Lavender & Linen

by Henrietta Taylor

  Snatches of songs about love dilemmas came rushing through my brain and joined together in a new refrain as I tapped the tablecloth with a fork:

  Should we stay or should we go?

  That is something I must know.

  My life’s complete with both in tow.

  Should we stay and dance in France?

  I tapped loudly, humming da das and dee dees in time with the ditty that I had just made up.

  ‘Oh, Maman, stop it. You will never be a poet or a songwriter. Pick your game up. This is serious stuff. In any case, the decision has already been made.’ Mimi addressed the meeting, saying that it was best if we stayed for a couple of years to complete some of their education in France — and probably even to the final year of her schooling — on the strict proviso that we holidayed as often as possible in Sydney with friends and family. Harry and I nodded our heads in agreement. We liked it when Mimi took charge of meetings. It meant that they were short and sharp. She wanted coaching in French and maths so that the transition from primary to secondary school would be drama-free. Yes. I nodded my head. Perhaps somebody from the primary school would know a retired teacher who was qualified to give junior coaching? The biggest potential problem had just fallen off the list. Their adaptation into the French education system had been slow and arduous. My wise friends had no idea when they said that children learn languages within three months. This might be true for children under five, but as they progress towards ten years of age, it is difficult and slow.

  Mimi and Harry’s first foray into French school life had been in Saignon, barely two years earlier. They joined in classes where the teacher and two bilingual boys communicated with them only in English. On our return to France in January 2001, the children once again started halfway through the school year in Saignon. In September of that year, after our move to St Saturnin les Apt, Mimi and Harry had started in a new school, without the luxury of bilingual support. It had been far from easy for either of them, and most days there were tears at bedtime about the stupid French and the stupid French language, but slowly they were both making small steps in the right direction. When they started to parrot the advertisements on the television, I realised that they were making real progress.

  Now that the educational side of our problem was resolved, the next point in question was financial. Although we had some bookings for the 2002 season, starting off in Easter, it was looking more and more likely that potential clients would be leaving their travel arrangements to the very last minute. The running costs for the two rental houses in Saignon continued to spiral ever upwards, and although our home in Sydney was rented out, the numbers never seemed to add up correctly at the end of each month. There was very little margin for error. The bottom line was that I needed the houses to be open all year around — with me doing most of the work. My occasional meetings with Monsieur Perrard had now become almost weekly as he tried to navigate me through my financial woes and the basic elements of accountancy. This was the man who told me when I first met him that the most beautiful word in the French language was ‘deductible’. He loved a challenge and I presented him with a major one on a plate. ‘Have no fear,’ he said time and time again. ‘Bankruptcy is not a word we use in this office. Only solutions surround problems; we have to work out which one suits you the best.’ His eyes twinkled and, twirling his very French moustache into tight vertical points, he generously gave up his time to explain his latest proposition to ease the monthly financial haemorrhaging with the mortgage repayments.

  Even without Monsieur Perrard’s years of experience, I could work out the best solution: we had to sell one or possibly two properties or find a new unstoppable source of clients who wanted to visit every single week of the year. If I managed to sell during the spring, our financial losses might not be completely devastating, although Monsieur Perrard had severe doubts on this point. On the infrequent occasions when I went to the bar where the English-speaking community congregated every Saturday, the talk was always of how the 2002 season was shaping up to be the worst on record, and that it would not be long before the women would be working the streets of Apt. The very thought was ridiculous in the extreme, but the underlying fear remained: everyone was finding it difficult, if not impossible, to meet their financial obligations.

  My trip down memory lane halted abruptly and I put up my hand to address the audience of two. I began slowly:

  ‘This September, Mimi is going to start high school in Apt. Now that Raymond has gone, there are just the two small kittens and the three of us. This house is looking seriously cute; I think that I should sell it before we mess it up. In my opinion, we should move back to Place de la Fontaine [our original house in Saignon], as it is only four kilometres from the new high school in Apt. What do you think?’

  The outcry was loud and unremitting. They loved their nice clean modern house with large airy rooms and a level garden — a potential playground for the two labradors they wanted. Saignon was fantastic, but all their friends now lived nearby and went to the village school of St Saturnin les Apt. In short, I was the cruellest mother in the world. The ensuing stony silence and the icy stares indicated that this idea was not in favour.

  How could I have read my children so incorrectly? I assumed that they would jump at the chance to return to Saignon, with its thick cobbled stone streets and bubbling fountains and the mysterious moans and creaks of Place de la Fontaine. It was a romantic notion that I thought would appeal to them and at the same time be extremely sensible. The sale of the property in St Saturnin would bring some much-needed money back into the coffers and ease the monthly mortgage payments. I had tried but I was failing. I had to be wise and cut my losses before it really became a total catastrophe.

  ‘Maman, you are so selfish and inconsiderate. We should call you MoiMoi rather than Mum. No wonder Raymond calls you his Gimme Girl behind your back and under his breath. It’s always me me me! Life doesn’t just revolve around you. You cannot do that to us. We have been abducted from our country. It has been hell living here while you paint every day and forget about things like food on the table! Harry and I like living here in St Sat. Our friends come here because we have such a great garden. We want a black labrador for Christmas. Each! We are not moving back to Saignon. This meeting is closed. That is the end of the discussion.’

  Yes. That went well, I thought, except the reference about being egocentric and a Gimme Girl — that really stung. I was so glad that we had a forum to air our views. But somehow I would have to bring them around and make them see reason.

  I was not going to be dissuaded by obstreperous children; we would sell Villa Agapanthe as quickly as possible, then move back into Place de la Fontaine. Early June would be a good date, giving the children a new address to start their new school year in September. This would relieve the stress of the enormous monthly mortgage payments and I could get back to enjoying life and being a much happier person and mother. My days of running rental properties were coming to a rapid close, I thought.

  Mimi, who was sulking, came with me to visit a couple of houses for sale in the neighbourhood to get an idea of how much our house was worth and what the competition was on the market. In France, selling and buying real estate is done in hushed tones with no garish billboards in front of the property. Agencies come to the owner asking what price they are after. It was necessary to see what was on the market around St Saturnin to gauge what sort of price would be realistically achievable and the strength of the competition.

  After viewing several properties in the area it was evident that there was little on offer — most was overpriced and poor value — and the bottom line was that, without exception, every house needed major renovation just to make it habitable. ‘Learn from your mistakes’, another of my parents’ mantras, was ringing in my ears. ‘Make a decision and stick to it but never be scared to walk away.’

  The decision had been made and nothing was going to make me change my mind. Even though a frantic spell of
bookings had come in in recent weeks, selling was no longer urgent but inevitable. It was simply a question of when. Should we sell this year or wait until Easter of the following year? This was the question I was mulling over as we followed the car of yet another real estate agent along a narrow country track leading away from the village of St Saturnin les Apt. Few of the tracks have names, making it impossible to find addresses unless you have extremely good directions. I had specifically asked to see modern houses with gardens on level land of approximately 2000 square metres (which for the French countryside is a traditional block), close to the village, so that I could judge what else was on the market in the same class as Villa Agapanthe.

  From a distance, we could see a circular turret looming up from the little stone cottage set in the midst of trees and flowering bushes. As we swung into the driveway of the house I could see that this house was not comparable with ours — yet again, a complete waste of time. Here was an odd-looking cottage sitting on a vast tract of land, almost a hectare; the land was almost five times larger than Villa Agapanthe. Large garden beds brimmed with roses, lavender and lavender-blue and deep violet-purple flowering butterfly bushes; the heavy green straps of clivia and finer ones of amaryllis were evident too. On the ground I could see the grey felted foliage of lamb’s ears, fragrant clumps of thyme in attractive mats, with some ivy that had been recently cut back hard. There was one bed completely devoted to every colour of iris imaginable. Who cares if they are only magnificent for a couple of weeks each year? I made a mental note that for preference I like them in mixed flower borders so that the motley leaves are not so evident.

  Stop. What was I thinking? I was not buying this property, so who cared how they used the irises! A fiscal comparison to Villa Agapanthe was the only thing that was important. Everything had to be clinically assessed and emotions completely disregarded. As my mother said, a house is only bricks and mortar: your home is in your heart; you carry it with you wherever you are. This was strictly business. I needed to see how this house, La Farigoulette (in English the Wild Thyme Patch), measured up against my beautifully painted Villa Agapanthe. Some calm reflection was needed, for a change. My viewpoint had shifted towards a purely business perspective based on a clearly thought-out financial plan. My head and not my heart would rule all of my transactions from now on.

  Mimi was sitting beside me in the car, transfixed by the massive black pine tree in front of her. She was always desperate to climb high to the heavens, perhaps for closer contact with her departed father. She sat immobile. Mimi had been stuck by lightning. Coup de foudre. Coup d’amour. Thunderstruck. Lovestruck. Call it what you will, but she was taken.

  ‘Maman, this is the best house ever! You just have to buy it! This is our home. We have finally found it. You clever, wonderful Maman. You have found our house. Come on, let’s go and investigate. Then we’ll go and get Harry.’

  Véronique from the real estate agency was standing beside her oversized four-wheel drive vehicle, looking immaculate: tall and willowy, sunglasses perched on her head, with her perfect bob of blond hair falling in a straight curtain. She had checked her notes and was getting ready for the hard sell while I made a note to ask for her hairdresser’s name.

  The house was a rabbit warren of pokey little rooms that all interconnected: a house full of doors and corridors. Drab colours had been painted at random in the bathrooms, and the tiny bedrooms were made even more hideous by the unattractive wallpaper that in turn made the ugly floor tiles look even worse. It was a triumph of bad taste and a waste of precious living space. I had never seen so many little corridors with doors using up the small amount of valuable habitable space. Villa Agapanthe was looking like a palace in comparison. In fact, you couldn’t compare the two houses. It was oranges and apples. They both had a roof and were situated in St Saturnin les Apt, and that is where the common link stopped. ‘Who in their right mind would ever buy a property like this?’ I sniggered to Véronique. She quickly pointed out the potential of the land size and the evident need to do some minor renovations to the interior of the house. That’s when I fell over laughing.

  ‘Surely you can see that the only thing that this house warrants is to be pulled down and rebuilt further back down there, away from the road. No, I disagree with you entirely. It doesn’t warrant a total overhaul, it is evident it is not salvageable. This is a perfect example of the need to be ruthless with a bulldozer. I can see a new house further back down there, something really clean and streamlined that lets in the light and takes advantage of this wonderful block of land.’

  As I continued my visit, my mind went into a wander of what I would do to the house and land. I knew that I could never face any sort of renovation again. Never again did I want to refurbish, paint, scrub or prepare surfaces. It was all over. Less was best; no more property. Véronique tossed her blond bob and with total dedication to her craft, she steered me towards the exterior, which she assured me I would adore. And of course she was right — in that the house was dowdy and pokey, and the large garden was the complete opposite.

  The garden was awe-inspiringly huge, with a small private forest, a little orchard of worm-eaten peach, pear and cherry trees, and a large enclosed secret garden behind the house that could be used for a vegetable garden or potager. Best of all were the fish ponds that were dotted through the unruly garden; the largest was the size of a swimming pool, with islands and a bridge. You could barely see the water for the profusion of water lilies that spread in large drifts across the pond. Occasionally you could see the water stir and the flick of a fin as one of the mega koi carp leapt out of the water, diving back under the cover of the green lily leaves. I wasn’t sure whether my eyes were playing tricks on me, but they looked to be over seven kilos and at least thirty centimetres long. I rubbed my eyes just in case I had accidentally fallen through a shard of time and ended up in Monet’s garden. It was more than brilliant. I was home.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Arrival of the Pocket Venus

  I knew deep in my heart that the idea of buying the Wild Thyme Patch was a complete and utter folly. An urgent appointment with Monsieur Perrard was necessary.

  Walking into his office, I was ready to listen to cool, objective reasoning supported by the financial pros and cons. As usual, I brought with me armfuls of folders showing the budgets for the year and the booking sheets with projected revenues for 2002. For no apparent reason there had been a buzz of activity, with streams of solid bookings coming in from all parts of the world for the oncoming season. My fantastic website was paying off and prospective clients were desperate to come to the Luberon. Pressing his hand into the small of my back, Daniel Perrard steered me out of his office and into the bar next door. He had learnt from the first days of our relationship that several strong short black coffees and many cigarettes helped to solve the puzzles I so often lay in his competent hands. The dictum he used to apply the brakes to so many of my schemes was trotted out: figures do not lie. He flexed his fingers and reached for the calculator, a pen and a ream of paper.

  We spent the next couple of hours locked in fierce discussion about the economy, the state of Provençal tourism, projected revenues, advertising costs, running costs and the escalating property values in the Luberon. For every negative, I flipped through my files until I was able to come up with a counter argument. Pushing the cold reality of monthly payments to the furthest recesses of my mind, my total obsession with this house spurred me on to create a plan that would save me from complete and utter ruin. Due to the recent spate of solid bookings, my projected figures would more than cover the money necessary to pay the mortgages. My problem was how to convince Monsieur Perrard that a third property would be a bonus to my holiday rental business, not a liability. We would move out of Villa Agapanthe by June and the holidaymakers would move in almost the next week. Their rent would cover the mortgage payments on the Wild Thyme Patch. Sweat had now broken out across his forehead and he told me in no uncertain terms that wha
t I was proposing was financial suicide and under no circumstances would he give it his approval. Our business relationship had now stretched over two years: strictly professional, the rules of conduct never allowing us to bend the social norms and call each other by our first names. It was difficult to hide the huge admiration that we had for each other. But his world of accountancy was one of caution, restraint and moderation. He promised me that he would visit the property later that day and I promised him that I would take the time to give the problem some more much-needed reflection over the next forty-eight hours. As it turned out, both promises were broken.

  I needed to speak to another adult. I was sure that he wouldn’t mind talking business to me in the middle of the Australian night. Delirious from lack of sleep, Latin Ray mumbled through his yawns and said that he was very enthusiastic about my latest scheme but one o’clock in the morning was not his best time. Apologising for my impulsiveness, I promised him faithfully that I would do nothing until his arrival in mid-June for a month’s holiday, and as we spoke, I jiggled the real estate’s business card that Véronique had thrust into my hand the day before.

  ‘Of course, my love. As if I would go and buy something without giving it great thought. It is not as if I am buying a pair of shoes. Yes. You are quite right that going slowly is the best method and no, I haven’t got my fingers crossed. And yes, I have been keeping my books up to date like you showed me. I am not completely useless and stupid.’

  He could be such a boring stick-in-the-mud. And of course I had my fingers crossed while I was talking to him, so I knew that fibbing didn’t count as fibbing. Chances were he wouldn’t even remember our conversation the next day. I wanted the Wild Thyme Patch for our home. The more Raymond said I should wait, the more I realised that there was only one option left to me. I would have to speak to Nathalie, my bank manager in Apt, who luckily was a personal friend. Unfortunately, even though she could tell me various ways to borrow money, manoeuvring around the fairly stiff rules that apply to bank loans, no advice was forthcoming on how to pay the monthly instalments.