Reflections of Sunflowers

by Ruth Silvestre

  ‘It will stop the plums bursting when they fall on the hard ground, or getting muddy when it rains,’ he told me. It was the first time I had ever seen this done and was clearly another of Jean-Michel’s new ideas and probably why Philippe, rather than Raymond, was involved. Philippe, who lives in Toulouse, works for a sugar company, but most weekends during the summer, he and Corinne with young Clement return to the countryside where Philippe keeps a hunting dog. He is a very good shot and also enjoys fishing. The young couple divide their time between their parents’ farms, returning to the city late on a Sunday evening with enough fresh produce to last until the following weekend.

  I left them hard at work, took my breakfast and sat by the pool. Two swallows were now dive-bombing the bubble plastic cover, which we pull over at night to maintain the water temperature. After I rolled it back, a third swallow joined them and they entertained me with spectacular whirling and diving to take small sips from the surface of the pool at speed. They then flew up to preen themselves on the wire, showing their pale underbellies with just a hint of darker blue. Suddenly there was a flurry and the wire was bare. A squadron of birds took off, swooping and diving close to the water. The whole formation rose, turned restlessly, now skimming over the maize, now flying low over the house, always returning eventually, to sit like a row of thick dark commas along the length of the wire.

  This unusually early display presaged a sudden and very real change in the weather. The sun made a last, brief appearance during the afternoon but that night the temperature dropped dramatically and for the next few days the rain was continuous. This dire and unseasonal weather was apparently all over Europe, reaching as far as Russia. That evening we lit the fire in the wide cheminée and, as we watched the water cascading off our roof and pouring down the water channel round the house, we heard on the radio that the rain in London was so heavy that even some underground stations were closed. And the following day, still it rained.

  It was our village fête at the weekend. It looked like being a very damp affair. Mike’s convalescence was sufficient excuse for us not to attend, but Raymond, indefatigable as ever, was busy trying to work out how he could combine going to the fête with attending a golden wedding on the same day. Rico, Claudette’s cousin, the ancien mécanicien who had restored the old Citroën, was celebrating with his jolly wife. Raymond felt obliged to go and, of course, the menu was sure to be special.

  ‘On a commencé avec un apéritif et des amusesgueules,’ Raymond began next day as he gave us a report, his eyes shining. The aperitif was a pousse rapier, guaranteed to get any party going. This is a Gascon aperitif, named, it is suggested, after D’Artagnan, who was pretty handy with a rapier. The aperitif is often served in a special glass with a rapier drawn on the side, by which the amount of liqueur, an orange-flavoured Armagnac, is measured. This is then topped up with a sparkling white wine, sometimes referred to as un vin sauvage. At three o’clock the meal proper had begun with crudités, then foie gras, poelé avec un feuilleté. Next, said Raymond, they had barbecued a whole lamb, his eyes glazing over as he described its succulence. He did comment briefly on the fruit dessert, but extolled the pièce montée, the French version of a wedding cake. This consists of dozens of small round éclairs filled with crème pâtissière, glued together with caramel to form as high a concoction as the skill of the chef will allow. The meal was followed by a grand concours de pétanque.

  Raymond was, apparently, doing very well until, as he explained, he had to drag himself away to be in time for the repas at the village fête, which of course he couldn’t miss. He then sat down to roast pork, sautée potatoes and haricots, followed by cheese and fruit tart. As Raymond and Claudette and the rest of our not-to-be-defeated village then danced in the rain, we had lain in bed with hot water bottles and listened to the music drifting up across the maize. Perhaps l’année prochaine we would be more en forme. The weather improved. The sun reappeared, the fields steamed and the orchard was carpeted with great violet plums. As we watched the pickers bending to fill their baskets we realised that Jean-Michel had got the straw down just in time.

  The next day we went to collect Matthew. The road from Villeneuve to Agen is treacherous with many dangerous bends. In a real effort to reduce the large number of accidents, the French have recently decided on an imaginative, albeit chilling, strategy. We were startled when we saw our first, life-size, black figure silhouetted against the green hedgerow. By the time we reached Agen we had passed fourteen such macabre cut-outs marking the spot where fatalities had occurred. It is a sobering and, I imagine, much more effective remedy than a simple speed restriction.

  Matthew decided that one of his first tasks must be to tackle our much overgrown wisteria. Although, sadly, we had not been here to see it flower, by the number of pods hanging all along its length it had clearly been very beautiful. Now long, looping tendrils had already reached out to encircle the Cyprus tree and, more worrying, were pushing their way up under the roof tiles and winding into a stranglehold round the chimney. It seemed impossible to believe that some years before, I had been worried about losing it altogether. It had endured very rough treatment when we finally decided to have the rendering taken off the south-facing outside wall where it grew.

  We had by that time already stripped off much of the old earth rendering inside the house. This was not so much a deliberate choice as the fact that the surface was so loose that each inadvertent knock as a piece of furniture was repositioned resulted in another clod falling to the floor. When, in our bedroom, we finally took a mallet and finished the job, we uncovered very attractive stones, which we then had sandblasted. Re-pointed with cream-coloured cement, they still give us pleasure when we wake up.

  Outside the house, however, we had done very little, especially on the south side, which faced the track. The very oldest section with its patched rendering stones just visible here and there, had a certain charm and also, I reasoned, made it less likely that any passing burglar would expect to find anything of value in such an unkempt dwelling. In twenty-five years we have only been burgled once. They were clearly professionals. They simply removed the only object of any real value, a hanging brass lamp. A nearby chateau, which they next visited, was not so fortunate and a great deal of valuable furniture was taken.

  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, mask
s 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.