Читать книгу Our House is Certainly Not in Paris - Susan Cutsforth - Страница 14

On our second morning, as I sleepily stumble out into la cuisine, it suddenly comes home to me with a jolt, that just two years ago, all we had was a single table to not only prepare everything on but it was also our storage area. It would hold at any one time an eclectic array of items, like a surrealist painting; a loaf of pain, paintbrushes, bricolage catalogues, maps, screwdrivers, as well as our petite collection of plates, glasses and cutlery. Renovating and setting up a house in those basic conditions requires a lot of organisation, flexibility – and patience. The statement, ‘two years’ does not quite encapsulate all that has been achieved since then, for in reality, the total transformation until now, has all been achieved in a matter of nine weeks. While that time was spent in the longest days of sheer hard work imaginable, it was not even nine full weeks of solid work. There were the endless bricolage trips, the expeditions to the Trocs in search of second-hand furniture, the brocante and vide grenier outings. I can only marvel as I gaze around at our new stylish IKEA la cuisine, the cracked old leather Chesterfield sofa and chairs, the long wooden table and assorted array of old wooden chairs. How did we possibly manage all this I wonder?

After only one whole day back in Cuzance, our collection of vide grenier finds are all unpacked and our petite maison is almost restored for another summer. The mantelpiece is decorated once again with everything that has been tucked away for a year. In pride of place, is my still-life painting, that I picked up for a mere two euros. I like to secretly believe that it is by a famous artist and worth two million euros. I convince myself that it is and I will make our fortune by selling it at Sotheby’s. The matching bright yellow jugs, the dark brown espresso cups and saucers, all lined up in a neat row, the beautifully carved wooden vase – all these things give me pleasure every day in our little French farmhouse. As I eat my chocolate chip muesli – surely not ‘real’ muesli but nevertheless utterly delicious – I discover that it is extremely addictive. I decide that it is far too decadent a way to start the day. Surely I should be more selective here about my choice of daily mouth-watering treats? I devour another mouthful of exquisite rich, small dark chocolat squares. For now, such momentous decisions can wait.

As I soak up the view of le jardin while I have my first espresso of the morning , I plan my day. Most pressing is to seek Jean-Claude’s opinion on the source of the freshly dug, ominous mound of dirt in the cellar. I had only seen it in the fading light of the previous evening, yet what I saw was enough to sufficiently alarm me. I asked Stuart why he hadn’t told me about it when he discovered it earlier in the day. In his usual inimitable manner, he told me he didn’t want to worry me. It was probably only a rabbit he said.

I don’t know much about the habits of rabbits but I do know enough to think that it may be more disturbing than a mere lapin. However, I cannot begin to imagine what creature has been marauding in our cellar. In addition, there’s some highly alarming noises emanating from the attic – dubbed last year, ‘The Squirrel Room’, due to the disturbing sounds of scampering and the sight of squirrels leaping across the barn roof.

Stuart informs me he will venture up there later. He can go alone, I think. There is also still a mouse in the house.

In my sleep-induced, jet-lagged haze, as I had prepared my petite déjeuner, I had only just managed to remember where Stuart had decided was the only safe place for the pain and packets of food that may be tempting for a mouse on the lookout for a tasty takeaway treat. Where else but in the oven of course?

My day gets underway despite the possibility of creatures who have taken up permanent residence in our absence. While we get our bank statements and other French accounts delivered to us at home, it occurs to me that after a year, I should probably check the post box.

It wasn’t until we got our regulation-sized, Le Bureau de Poste approved post box late the year before and attached it to the stone wall – under Jean-Claude’s guidance about what position would be deemed acceptable by Le Bureau de Poste – that we were considered to officially exist in France. I discover a puzzling collection of very official-looking letters. They have been posted every two months from a government office in Cahors. We have absolutely no idea what they mean. They are put aside to ask Jean-Claude about when we visit for a late afternoon apéritif. What does bring me enormous joy is a welcoming letter from Kaitlyn and Ryan, my students at home. I am deeply touched by their thoughtfulness that a letter is here to greet me at the start of our long summer away. This too I tuck away to share with Jean-Claude and Françoise.

It is yet another extraordinary fragment of my new life, the fact that two of the people I am the closest to, are a seventeen-year-old Australian school girl and a seventy-year-old French man.

Today I have to tackle the dust-covered linen and towels, yet even washing in France is not an ordinary experience. I venture down to the cellar and pull back the creaking, cobweb-covered wooden door. I always have to remember to stoop as I go in or I’ll hit my head on the low stone doorway. I reach for my washing products that are placed in a handy little stone niche in the wall. The cellar has been here for one hundred and thirty years; like many other elements of our petite farmhouse, I wonder about all those before me whose footsteps I am following in the cavernous, cool space. Next I need to unpack. I have not even had to go near my suitcase yet for I’ve just pulled on clothes that I left in our armoire. What is already dawning on me, is that in my usual fashion, I have seriously over-packed. What on earth was I thinking when I filled my suitcase? In the depths of the country, I simply pull on a T-shirt and a pair of pantaloons every day. I seem to have packed for the Riviera or a summer of Paris soirees. It has never been my forte. And let’s not forget, I have been lured by the promise of solde in Limoges in our first week . Indeed, as I was packing at home, even I was struck by my sheer madness at bringing clothes back to France that I’d bought just the previous year. Like our well-travelled Sim card (which I hasten to add still doesn’t work), it would seem that I also aspire to have clothes that travel the world more than most people I know. Seriously, I don’t know what I’m thinking at times. Later, when Gérard and Dominique drop in to see us and I’m invariably in my less than attractive rénovation clothes, they actually ask if when we go home I can send a photo of what I look like when I go to school every day. That seems to sum up my lack of stylishness in France, despite my best attempts at times.

Over our apéritif with Jean-Claude and Françoise in the soft glow of the late summer afternoon, I make plans with Françoise for my first cooking lesson to make a tarte aux pomme, an apple pie that will also be a French lesson, as all my instructions will be in French . This is why I am in France after all. Sadly though, the summer will pass and our plans will be thwarted. Next year; that seems to be our catchcry for many things. As I obsessively work later in le jardin in the intense summer heat, I dream of how in the following year, under Françoise’s expert culinary guidance, my tarte aux pomme will glisten in its honey glaze.

Before we leave their maison, Jean-Claude translates our official letters. They are related to the new la grange roof and enquire whether la grange will now be inhabited.

Absolutely not, Jean-Claude emphatically declares, and writes accordingly on the letter for us in French. He and Stuart conspiringly agree that we should not pay any more taxes than necessary. All that our barn houses is our voiture and a car hardly counts. Views on taxes are clearly the same the world over. As we wish them bonne nuit, Françoise climbs the small wooden stepladder in the enchanting kingdom of her petite la cuisine. She reaches and stretches for jars of her gleaming homemade confiture. The most prized jar of jam is her fig one, labelled September 2009. We are then given a choice between fraise and rhubarb, all from her immaculate potage garden. While strawberry is a luscious choice on fresh pain, we choose the rhubarb as we have not tasted it before. It is touches like these, of the homemade gifts of confiture from the French kitchen of our dear friend, that make all the difference between simply having a maison in France and having a home. In such a short time, Cuzance is definitely home.