. After all, Stuart has maintained, we don't know that much about him.

Our convivial way of life is at times both a blessing and a curse. Yes, the road has brought us friends, for our
petite maison
is right on the road. That initial curse of thundering trucks diverted from the
autoroute
to Paris did turn out to be a blessing. It meant that passing villagers, out
promenading
or even driving by, stopped to welcome us to our new French life. However, it also means that we're constantly visible and accessible. It does not seem to matter that for us, once a year, it is a
rénovation
life as well. In the eyes of everyone, we are therefore deemed to always be available. Even if it is late at night.

It's ironic. There are times I long for privacy. I long for an early night. I plan to do so, but it never seems to eventuate. Dominique and Gérard drop in, after what is for us another very late
dîner
. And then, Monsieur Chanteur joins us on our
petite
porch after his evening
promenade
. Or rather, he joins Gérard in a protracted, highly emotive discussion. Stuart is not included at all. It is all very peculiar, as it seems to be about our proposed television antenna. Very oddly, he has not even greeted us with the customary polite, ‘
Bonne soirée
.'
Non
.

It would appear that the possible placement of the antenna on the roof will affect his old-school sensibilities. Apparently it will be in the same category as our ugly
plastique
water tank. Oh yes, even we acknowledge the ugliness of the tank, squatting like a malevolent toad. The situation has shades of what Jean-Claude has previously told us about Monsieur Chanteur and his disdain for our collection of outbuildings. I vividly remember thinking at the time, well, what do you expect in a country life?

I am very tired. I become highly agitated. I indicate politely that despite the late hour, we are not
fin
in
le jardin
. I still need to lug my many heavy cans of water across the land to my needy plants in the now-wavering light. It is a polite exit cue. It is not taken. Dominique becomes highly disconcerted by this unusual turn of events, but matters seem to have been taken out of her hands too. I indicate that we need to be up at six to work. Jean-Louis will be arriving to help Stuart with the concreting. Gérard expresses shock, horror and amazement that we plan to get up so early to work. I think mutinously that no-one seems to quite grasp that it is not all
piscine
days and
glacée
.
Non
. We are here on a working
vacances
, and it comes but once a year.

Mon Dieu
, I think once again. Life is not an endless round of
apéritifs
and
amuse-bouche
. How do they think the house got painted, furnished, a
cuisine
installed and all the work in
le jardin
done in a mere matter of several summers? Monsieur Chanteur simply continues to sit, and opens fire at Gérard — apparently about the strange ways of foreigners. From the little I can make out of the conversation, taking place in our home no less, he also appears to be quizzing Gérard about why our paving isn't straight. Why isn't it square? I think, seriously, it's crazy paving! This is a
rustique
, rural
jardin
; the Palace of Versailles it is not.

My ire is further fuelled when at long last they leave; Monsieur Chanteur does not return my still polite, if rather strained,
‘Bonne soirée
.' He still does not reply, despite the fact that I repeat the evening farewell
trois
times. So it would indeed seem that a heated debate has taken place about the proposed, apparently inappropriate placement of our antenna, all without any inclusion of us in the discussion. I go to bed feeling flustered by the unexpected turn of events. Stuart has told me before that
chanteur
means ‘singer'. It is not a melodious harmony in my heart right now. Our peaceful village life is not all it would at first seem to be. Poison and pine trees do spring to mind.

The next morning I hastily rearrange my planting plans. I had fallen asleep revising the layout, for it was what we were intending to do when our tranquillity was so abruptly jolted. Yes, not only watering in the fading embers of day, but also planting out plants at nine. That is a measure of our schedule, for ‘crazy' does not just include paving. It had simply been too rushed the previous evening, when we had hastily exited stage left to continue our plans of laying out our newly purchased
lavande
and photinia for our morning planting. I hastily revise my plans.

I tackle a project I had intended to start the following year. I need a huge and challenging task to vent my still highly charged emotions. Even Stuart, quite unlike him, has not slept well. He tells me over
petit déjeuner
that he is worried Monsieur Chanteur may embark on a vendetta about our proposed aerial. I am quite taken aback. I am usually the one who has wild flights of imagination and middle-of-the-night-thoughts. Let's hope that's all it is.

It has not taken long at all to resume our
rénovation
life and get back into the full swing of it. It does, however, mean that there are sacrifices to be made. To our enormous disappointment, our commitment to the relentless resumption of
rénovation
days means that we have to miss out on the Gluge
vide-grenier
as, oddly, it's on a weekday. It is one of the best of the summer markets, laid out under shady trees on the banks of the smoothly flowing Dordogne. It's unusual that it's on a Tuesday. Perhaps the
vide-grenier
season is so crammed that it's the only day possible. Dominique and Gérard have told us that it will last until six. We wonder if there is any point going later, after a full day of work. Any potential treasure will have long flown its way to a new
maison
. Each Sunday market day, our list gets satisfying ticks, but then it grows again as we add more items that we decide are indispensable in our French life. We are still searching on our perpetual quests for a metal container with a handle, a
pannier
that once held milk bottles, like Jean-Claude's, that is perfect for carrying glasses to serve
apéritifs
on balmy summer evenings.

We cast aside dreams of treasure and set resolutely to work. I toil steadily away, clearing and digging the land next to the crumbling stone wall, next to our equally dilapidated outbuilding. I frequently feel glad my tetanus shot is up to date. My mound of dirt, rocks and rubble is full of all manner of household flotsam and jetsam. Old tyres, saucepans, broken pots and plates, rusted wire, remnants of a porcelain toilet, twisted ancient cutlery, a tap — and shards of sharp glass. There is never a cache of true treasure. I kneel and move gingerly. My clothes soon cling to me in rivulets of dirt and perspiration. No-one in my other life would ever recognise me. Meanwhile, Stuart and Jean-Louis work away silently and methodically on the concreting and paving. It still seems to stretch forever.

We have decided to reward ourselves with
déjeuner
at one of our favourite restaurants, Le Vieux Four. On the still rare days that we abandon our work to go out for lunch, we have taught ourselves to down tools in accord with the church bells, in order to leave in time to get a coveted courtyard table. Like many other facets of our French life, I have taught myself to throw myself under the shower in record time and transform to leave our rural wilderness. For expediency, I also toss my filthy work clothes under the shower with me. The dirt floods out in a river. Just like the perfect
déjeuner
, this is not my preferred method; long, leisurely and scalding hot is my perfect way to shower. I have also developed the fine-tuned ability to throw on a pretty
robe
and sweet
chapeau
in a matter of minutes. No-one would possibly believe the grime-stained state I was in such a short time ago when we sink with sighs of contentment and relief into our chairs in the welcome shade under a canopy of white wisteria. I am sure we look for all the world like tourists, having an unhurried lunch as a respite from the ardours of sightseeing. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Our
menu du jour
restores both our spirits and aching limbs.
Tomate salade
,
bœuf
and
pomme de terre
, followed by a long list of luscious desserts to choose from. As always, my eye never lingers on any other possible choice when
crème brûlée
calls to me from the proffered blackboard
.
It soothes me in more ways than one. I reflect on the fact that we only recently mused about the ostensible peace and rhythm of our
petite
village. Where was the drama and intrigue to liven up the seemingly endless bucolic days? Be careful what you wish for, I warn myself.

Each summer it is still hard to grasp the intensity of the sustained heat. It's difficult to believe when Jean-Louis, in his mid-fifties, tells us that the solid two weeks of rain in winter was the heaviest he had ever witnessed. As he has spent his whole life within a
petite
radius in our
département
, it goes some way to filling in the blanks about a season we will never know.

The alarm clock of our working days are once again ruling our life. Fortunately, the ubiquitous lists have abated to some extent now that we are in our fourth summer. Jean-Louis is ever punctual. He works tirelessly, steadily and patiently. He is Stuart's perfect counterpoint; there is no idle chat or wasted time. They make a solid and efficient team. When Stuart works, he works. When he relaxes, it's the same. He has several expressions he is very fond of. When we reward ourselves after a hard day's work with
glacée
under our walnut tree, he frequently remarks, ‘This is the life.' And indeed it is. The demanding, difficult, challenging hours of
rénovation
are more than recompensed.

And then, it's back to the relentless work. The demands of
rénovation
never abate, they are simply put on pause for a while. I continue to work on my new stretch of land along the disintegrating wall. I use my most invaluable tool, a little two-pronged one I found at the markets, to dig down to the deep roots of
les herbes
. It unearths limestone rocks that I pile in an ever-increasing cairn. I feel as if I'm digging for treasure the further I plunge into the earth, but there is only more submerged farm and domestic debris. Rusting wire, pieces of plastic, old shoes, even the odd sock. There are no riches to be found. My version of gold will be the treasured rose bed that I am dreaming of creating. It is not something I could possibly have envisaged a mere four years ago, when I couldn't even explore our land on our first stay for it was simply so overgrown.