Читать книгу Our House is Certainly Not in Paris - Susan Cutsforth - Страница 17

It scarcely seems possible that only two years ago, on our very first morning, I fell off our air mattress in the room that would become our la cuisine the following year, and immediately started to pull down the ugly wooden lattice on our porch that served no purpose at all. We then launched into the debacle that was stripping the wallpaper off in our bedroom. Now, the start of our third working vacances, it seems to take me hours to start functioning properly, even with the kick-start of a couple of espressos. ‘It can wait,’ seems to be the new mantra of the day we have adopted. This time, there is still a glorious nine weeks stretching out in front of us. Little did we know, when time seemed to stretch endlessly, that we would not, in our usual fashion, reach our renovating target.

After just a few days in Cuzance, already the real world has rapidly receded. We are absorbed seamlessly into our special little French world. A world where the day holds infinite promise of what it may bring. A world where the day ends in a golden glow of summer light. As the day comes to a close, I rediscover the delight of lying in bed, before darkness descends, gazing at the soft green of the trees in the Chanteurs’ jardin, crowned by their magnificent walnut.

I have learnt from Jean-Claude that Madame Chanteur is in hospital in La Rochelle.

They have been away for six weeks now. In such a short time, their meadow-like garden already has a sad air of neglect. I have bought with me a gift of a photo to give them. They are framed within their stone doorway and the love of at least fifty years of marriage shines from the soft, worn lines in their faces. I know without being told, that Madame Chanteur may never return home again. I know too that Monsieur Chanteur may well fade away shortly after. While I have only ever been able to exchange a few simple words with them, I took great joy in the past two years in observing them daily and seeing their great love and devotion from afar.

I ask Jean-Claude if he has an address for them in La Rochelle so I can post the photo to them. He tells me that Monsieur Chanteur is of the old school and would not reveal his address or phone number. I can only feel that our neighbouring maison has an air of doom enveloping it. The Chanteurs have only lived there for a year and before that, Anne Barnes, the English woman I would surely have become friends with. Yet she had died tragically in Haiti while working for the United Nations, just shortly before her planned retirement. I feel a sense of uneasy trepidation for whoever else may live one day in the house next to us.

On just our third day, we are even more fully immersed in domestic duties. Stuart finally emerges, declaring he’s more than ready for his petite déjeuner. It seems that he too has developed a penchant for chocolat muesli . We then launch into further domesticity; it’s hard to believe that only two years have seen such a major change in our daily routine. The voiture is a disgrace; full of dry grass from the previous year from our rustique jardin, so Stuart sets to work to clean it. Meanwhile, I reacquaint myself again with the dials and knobs of my French washing machine. The birds sing, the sun shines and we have a real French home that is no longer just a renovating site.