Reflections of Sunflowers (10 page)

Eventually Mike, always more practical, persuaded me that something simply had to be done about the state of this outside wall.

‘We must decide either to re-render it completely,’ he said, ‘or take off all the old
crépi
, and if the stones are good like those inside, we can leave it
pierre apparente
.’

This exterior finish for stone houses has become much more popular but needs to be done skilfully. The cement used to re-point must harmonise with the stones, as if it is too dark it can dominate. Sufficient cement must be used to seal the joins and make the wall waterproof, but, at the same time, the best effect is achieved by leaving the edges of the stones just proud enough to reveal their shape. This is time-consuming. We have watched many builders with varying skills throwing on the very wet cement, pushing it between the stones and then scraping or sometimes brushing it off.

As with most decisions, we left it for yet another
year. It was the burgeoning ivy that finally made us realise that we could wait no longer. Each time we cut it back and pulled away the ever-thickening stems, another chunk of rendering came with it – especially on the oldest section of the wall under the hand-cut window. Large spaces had begun to open up behind the loose
crépi
. Just how large I realised one hot morning in late September as I surprised a long, basking snake. Alarmed at my shadow, she slid her head into what seemed to be a small hole but then completely disappeared, retracting the tip of her tail in a last flick. I worried about what else might make a home in our wall.

We decided then to have all the old
crépi
removed and take a chance on the stones. We telephoned M. Duparq. He came a few days later, listened, nodded and ‘
Hmmned
’ and banged a bit of
crépi
off with his boot.

‘
Il me semble que les pierres sont solides et assez jolies
,’ he said reassuringly. He would be happy to work at it in October. Before we left we cut down all the honeysuckle round the bedroom door and those branches of the pomegranate which were nearest the wall. I pruned, pulled forward and staked my favourite climber, a
campsis radicans
, called locally a
bignonia
. It has spectacular red trumpet flowers in July and August and can tolerate extremes of temperature. I hoped that M. Duparq would be able to work between it and the
wall without too much difficulty. I built a small platform with planks and bricks over my sleeping Madonna lilies, wrote a notice ‘
Attention!
’ and hoped that my garden would survive the onslaught. By Christmas we had received the last of the small, handwritten bills for M. Duparq’s careful labour in the autumn sunshine. He hoped we would be pleased.

When we arrived the following spring we were delighted to see that the stones were indeed
jolies
, the pointing sensitively done and all the plants unharmed. But even as we admired our wall we realised that this improvement had created an even greater contrast between the original part of the house and the newer addition. We had grown used to the different roof tiles on the two sections of the house. They no longer bothered us. Unlike the old-style Roman curved tiles on the original part of the house, the 1889 tiles were smaller and flatter but they had weathered attractively, and were watertight. But now, below the roof, the remaining narrow section of solid, greyish cement-rendered wall next to the long wall of newly exposed pale stones, reproached us. What other beautiful stones might lie hidden? If this surface was also made
pierre apparente
the whole back of the house would be in harmony. We had to try it.

M. Duparq returned. He had another job on hand and could only work for us on a Saturday, he told us; not, as he had always previously done, continuing on
a Sunday morning. ‘
C’est ma femme
,’ he said solemnly. His wife had apparently put her foot down. The following Saturday he arrived at eight in the morning. We cut back the wisteria, untied it, and he helped me gently lower the great twisting stems to the ground. It looked like some fantastic slumbering creature from an Arthur Rackham drawing. But, in his enthusiasm as he uncovered the – we hoped – attractive stones, would he remember not to step backwards onto the wisteria? How could it avoid being bruised and battered by falling cement? The rendering on this section of the house was a much more modern mixture and consequently heavier and, we feared, more difficult to remove.

M. Duparq set up his scaffold board on two small iron trestles and got to work. He worked for four hours without stopping, then, as always, disappeared at noon. It looked promising. On his return at two o’clock he then continued until about five, when he called us to come and see how good the stones were. He had just reached the window and was satisfied to discover that it was framed in the traditional manner with large, hand-cut stone edging. Below it there was a mixture of larger, square-cut stones and smaller horizontal layers. We were all sure that we had made the right decision. There were even one or two edges of flat red tiles aesthetically placed. We kept looking with pleasure at the half-finished wall during the following week, impatient to see the work completed.
The weather held fine. The following Saturday he arrived as usual and as we worked in the garden on the other side of the house we could hear the tap tap of his hammer. But during the afternoon it suddenly stopped and M. Duparq appeared, covered in dust and looking very worried.

‘You’d better come and have a look,’ he said.

He had now reached the end section of the wall directly under the chimney and, instead of beautiful stones, had suddenly begun to uncover a jumble of broken bricks, small stones and rubble. None of us had realised that when the new section had been built, the chimney had simply been cut into the wall, unlike the
cheminée
in the old part of the house, which is a separate construction.

‘I’ll have to just carry on, take it all off and… and see what can be done,’ said M. Duparq gloomily. By the end of the afternoon when he had knocked out all the rubble, our otherwise beautiful wall had a savage, soot-blackened wound running from top to bottom, which became even wider as it descended to the actual back of the fireplace. M. Duparq, sweating, stood back. He scratched his head, moving his cotton sunhat back and forth. He lit a small roll-up and just stood and gazed at the wall. Eventually he turned to us. ‘
Ne vous inquiétez-pas
,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’ ‘
Je peux le refaire
.’ We knew his skill with stones. He
had built our wall by the pool but, as we looked at the jagged sooty edges, the broken lumps of crude red brick, we were not hopeful.

It seemed that M. Duparq had a few days holiday from his regular work for, after spending Sunday with his wife, he returned first thing on Monday morning, a pile of stones rumbling around in the back of his battered truck. ‘You can look when it is finished,’ he said firmly. Intermittently he trundled about with the wheelbarrow searching for the precise stone he wanted, finding others in the garden or from a ruined wall at the end of the track. We heard him throw down his scaffold board at the halfway mark but left him to it until at the end of the day he called us. It was a triumph. The join was invisible. Even M. Duparq allowed himself a grin of satisfaction at our surprised delight.

‘
Pas mal
,’ he said. ‘Not bad.’ He replaced the scaffold. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow and do the pointing.’

By the time he had finished, the wisteria, which we had all but forgotten in our anxiety about the wall, was badly bruised, bedraggled and covered in cement dust. We hosed it down, pruned off damaged branches and did our best to tie the remnants back up to the wires. As we now watched Matthew wrestling with its enormous growth it was clear that our wisteria was indestructible.

That evening we went into Monflanquin to eat. The annual medieval festival was in full swing. We would miss the final banquet on the following night because we had to go once more to Agen to collect the rest of the family. On previous years the grandchildren had usually managed to coincide their visit with the great spectacle. Mike made them cardboard helmets and shields covered in silver foil, which still hang in their room. I seem to remember once knitting silver chain-mail tops and sewing red crosses onto tabards made out of old sheets. Thomas is now a little too sophisticated to participate but Elliot was annoyed at missing all the fun.

The dishes, from medieval recipes, for the great banquet itself used always to be provided and prepared by a committee of farmers’ wives. It was excellent. Now, however, common market regulations have stopped all that enterprise and enthusiasm. Professional caterers must be used for such a large number. ‘
Ces imbeciles de Bruxelles!
’ is the complaint so often voiced here – especially when things to eat are concerned. I noticed when we arrived this summer that a large, butcher’s shop-sized cold store was humming away in Claudette’s hangar. On enquiring, she told me that this year her precious calf had not gone to the abattoir. Robert had butchered it in situ and her
ris de veau
, her
cervelle
and all the other delicacies had been saved. The French take a real delight in frustrating what they see
as unnecessary regulations. I remember the glee when there was, one year, a brief petrol strike.

‘
Oui, c’est la grève!
’ declared the postman excitedly as he waved my letters at me from his little yellow van. He, of course, was exempt! It was extremely inconvenient, not least for those holiday-makers who had not filled their tanks in time to get home. Friends of ours who live in France and have imbibed the national attitude, had just left us in their camping van to tour the Gorges du Tarn. They rang to say that they had spent the next week in a field, not far away, walking to the nearby shops and declared it extremely enjoyable and much more relaxing.

Brussels notwithstanding, Monflanquin was
en fête
. Blue and yellow banners hung from every balcony and many of the people strolling the streets were in costume. The air was filled with smoke from the many small barbecues in the square and the appetizing smell of meat cooking with garlic and fresh herbs. I’m not sure what Brussels think about these. Perhaps they are next on the list! Under the lights, stalls were selling trinkets, stone carvings, masks and hand made soaps. Jugglers, fire-eaters and tumblers paraded by. Small boys in tights and jerkins chased each other with wooden swords, little girls in long skirts and aprons sat chatting on the wall, or rode solemnly by on donkeys. Chicken roamed about pecking up bits of fallen food in the straw underfoot.

As we climbed the manure-strewn street a parade of gaudily dressed horsemen came down toward us, their mounts splendid with scarlet caparison and jingling harness. Later in the evening there would be jousting in the square by the church. The leaders with unfurled banners and plumed helmets were grand and imperious but they were followed by a horde of ruffians with blackened teeth, wild hair, bandaged limbs and crutches; their cosmetic wounds and suggestions of the pox almost too realistic. The wenches were authentically dirty with matted locks and greasy costumes. I imagine these are young actors who spend their summers going from one medieval festival to another across France. Some of them are very skilled musicians on authentic instruments and there is always a small group whose speciality seems to be a delight in looking as revolting as possible. They banged their drums and tambours, squeaked their pipes, clattered their sticks, as they capered about and whooped and sang. In the middle of this street of medieval cacophony stood a small tubby Frenchman, immaculate in white shorts, white sports shirt with the neat green crocodile of Lacoste on his left breast, white socks to the knee and spotless shoes. Under one arm he held an equally white poodle on a jewelled lead. In the other hand he held his mobile phone into which he continued to shout as the crowd, heaving and shrieking, surged round him, swallowed him up and then moved on leaving him still remonstrating, and completely oblivious.

The rest of the family arrived safely. Thomas was highly delighted with his golfing trolley and its contents and was impatient to try them out. When we made our next trip to Hugh and Sally’s golf course his boxes of Simone’s golf balls, still in their original Jack Nicklaus wrappers were examined with interest by other players, pronounced rare and quite possibly valuable, which pleased him. While he set off to practise, Sally took Elliot to feed the geese and then to the nearest lake which was full of fish and, in spite of a recent visit by yet another of M. Bernard’s former cronies, also frogs. One quiet afternoon, Hugh told us, a total stranger had turned up with a rod and line. Hugh had watched him, intrigued, as he baited his hook with a daisy and then been amazed as within half an hour this clearly competent angler caught fifty frogs. He pronounced
himself satisfied, thanked Hugh and departed with his catch.

I left the family in a sea of croissant crumbs the next morning to keep my appointment at the hairdresser. This is a great place to hear local gossip – if the customers, their heads in rows of rollers or wrapped in cling film, don’t speak too quickly or lapse into patois. After declining to have my hair completely restyled, pressed to choose from a selection of photographs of models, alas, less than half my age, I managed to convince Madame that I simply wanted my roots retouched. Half an hour later, I was just beginning to understand an interesting conversation about the demise of the Monflanquin music festival when I was scooped up to the basin and my formerly attentive ears were filled with water.

My hair finished, at last – no one hurries here – the sky was a blazing blue outside the hairdresser’s tinted window and I was anxious to leave. I had forgotten that Madame did not take a credit card and began to apologise, thinking that I would have to walk down the hill to the cash machine outside my bank, the Credit Agricole.

‘
Mais non, Madame!
’ she exclaimed, her delicately pencilled eyebrows disappearing under her lacquered fringe. ‘
Il y en a une en face
.’

I’d never noticed the machine across the road. I put in my Abbey National card and, as I casually folded
my Euros and turned to re-cross the road, I had a sudden flash back to the dark days of ’76 when we bought Bel-Air. Almost with disbelief, I realised how much had changed. It is so simple now to access one’s money from a ‘hole in the wall’ all over Europe, and every week TV programmes actively encourage, seduce even, potential buyers to borrow freely to buy their dream home abroad. It seems barely credible that thirty years ago we, among hundreds of British pioneers, were made to feel guilty as we did our best to beat the then-current punitive system.

In those austere days, far from being shown a selection of desirable, completely restored properties by a glamorous young enthusiast who promises to complete most of the financial arrangements for you, one had to spend weeks looking at highly undesirable ruins. Handed a list by – often disinterested – agents who seldom had even a photograph of the property on offer it was quite an adventure, one certainly found oneself in the most extraordinary places, but it was very time-consuming. The greatest difference, however, is that in those days, having found a house one had first to apply to the bank of England for permission even to buy abroad. Then it was necessary to pay a severe dollar premium on one’s own money on which, of course, one had already paid income tax. It now seems almost unbelievable but at that time, onto the price of any potential property one had to automatically
add 40% for the hated premium, before considering the additional cost of agent’s and solicitor’s fees. It was just as well that the properties themselves were incredibly cheap but, nevertheless, everyone tried to circumnavigate the regulations in one way or another. Stories abounded. A useful asset, it was said, was an American friend with an English bank account who would do the deal for you and then be repaid. Another friend of a friend, more daring than we, took out the whole amount, filling her knickers with bundles of pesetas to buy an apartment in Torremolinas. Torremolinas has, of course, changed as much as the currency regulations since those days.

On a hot day in August ’76, with a spruced-up Raymond and Claudette as the happy vendors, Mike and I sat in
Maître Fournon’s
office, eager to become the new owners of Bel-Air, this long neglected house that we had just discovered. The office was cluttered with a great deal of dark wood panelling and smelt of polish. I remember the many photographs of rugby teams on the walls, serious fellows with rows of brawny arms folded above sturdy thighs. There was also something about the bulk of
Maître Fournon
and the width of his shoulders that suggested that he might in his youth have been more than just a spectator. Our French was not so good then and we made a great effort to understand not only the required documents but also all the conversation, which was rapid and with
a strong local accent. As I remember it, somewhere between the team pictures and shelves of files there was also a notice to the effect that a
sous seing privé
on a purchase of a property was
Strictement Interdit
. This did not prevent us all from signing there and then just such a document.

Raymond, like every other Frenchman at that time with property to sell, was worried by a rumour that France was about to bring in a capital gains tax in the new year. Obviously they all wished to avoid this if they could and a great deal of cash was changing hands. At the very least, all vendors favoured the solution of declaring a slightly lower price than the buyer would actually pay. For the remainder, a private arrangement, ‘
sous la table
’, a time-honoured tradition in France, would minimise the possible tax. For us, of course it would be an even greater saving. A private arrangement seemed eminently sensible and simple and
Maître Fournier
didn’t bat an eyelid. Who am I, he seemed to imply, to collect taxes? As long as he got his fee he was content. Before we left for England that summer we arranged to bring down the rest of the money before Christmas, when the contracts for the exchange of the property would be ready for signing.

To amass even a small amount of French francs in London was not easy. The allowance of foreign currency in 1976 for an annual holiday was the equivalent of £100 each and had to be marked in one’s passport. It
seems like another world now, even the realisation that, then, not everyone went abroad automatically each year. Those of Mike’s colleagues at Goldsmiths’ college who preferred Dorset, or rural Wales perhaps, brought him small brown envelopes containing francs and were given sterling in exchange. As more and more ordinary people sought the adventure and challenge of buying abroad, friends and relations everywhere were being similarly pressed into service. Gradually our little pile of francs accumulated; now to get them down to Lot-et-Garonne. There were endless discussions about how, and where to hide them. The ideas got wilder. We met a couple just returned from a similar trip to the Loire valley, who had, they told us, lined their shoes with francs. Eventually Mike just pushed the bundle into his duffle coat pocket – ah, the duffle coat – and decided he would plead ignorance. It was all quite ridiculous.

We drove our camper down to Newhaven on a very wet and windy Thursday evening in late November. The large notice that greeted us on arrival in the customs house did nothing to calm our churning stomachs. In bold black letters it stated that anyone caught with over the limit of even English currency would not only have the sum confiscated but also their vehicle would be impounded. I seem to remember this limit being £25! Mike is no actor. He looked pale. Would he be guiltily silent, or, much more likely for a lecturer, would he talk too much?

‘Just leave it to me,’ I pleaded. But this was one role I did not relish.

At the very moment that we drove through customs there was a tremendous bang. We were so jumpy that we thought it must be to do with us. A currency-seeking device perhaps? The IRA? Whatever it was, it was unnerving. A sombre figure in a long, black, flapping raincoat came purposefully toward us. This was it. His pale face loomed closer. Lank black hair plastered his forehead.

‘Hurry up,’ he yelled, over the roar of the wind. ‘They’re just about to launch the lifeboat. Drive the van over there and you’ll be able to see it.’

We sent up a prayer of thanksgiving as we watched the lifeboat set out into the dark, heaving sea. Then we drove our camper onto the ferry, parked it behind a couple of lorries and climbed up the swaying staircase into the saloon to celebrate. We were a little premature. The weather grew steadily worse and there was an announcement that the ferry was unable to leave. A communication had been sent to Arundel for a tug to pull us out of harbour but if this proved impossible, said the crackling voice over the tannoy, we might have to disembark and repeat the whole process the following day. We sat in a tense silence until it was announced that the tug had made it. We would soon be on our way. At last we unpacked our sandwiches, drank a toast and dozed fitfully on the lurching ship.

The bad weather followed us all down through France. We slept briefly in a lay-by but before dawn decided to resume our long journey. We finally gave up by early evening and stayed that night in a small hotel in Villereal, an ancient
bastide
town about ten miles from Bel-Air. We were exhausted. The next morning, after calling on
Maître Fournon
and signing the papers, we drove to Raymond’s farm. On the way we stopped and recounted our little wad of money, just to make sure. The next time it was counted was on Raymond’s kitchen table with the whole family, Grandma and Grandpa and the two children all gathered round.

‘Where did you hide it?’ asked Claudette.

‘In my pocket,’ said Mike nonchalantly. Grandpa whistled between his teeth. Then shook his head and laughed.

We heard later about a couple who hid a much larger amount in a talcum powder tin. All went as planned until their farmer took the notes to the bank. Being market day the bank was crowded and, as the teller fanned the notes with his thumb, the customers gazed in astonishment as he disappeared in a fine cloud of Johnson’s baby powder!

I folded my so easily obtained Euros, walked back across the road and paid Madame. When I got back to Bel-Air the children were in the pool. I changed quickly to join them.

‘Wow, Grandma, you look smart,’ said Elliot. Then he shrieked with laughter as I jumped in and the carefully arranged hairdo was no more.

Matthew’s brief stay was almost over. Bel-Air being
complet
and Judith due to arrive the night before his departure, when his brother Adam would gallantly drive him to catch the 6 a.m. TGV from Agen, we begged a bed for that night for Judith from our generous friend, Ruth Thomas.

Ruth and Edward Thomas also bought their house, about a mile away, in ’76 and have proved kind and extremely hospitable summer neighbours. Long before we could afford a pool, we spent many happy hours in theirs and were always welcome to bring friends. Even Raymond was persuaded to try his first tentative strokes there and, afterwards, Edward always delighted in opening the Gosset, his favourite champagne.

On Matthew’s last evening we planned a small celebration as his birthday was in a few days’ time. We made a great variety of salads and barbecued small trout stuffed with garlic, salt and rosemary. I made a large chocolate cake, which is a family favourite, Claudette brought up a bowl of the last strawberries of the season, Ruth arrived with champagne.

Raymond gave Matthew a bottle of extremely
vieux
Cahors; from his diminishing store of dusty, unlabelled bottles laid down by Grandpa in the early fifties.
Inevitably, with wine so old, we have had the occasional disaster, but nine times out of ten when he opens one of these special bottles, the wine is sumptuous, almost black and with a flavour like no other wine. I am told that
vieux
Cahors is an acquired taste. I am just grateful that I have been privileged to acquire it.

Raymond was on good form. The first harvesting of the orchards had been completed. Although a great many plums had been knocked down by the heavy rain they were large and unharmed by falling – that it was thanks to Jean-Michel, I forbore to mention!

It wouldn’t be such a bad harvest after all, he agreed, and of course, the rain would be good for the maize and the vines, and the grazing cattle; the great advantage of ‘
la polyculture
’. As Claudette dished out the strawberries and the children debated whether to have coconut ice cream before or after the cake –Thomas favoured both – Raymond was reminded of the story of the old
Curé
and the village fountain.

‘
Vous n’avez jamais entendu ça?
’ he said in surprise. Then his eyes shone at the chance of telling us a joke. ‘
Il était une fois un certain village
,’ he began dramatically. Apparently their
Curé
had, tactfully, for the purpose of their confessions, invented a euphemism for a marital lapse on the part of the women in the village.

‘Not that they were a particularly promiscuous lot,’ Raymond explained with a shrug. Claudette pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. ‘
Mais non!
’
insisted Raymond. ‘
C’était une question de délicatesse
.’ Claudette giggled. ‘
Alors
, when they came to confession,’ continued Raymond. ‘It was not necessary to go into details. The gentle
Curé
suggested that, as long as the sinner was truly repentant, they should simply say ‘
J’ai glissé à la Fontaine
,’ I slipped at the fountain. This would suffice, he would understand, forgive and name a suitable penance. This custom continued for so many years, it passed into the language until eventually the old
Curé
died. The new, young
Curé
was puzzled. He went to the Mayor. ‘
Monsieur le Maire
,’ he said. ‘Something must be done about the fountain.’ The Mayor expressed surprise. The
Curé
insisted. ‘Perhaps it is the steps,’ he suggested. ‘When the women go to get water they are always slipping over.’