Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (25 page)

The last day of this part of our working
vacances
sees me cleaning yet again. With our
petite maison
all in order, I return to
la grange
. We're down from six to two pallets of crazy paving, and the dirt, cobwebs and debris are all piled in drifts. A collection of old farm brooms has been abandoned in
la grange
. When I sweep, the straw at one end of it is all curved and worn with age. The very shape of the broom tells a story all of its own. As with the walls of our
petite maison
, I wish it could whisper its story to me. I long to know who once used it and how long ago.

Just like every other aspect of our
rénovation
life, even the act of sweeping the work site is not an easy one. The old broom I have chosen is heavy and unwieldy. To lift and drag it requires some considerable degree of effort. It is not long at all before I am consumed by choking clouds of dust. I can't resist lifting the broom up to the rafters to brush it across the
blanc
painted beams. As old flakes of paint rain down, the patina is a perfect shade of cream against the wood. I am sweeping next to the still fully preserved old manger that is supported by thin, crooked pieces of old
bois
. Like everything else that we possibly can, they will be preserved as a homage to the past, and the cows that rubbed against them long ago while feeding until the strips of wood were as smooth as ribbons of silk.

The paint flakes scatter over me like handfuls of confetti as they drift to the ground. I make it my own celebration as I once again lose myself in a fantasy of the future. The very place I am sweeping is our imagined
la cuisine
. There are even niches in the thick limestone walls, all ready for treasured
objects
to be displayed. At ground level, there is a larger one where I have already creatively placed the bottles of
vin
.

Meanwhile, Stuart is still waiting for his
très cher
delivery of sand and gravel to continue the paving. It is now at a standstill until it arrives. He takes the opportunity to hang pictures in the spare
chambre
and then gets the ladder out to continue to train the trailing strands of grapevine over
la grange
. Although the barn remains a vast empty space that houses all our
rénovation
tools and materials, it still manages to exude a palpable sense of atmosphere and strong feeling of warmth. It is, in fact, exactly the warmth that flows from the thick stone walls of Pied de la Croix. It was the strong beating heart that I felt four years ago when I first peeled back the wallpaper and made the exciting discovery of old wooden beams. I felt then the spirit of Monsieur and Madame de la Croix, and now it ripples across me in waves from
la grange.
It too now exerts a strong pull on my heartstrings.

The full heat of summer has returned after the rain and overcast days. By 10am each day it is almost time to down tools. I have moved on to carting heavy wheelbarrow loads of limestone for my planned rose bed. Heavy pieces, artfully covered with velvet moss, are carefully placed aside to edge it. The towering wooden
la grange
doors are fully open for the first time this summer in anticipation of the, by now, very late delivery. The sweeping entrance is perfectly lined up with
la piscine
and leading to the orchard. I gasp aloud. The view — and vision of the future — takes my breath away.

The clock strikes twelve. The delivery has not arrived as promised, despite Stuart carrying out the entire transaction in French. A number of vehement exclamations of, ‘
Merde
,' mingle with the tolling for the
déjeuner
hour. On the dot, Stuart calls the company. Since it is precisely twelve, naturally their
portable
has been turned off.

A call — or two — is made again after the sacred lunch hour. ‘
Non
,
non
,
demain
.' Despite the extortionate delivery cost, paid in advance, tomorrow will have to do.
Rénovation
is hard at the best of times, in any language or country, let alone a foreign one. One thing is clear though:
artisans
the world over speak the same language. ‘Tomorrow' is a refrain throughout the world when it comes to tradesmen and deliveries. Unfortunately for Stuart, he is still not quite proficient enough yet to swear sufficiently in French to convey the extent of his wrath. I am quite sure it is a skill he is soon going to cultivate.

Having friends to stay means another welcome enforced
petite vacances
. They arrive bearing German gifts: Schnapps, German
jambon
, and home-made
pomme confiture
. As we relax and catch up over champagne, there is a clatter of activity from outside
le mairie.
Preparations are in full swing for Cuzance to be showcased. When Jean-Claude drops in, he tells us that more thunderstorms are predicted. By now, I am sure
le Maire
is in a state of high anxiety for the Cuzance celebrations. I cross my fingers, for we have planned Glenn and Renate's visit to share our village
fête.

For now, though, we enjoy the company of our friends. We eat a late
dîner
next to
la piscine
and I learn a surprising fact about the swooping swallows from Glenn. I already knew that they are supposed to bring good luck to a home and that the ancient nests we have in
la grange
must be protected and preserved. I had always thought they dip into the pool for much-needed water, yet I discover that they also gather water on their beaks to create mud with which to build their nests.

The next day we wake late, as jubilant as school children on a half-term holiday. We have long learnt that the trick to celebrating our
petite vacances
is all in the position of our
chambre
door. Fully open means a
rénovation
day when the first slim shards of light tentatively creep through; shut is like a firmly closed, special occasion
chocolat
box — a rare treat. Time pings back and forth. The days merge, each somehow the same, yet every new one holds an infinitesimal difference.

Pastis
with Jean-Claude

Training the grapevine

Dessert delights

As well as planning their stay for our
vide-grenier
, another long-anticipated event, planned months in advance, is a bridge tournament in Souillac. At home in Australia, Stuart and Renate are bridge partners, so underpinning the two-day drive from Nuremberg is the excitement of playing bridge in France. It is a competition and they will be the only foreigners.

Glenn and I are left in charge of the now long overdue delivery. We have a checklist to tick off:
deux
lengths of gutter,
deux grande
bags of sand, and
dix
bags of concrete. We have precise instructions how to direct the truck so it reverses cautiously through our narrow stone pillars and edges towards
la grange
. If the delivery doesn't arrive by 4pm, we are to text Stuart. This is not bridge etiquette at all, to have your
portable
on. We hope that we don't have to resort to such drastic measures, for we have no desire to break the sacred rules of bridge — especially in France. We also know that if it all fails utterly and we have to ring Stuart during the bridge competition, the cries of, ‘
Merde
,
merde
,
merde
,' that echo from him will shatter the bucolic countryside from Souillac to Cuzance. It is quite possible that the summer-sleepy cows would stampede in panic at the ferocity of his expletives.

The two who can speak French are not at Pied de la Croix. The two who can barely speak a word of French are left alone, with our fingers tightly crossed. We all hope that when the four of us meet up in Souillac for the
apéritif
hour that it will be a celebration for more reasons than one. Bridge and concrete; our country life is always a strange amalgam.

Glenn and I while away the tense time of waiting for the impeding delivery, on which all future paving work hinges, by inspecting our
maison
and
la grange
. We pause to examine and discuss the details and possibilities. The soaring barn beams are like a sturdy wooden sailing ship, poised to take off on a voyage. Not everyone shows his passion and vision, and I'm glad he shares mine. It makes me realise how seldom I make the time to simply gaze at it and soak it all in. We reverentially admire the painstaking and enduring one-hundred-year-old construction, especially the
artisan
-crafted wooden dowels that secure it all. Our reverence is akin to the wonder usually reserved for the architectural feats of European cathedrals. As I stand there in awe I know that
la grange
is my cathedral.

After much deliberation, on the dot of four we are forced to send the dreaded text. A mere matter of minutes later, an enormous Pont P truck careers past. From past delivery experiences, I know that I need to race out onto the road to flag it down. Glenn assures me that it will turn around in the village. I am not so sure. I set off in hot pursuit, ‘hot' being the operative word. The humid air wraps its arms around me. I turn at the corner and call back to Glenn, ‘Text them and tell them it's here!'

Naturally, the village is out in droves preparing for
Fête En Cuzance.
Sometimes there are times you can walk through the village and not see a soul. Today is not one of those days. Jocelyn,
le Maire
's wife, is standing next to the war memorial, with an
amie
. She is looking very official, for she is holding a detailed plan of where all the stalls will be on Sunday. I have already raced past some being set up, and a number of caravans are already in place for the village's event of the year.

It is the first time I have seen her this year. I ‘
Bonjour, ça va
?' her and we exchange two kisses — one on each cheek, as is customary. Michel, the jovial main organiser, joins us. Another ‘
Bonjour, ça va
?' and exchange of kisses. Jocelyn looks immaculate. I do not. I am highly conscious of the short
robe
that I usually only wear around the pool. I am also highly conscious that I am not wearing a bra … I have been swimming, after all. Still, this is far from the
chic
image I try so hard to cultivate.

I pant that I am pursuing the Pont P truck. I gesture at my somewhat wild appearance in a self-deprecating way. They all laugh at me — in the nicest way possible. Despite knowing that they think I am slightly mad — I am foreign, after all — I enjoy their gentle laughter. It means that we are accepted, despite our at times strange and perplexing ways.

I continue to run madly, bouncing through the village. Pont P is nowhere in sight. It is my turn for a few heartfelt exclamations of ‘
Merde
'. I run to the end of the village, to where the road leads ominously to Souillac. I am not a marathon runner by any means. Finally, the truck appears in the heat-haze on the horizon. I wave my arms wildly. I had in fact already waved my arms wildly when I heard a heavy vehicle approaching round the corner. It was a false alarm. The jolly farmer, on his tractor, waved back and beamed at me. I am sure he had lots to tell his wife that evening over
dîner
; how a wild woman was flapping her arms on the side of the road in our
petite
village, on an oppressive summer afternoon.