Twenty-one washing mitts
And that wasn’t even counting our clothes. I started to howl when I realised that I had not counted the linen used by our summer guests.
In Apt there were two public laundromats, both owned by a man named Roger. I was one of his best customers, spending the best part of Sunday in one or both of his laundromats, rushing from one end of town to the other to pull the sheets from the super large fifteen kilo washing machines into the massive twenty-five kilo tumble drier. It cost a fortune, but a good deal less than having the laundry professionally washed and ironed. Tempers frayed when the machines ate the coins or worse still, not enough coins could be found. When Roger said that he had two second-hand top-of-the-range Miele machines available for sale, I jumped at the chance and blurted out that I wanted them. If I could afford to pay for them, the next question would be: where would I put them?
At the lines the next day, over the passing of pegs and straightening out of sheets, all of my problems fell rapidly into order, and suddenly my priorities were clear. It was an epiphany of sorts.
In Sydney, I had not wanted Raymond to live full-time with us after Norman had died. We had never planned a life of togetherness. I did not want to be bound hand and foot to a man ever again. Deep down in the core of my heart I knew that something was lost when Norman died — the recipe for that wonderful glue that sticks relationships together and seals marriages with monogamy and commitment — together forever. During our early years of marriage we were in the process of concocting it together, but I think Norman took it with him when he passed away. For the best part of my adult life, I had waited for some male to arrive on a white charger ready to whisk me onto the back of his horse; we would gallop away into the sunset where problems did not exist. During the two years here in France, I had come to the conclusion that in fact I did not need nor want a man to rescue me. They were my hands holding the reins of the white charger. I had rescued myself.
Raymond would have to ponder these questions about life for himself, but at the age of fifty-three I thought that it would be highly unlikely that he would suddenly want to change into a second-in-command, always playing second fiddle to me. Raymond was planning to spend a sum total of eight weeks per year in France with us. It did not make any sense to dedicate a building to him just on the off-chance that he would change his mind, enrol in an university in England and spend all of his half-terms and holidays with us in Provence. What on earth was I thinking?
No. I would not give him the Latin House, his Domus Latina — instead I would give it to me as a proper industrial laundry with large efficient machines that would make my life easier. The decision was made. Domus Latina would stay mine. I would turn it into a workshop, specialising in ironing and washing. I would stop having girlish fantasies about knights in shining armour or true love. I would get back to basics:
1. Keep the children happy.
2. Keep the house — especially the oven — sparkling clean.
3. Keep the sheets white and freshly ironed.
4. Break up with Raymond and get on with my life.
Didier, my favourite plumber, came to give me a quote for the additional plumbing that would be required. I was feeling a lot friendlier towards him after his extremely rapid job on the central heating that turned out to cost less than the original quote. Now he explained that we would need to bring the agricultural water from one end of the property to the other; he gave me explicit reasons why I should have seemingly thousands of kilometres of extra trenches dug all across the land. The new pipes would service the ponds and the area that was earmarked for the magnificent swimming pool — ‘where was the money coming for that?’ I bleated. He rapidly drew red and blue zigzags and loops across the back of a piece of paper, sketching a rough diagram of where the main house, garden sheds, ponds and garages stood. A red line showed where X marked the spot — the newly christened atelier, or workshop. The huge industrial washing machine would be serviced by agricultural water. This water was for watering crops, so it cost less than ten per cent of the normal price of drinking water. It was not crystal clean, but if Didier installed a filtration system, with salination pumps to soften the water and larger pipes to take the pressure from the industrial pipes, I could wash the whole of the Luberon’s laundry for a fraction of the normal cost. The downside was that his nephew Nicholas would need to dig up the whole of the garden to install pipes, as per the tatty red and blue diagram that he brandished under my eyes. He would have to dig around in circles and back again and then some more loops across the driveway, break many existing pipes, fix the leaking pond and then leave me in a hellish mess just in time for the whole of France to begin their month-long holiday, starting on the dreaded 1 August. It sounded a perfect idea.
So it was decided. Didier’s team of Nicholas nephews was coming back and along with them the great slug, Laurent the electrician. On the day of the Great Fish Drama, Laurent had a good look at my electrical situation and pointed out that if I was installing a large industrial washing machine and a dryer in the workroom, new wiring and a new board would be needed as there was no way the present archaic equipment would cope with the large machines for more than one minute. Due to my determination to show Raymond that I was now an independent and astute businesswoman, I shook hands with everyone and agreed to their hideous terms. No man was going to have a say in the running of my business, except perhaps my father, and there was no way that I was going to tell him that I had bought a house without sufficient bedrooms, cupboards, storage space and heating and with a woefully inadequate electrical board.
I still hadn’t adequately learnt that fundamental lesson: never undertake any sort of building or repairs unless there is a written quote, preferably written in the boss’s blood; a verbal contract is not worth spit. And spitting I was when I realised the foolhardy adventure I had embarked on. The plumbers had asked the electricians, who had asked the gardener to the party, and I found out later that I was paying for a huge amount of work that was vaguely justified but perhaps would have been better left till a lot later in the year.
Once the decision had been made to create a workshop, Roger was contacted immediately to see when he could deliver the fifteen-kilo washing machine and the twenty-five kilo tumble dryer. In my ignorance, I assumed that the machines could be delivered and plugged into the wall like any other machine — at the most, three-phase wiring might be needed. My sister Kate had had an electric kiln when she was a mad-keen potter as a teenager, well before children and life ate into her time, and I remembered that an electrician had installed three-phase wiring for the big silver monster. Did it depend on the size of the machine? I hesitated to ask my least favourite electrician, Laurent, about this problem.
Raymond had watched from the sidelines as I rushed about asking for information about the property’s wiring but he could no longer sit idle, as he had made a list of problems that needed to be fixed:
1. The house needed new wiring.
2. Safety switches were needed on a second electrical board set up in the workshop.
3. A massive gas reservoir was needed to run the machines.
4. A concrete slab was needed to support the gas reservoir.
5. Another concrete slab was needed to support the machines in the workshop.
6. A water supply was needed, either expensive town water or the cheap agriculture supply (Raymond held his breath over that issue).
7. I needed to pay for this latest venture — and how would I do that when I already reeled back in horror every month with the mortgage repayments? (Raymond was now red in the face, stabbing his finger in the air.)
8. We were not to break up now because I needed him and more than anything, he loved me.
9. It was all out of the question.
It was time to make an appointment to see Nathalie, my bank manager. When I bought the Wild Thyme Patch I managed to secure a loan for twenty years at 3.35 per cent — an outstanding deal. Now I was looking at a sho
rt-term loan for ten years and the best rate was 5.20 per cent — certainly not brilliant, but having the atelier would make running the properties easier. It was not possible to employ any help; again the load would fall on my shoulders — a concern voiced loudly by Nathalie. Her fingers flew across the keypad yet again, tallying up my different thinning streams of income. She would put my request through to head office, even though she seriously doubted whether they would be offering me any deals. It was the best that she could do. I began to contemplate what I could sell to raise the money in case it didn’t come through — how much would I get per child?
Although Didier drove me mad, I had to admit that he and the Nicholases were behaving faultlessly. They were working flat out to a schedule and nothing was going to stop them getting to the end of the agreed work on time — the last day of July. The crippling heat was relentless. No matter how many times our eyes turned skywards in the desperate search for anything that resembled a cumulonimbus formation, the sapphire blue sky remained clear, free from the inky clouds heavy with summer rain needed to break the cycle. It was predicted that the endless monotony of perfect days would continue to stretch well into August. Nature was already on holiday, with very little movement apart from the ants with their busy daily activity. The neighbour’s dogs, which barked at the rare passing pedestrian, could barely be bothered to raise their heads; panting heavily, they dozed peacefully in the scant shade offered by the scrappy vegetation in their garden. There was little or no activity in the pond, causing me to check that the fish were still there and had not been spirited away during the night: no movement from frogs, dragonflies or fish. They had taken refuge under the large lily pads spread across the vast expanse of opaque water. Only the slow movements of Didier and the young men interrupted the catatonic scene, as they moved around languidly to conserve their energy. Their mouths parted to inhale deeply on the cigarettes permanently hanging from their mouths, or to take long draughts from the bottles of water that they carted around by the neck. There was no idle chatter. All of their energy was focused on reaching the finish line. It was imperative to complete the task with every problem resolved, otherwise my hand was not going near a chequebook. My fingers were tightly crossed that Nathalie and her bank would come through with the loan before the crucial date of 1 August.
Didier had called in a huge favour from a friend in Avignon who could work a miracle. Slowly but surely I was learning about the system of favours here in Provence: it was imperative to have a large bank of favours at your disposal. The miracle was that it would be possible to have the largest size gas reservoir delivered within forty-eight hours. Given that it normally took a week to ten days, this was phenomenal news. He broke the news to me much later that I would have to wait almost a fortnight for the reservoir to be filled with gas. As a stopgap, large portable gas tanks were rigged up for the kitchen and the hot water.
The forty-eight hours before delivery gave the team of Ahmeds just enough time to check the recently poured concrete slab to see if it had dried and cured. Unfortunately they had never asked me where I wanted the concrete slab for the reservoir. Instead they had made an executive decision, putting it near the workshop and close to the side road for easy gas delivery — which was good — but in the middle of my so-called organic vegetable patch in the making — which was not good. Why hadn’t they put it along the side of the fence where it would have been discreetly out of the way?
The day arrived when Didier called me over to the workshop. His youngest nephew Nicholas was playing an imaginary trumpet, heralding the announcement of the great event: the completion of the workshop. Did I want Raymond to carry me over the threshold? Raymond had managed to drag himself out into the midday inferno from the cool dark house and stood there flexing his muscles idiotically. By this stage, the draining heat had beaten my normally ebullient spirit and I was thoroughly fed up with all males and in particular Didier, with his handy words of wisdom on life and on women. I had tempted fate and had unwisely given up feeding the small washing machine its regular stream of soiled linen, convinced that within a few days my problems would be solved as with a flick of the switch, the Miele washing machine would accomplish miracles. Didier, was beside himself with glee that the beautiful machines were ready to operate — and that similar to another all-powerful being, he alone had created this vision, and in only slightly more than seven days. His arms swept through the air as he leapt from one foot to another. The tension was unbearable. It would either work or not. I had placed a huge amount of faith in Roger that these second-hand machines actually worked. Late in July it had been impossible to find a technician who was available to inspect the machines. I had bought them on Roger’s good word. I just hoped that it was going to be good enough. I wished that I had some sort of guarantee as a backup.
The sheets were bundled into the machine, the tablets of washing powder thrown into the drum, the switch turned, and we stood back as the machine filled up, gurgling and sucking in the water from the new pipes. Raymond held me in his arms as we looked at the glass porthole of the machine. My new fifteen-kilo, shining stainless steel baby. It was a dream come true. ‘Didier, well done!’ we cried out with delight. We whooped and screamed with joy — until I saw the filthy brown water. My wonderful white sheets were being washed in water the colour of my morning’s café au lait. I looked at Didier.
‘Is agricultural water always so dirty and brown? You said that it was clean enough for swimming pools. I wouldn’t want to swim in this stuff, let alone wash my linen. Your problem, Didier. You find the solution and find it soon: 1 August is around the corner. You cannot go on holidays until this problem is solved and I certainly will not be paying for it. I hope that’s clear.’
Didier’s proud puffed-up chest had deflated markedly. It was not quite the success that he had hoped for.
‘Madame, this is good news, n’est-ce pas? Personally, I never thought that the washing machine would work. It has been disconnected for far too long. Machines do not like that. You are very lucky that it works. You have a guardian angel and you have Didier. Do not fear, madame, this is only a small problem with the water. My nephews will fix this. There is nothing to worry about at all.’
The sheets were turning the colour of pale chocolate, and even when we returned for the final rinse, hoping against hope that the water would suddenly turn clear and the sheets would rinse clean, the machine was still full of liquid chocolate. Didier shrugged his shoulders and looked for his telephone to call his older nephew Nicholas to bring back the mini-digger. Another trench was needed immediately to bring in the clean town water that had to be connected to the washing machines. The cheap agricultural water would never work.
By this stage, Raymond knew well enough never to laugh at my misfortunes but to try to find the positive in the situation. He whipped the light coffee-coloured sheets away to the newly installed clotheslines to dry under the scorching midday sun, saying that he always wanted sheets just that shade of sepia. I retreated to the kitchen to prepare the midday meal and to smash some pots around in the peace of my domain.
By lunchtime two days later, Didier had the situation completely under control. The trench had been dug. The new pipes had been laid and connected. All systems were go; the next test with clean town water was ready. I looked around the workshop and felt that with all the new equipment, this time success was guaranteed. In the past week, more than the bare necessities had been installed:
1. A fifteen kilo washing machine.
2. A twenty-five kilo tumble dryer.
3. A water heater.
4. A water softener.
5. A 2000 litre gas tank and concrete slab.
6. A boiler for the central heating.
7. An industrial iron and extra wide ironing board.
8. A water filter.
9. A chest of drawers to house the washing mitts, hand towels, tea towels and oven mitts.
10. A new system of pipes to carry the clean town water to the w
orkshop.
The heavens smiled. The washing machine worked. Soiled white sheets went in, clean white sheets came out.
Never in my wildest dreams had I thought my life would revolve around a laundry. Now I was in possession of the biggest and undoubtedly the best private laundry in the Luberon.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The House Fairy
I now had a clean, functioning workroom, just slightly too large for my needs but perfectly organised now that all the shelving had been assembled. Piles of white sheets, pillow cases, duvet covers, bolster covers and mattress protectors were sitting in straight rows, each on their correct shelf according to the size of bed — queen, double or king single — all waiting for their next outing on Saturday: Client Changeover Day. It seemed that every week even more linen was required to supply our ever-increasing needs, as the floodgates had been opened, and more family and friends had decided to descend on us.
I had listened to stories from others about the visitors who plagued them almost weekly, and hoped that the same would not happen to us. However, the day the mercury soared upwards the telephone began to ring nonstop — long-lost friends who just happened to be in the area and didn’t mind popping in for a couple of days. It was obvious that I had to introduce the Three Day Rule. Family and fish go off after three days.
Claire had offered to unpack and arrange the workshop with me. She was as bossy as ever and never kept still for one moment, but the workshop was transformed with seemingly little effort into a clean and highly organised workspace. She was highly trained and efficient in these matters — which was just as well, as packing and unpacking remains my Achilles heel. A year after our move to France, some boxes still sat in piles at the back of the garage, untouched and unopened after their long voyage from Sydney. My former life was tied up in thick brown paper, packing tape and string. My memories were bound and bundled high in packing crates. I had no desire to revisit them. A small photo of a happy bride and groom lies in my sock drawer. On most days that is comfort enough.
Lavender & Linen Page 9
