Our House is Not in Paris (22 page)

The last time we had
dîner
with them was an impromptu simple Sunday supper of salad, omelettes and homemade bread. I was dressed in my wet swimsuit and borrowed cardigan. This time we were dressed suitably for the occasion and, when we arrived, the table was indeed set for a grand
soirée
. It was beautifully decorated with antique silverware, sparkling crystal glasses and adorned with a centrepiece that was a brightly coloured eighteenth-century soup tureen. These touches always made me feel full of amazement that such a significant piece of history was gracing the table. My perpetual sense of wonder about being in a country that is brimming with history and treasure was deepened when I found out that the tablecloth was made by Françoise's grandmother. It was a cool, crisp summer evening yet still perfect for sitting outside on their terrace with our
apéritifs
, overlooking their glorious
jardin
. A sublime meal followed, as Françoise is passionate about cooking and loves entertaining. How she managed to conjure up such marvellous dishes in her
petite cuisine
is quite a feat. One night, I sat on the chair tucked in the corner of her kitchen to chat to her as she prepared a meal. It was placed there exactly for that purpose. While their home is grand, spanning over seven floors, the kitchen is the opposite and everything has its precise place. Françoise reached and stretched and placed and performed conjuring tricks in her tiny space. She asked me to set the table once and I was told the pewter goblets were on a rack above the kitchen door. In such a small space there is always a lot to gaze at — the wooden shelf up high with jewel-coloured homemade jams, the family silver cleverly displayed on a piece of old ironing board found when they were renovating their home many years ago, and, if you're lucky, your eyes will fall upon a
tarte aux pommes
, freshly baked and placed on the
petite
counter. The fragrance of the apples in their crisp buttery pastry is another fragment that makes being in their home a privilege and a treat.

We then had one of the most memorable evenings of our life, followed the next day by one of the best days of our life. The dinner was splendid and the company convivial and charming. We were served local duck — which Françoise had collected earlier that day straight from a local farm — and it was presented with blini and poached
abricot
. A
fromage
platter followed, and, as this was a special dinner, they were not everyday
fromage
but rather specially chosen ones for the occasion. Then we were served delicious individual
chocolat tartes
with orange cream and lemon sorbet. All the courses were, of course, accompanied by significant French wines from Jean-Claude's considerable cellar. Our tastebuds sang.

Angela and John had recently finished renovating the house next door and it was now on the market, so they had brought their keys to take us on a tour. The house was immaculately renovated, though the only vestige of the original house is an old oak
armoire
attached to the wall. Angela and John told us while we were on our tour that when the
maison
was sold, the owner's children ruthlessly removed any remnant possible from their family home. We had read accounts that when new owners move into their
maison
, everything is removed, right down to light bulbs and
la cuisine
. We found this extraordinary.

Just prior to moving in, Angela and John discovered the previous occupants unsuccessfully attempting to wrench the heavy floor-to-ceiling cupboard from the wall. Hanging from a nail on the side of a cupboard was an old chain with a Virgin Mary on it. Traditionally these were hung over the bed to protect those sleeping there. Now it remained as a lingering tribute to the previous owner, Madame Jouve, and whatever the truth of her life was. A story from the war that, like many others, would never see the light of day. A story from the war that will now rest in peace — or otherwise.

I was utterly gripped when they told us the story of Madame Jouve. She was accused of being a collaborator in the war. Her head was shaved and she was paraded, along with others, in the nearby town of Brive. The rest of her life was spent barricaded in her home. There were heavy wooden shutters, bars on all the windows and doors with triple bolts. Jean-Claude told me that, according to village legend, they were the object of a raid by the Resistance to be executed but were absent at the time. He also informed me that Monsieur Jouve is still remembered as, ‘A damn nuisance since he was always nosing around ready to denounce suspects.'

Nevertheless, I felt a huge sadness for Madame Jouve, for I thought we could not judge or condemn what others may be forced to choose. Indeed, she may not have even been a collaborator, for many were wrongly judged and accused. And then, indeed, there were those who chose to join the Resistance shortly before the end of the war.

In our small village of mostly older people, a war memorial stands as does one in every village and town in France. Inside our church, too, is a list of names from both the great wars to commemorate the men of Cuzance.

There is a long list of names for both the wars. Some I deduced were brothers or even father and son, judging by the names carved in stone: Auguste Barre and Albert Barre. And, they must also be related to Marinette, our village matriarch. What I did know was that, in a small village, all are connected and now united in remembrance. Many of the names are no longer used today, such as Theophile, Gustave, Prosper, Honore and Cyprien. I recited the names as if they were a soliloquy: Lucien Entraygues, Joachim Laverdet, Adolphe Queryrel, Germain Rey. I can never possibly find out anything about these men who gave their lives for France and yet, decades later, they have seeped into my consciousness.

After we returned from the tour of Angela and John's house and the chilling stories of the war, we all gathered in the sitting room for a final
digestif
. I then listened, utterly spellbound, as Angela chose to share with us her father's story of his role in World War II. At the age of ninety-seven, her father came to stay with them in France for a holiday. One evening, as they were having an
apéritif
in the
jardin
, he announced to his daughter, ‘There's something I have to tell you.' And so Angela's father shared with her, the first person he had ever told, the story of his involvement in ‘Gloria'. This was the codename for the branch of Special Operations Executive that he was in. One night, the phone rang and a message was sent to him for the next mission across the Channel. Angela's mother, pregnant at the time, answered, to be told one word only: ‘Gloria'. Her father had been exempted from signing up for the war, as he ran a business that was regarded as critical for the war effort. His job involved a lot of travel throughout England and, as such, he often stayed in London and didn't return to the family home for nights at a time, due to business commitments. On hearing the one word, ‘Gloria', Angela's mother assumed that her husband was having an affair. And so she died forty years later, never knowing that her husband had been a secret agent. His commitment to the
Secrecy Act
meant that he had never felt he could share his role in the war with his wife. So it was, instead, that Angela learnt that her father had to bear the taunts of being labelled a conscientious objector as he travelled up and down to London, dressed in his business suit. The reality was far, far from this. I could only begin to imagine how his heart must have cried out in protest at the sheer injustice of such a label.

In truth, he was disguised as a Dutch fisherman and hidden under piles of kippers to make the terrifying trip backwards and forwards across the Channel to engage in espionage. Angela did not know how many times he made this trip. Yet he kept this secret deep inside and buried within until the very end of his life.

After I heard these sombre stories on the night of the grand dinner, the next time we were on an evening walk through the village I consciously stopped and slowly read each name on the memorial. I thought of the boys and men from ‘my' village with deep sadness and reverence.

I thought, too, that there is a strong possibility that men and women from the Resistance hid in barns such as ours. Jean-Claude told me that Monsieur Dalle, who sits daily on the bench outside his house in the village and watches our small world go by, could tell me stories about the war and Cuzance. It was times like these when I was especially regretful that I lack the language skills to talk to him and find out more. It also made me look with new eyes at the elderly villagers I always exchanged polite and warm ‘
Bonjour
's with, such as Marinette, who occasionally walks past our
petite maison
, leaning on her cane. Though in her eighties, she is always immaculate in her summer frocks, her ensemble complete with a straw hat. What stories does she have? Was she in the Resistance? My imagination burned with the desire to know more.

The day after one of the most memorable, moving evenings of my life, we set off early to Villefranche-de-Rouergue to have lunch with Brigitte and Erick. It turned out to be one of the best days of our lives. A day out for lunch transformed into a twelve-hour day in all. Indeed, a very long and memorable lunch. The drive to get to their
chambre d'hôte
took us through the countryside — rolling green hills, stunning
chateaux
and quintessential villages full of charm. In the height of summer, it was Brigitte and Erick's peak season for booking in guests, so it was especially an honour to be invited when they were so busy. When we arrived, the table was splendidly set for lunch in their
jardin
. Simply arriving brought a sense of pleasure — just like the first time we stumbled upon their delightful
chambre d'hôte
after a full day of driving from the Pyrenees and desperate for a room for the night. Their small hotel is on the banks of the Averyon and hidden behind a high stone wall. As you open the heavy wooden gate, a lovely garden unfolds before you that leads to the L-shaped building that was formerly a bathhouse for travellers. The fragrant roses were in full bloom and the table, set with the family silver, complete with a crest, beckoned us forward. As Brigitte was once a chef in her restaurant in the south of France, the meal — just like Françoise's the night before — unfolded in a symphony of textures and tastes.

Brigitte and Erick met many years ago when they both lived in the south of France, but it had taken them thirty years to finally marry. Their love story spans Erick's four other marriages and four children between them. Finally, they are together, and it is obvious when you are with them that it's exactly how it should be.

After a very prolonged lunch, Erick showed us a photo of the
chateau
in Paris that his family once lived in and the home of the silver many years ago. We then walked in the late afternoon heat to Erick's son's house, which he was currently renovating for Maxim. It turned out to be a very exciting adventure.

The two-storey little house is also on the banks of the river and it has a very special ambience. Before we even went inside to explore, we first ventured into a small outbuilding in the garden that had remained untouched for over forty years. We all loved a treasure hunt and there were piles of possible treasure piled up everywhere. Stuart and Erick started rummaging through old fabric that fell away in their hands and the room was immediately full of choking dust. Brigitte and I joined in and were soon in fits of laughter. We clutched each other in our mirth as we were engulfed by clouds of dust and covered in cobwebs. Erick kept handing us assorted items and asking if we would like them. It was like going to our own private
vide-grenier
. The old garden tools with wooden handles were like valuable antiques to us and just what we needed. I was also given a large pewter jug, which, on our next market visit to Martel, I was able to buy sunflowers for. I placed the jug on our bellows coffee table and, with such touches, our
petite maison
became more and more like a home. When Gerard and Dominique next visited, we proudly showed them our tools. They didn't seem as excited about them as we were; no doubt they found them more commonplace than we did.

The outing ended with us walking through Villefranche, pausing to watch the old men in the shady square, intent on their beloved game of
boules
. We dropped in to a second-hand bookshop and I was delighted to find a copy of
Alice in Wonderland
, which I bought for one of my students, Kaitlyn Munro, who was studying French. Though only sixteen, she too adores old things and I knew that she would treasure it forever. We lingered over an icy beer in the town square, returned briefly for a
café
before, laden with all our gifts, setting off back to Cuzance after a day that was destined to be one of marvellous memories. As we drove back through the soft hues of a late summer evening, we marvelled that, when admiring the crested silver over lunch, Erick later went to a cupboard and presented us with two silver spoons. We felt honoured and very lucky to have made two such wonderful friends, all as a result of booking in to stay with them several years ago.

The following day completed a perfect weekend as we set off on our ritual Sunday outing to a
vide-grenier
in Mont Valent, another gasp-aloud town perched high on a hill. When we returned, we finally had time to collect from the attic all our treasure that we bought last year, and spent the afternoon unpacking IKEA bags and boxes of
vide-grenier
finds that had been tucked away. It was like Christmas, as of course, in the intervening twelve months, we'd forgotten about most of the things we'd bought. They ranged from pretty IKEA floral quilt covers to collections of old glasses from markets. We seemed to have already accumulated enough glasses to have our own ‘clear out the attic'
vide-grenier
stall.
No more glasses
, we declared.