Lavender & Linen

by Henrietta Taylor

  When terrorism was pushed off the front page by rampant viruses and diseases, the final nail was hammered into the coffin. Australians and New Zealanders did not want to come to Europe through potentially risky Asia; nor through America, which appeared to be equally if not more perilous. The Americans had not overcome the shock of September 11, and now with the additional fear of Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy (BSE), or Mad Cow Disease, they were not going to cross the Atlantic. On the English television channels we watched the English Prime Minister and his family extolling the virtues of rediscovering the rolling green dales and valleys of England as a holiday destination; the vast majority of Britain vowed to continue their love/hate relationship with France at a later date.

  I was experiencing difficulties tapping into the northern European countries, as I could never seem to find the right magazines or journals to place my advertisements to coerce a new market to enjoy the beauties of Provence. Norway had been voted the best place to live in the world for the second year in a row and the inhabitants had no desire to travel so far to visit a country like France. The writing was on the wall. It would soon be over for me; probably by the end of 2003 I would be heading back to Sydney with my tail between my legs, having tried with my small business and failed. With a huge effort, I set the figures aside and tried to feel a little of the festive spirit.

  Christmas in France is always celebrated at midnight on Christmas Eve, so it was no surprise when Claire asked us for drinks and dinner at nine o’clock, not eight o’clock when French dinners usually start. The three of us had eaten a small late afternoon snack to stop us from fading away with hunger, as I knew from experience that we would not be eating the main course before midnight. As I pulled the car into the beginning of the long track that led through the cherry trees, I began to understand the treat that lay ahead. The cherry trees stood in straight lines, sentries at the gate, completely bare and dormant, in a deep sleep, preparing themselves for the huge display of white blossoms in late March. The courtyard and the front of the house were decked out in party lights, glittering and shimmering in the freezing cold evening air. The sky was ink black and starless — it was too cold even for the stars to be out. Mimi called out to me in a muffled voice through the layers of woollen scarves wrapped tightly from her neck up:

  ‘Maman, where are all of our presents for them? Zut, crotte, flûte, you’ve forgotten them!’

  ‘No, my darling. It’s been taken care of. Come on everyone. Let’s get inside. It’s freezing!’

  Claire had called in the morning asking me to bring a shoe for each person as well as our presents. I had a good idea what was happening but it was still fun to play ignorant. The activity in the house was reaching fever pitch, with Claire’s daughters, Géraldine and Lorélie, scurrying about carrying plates piled high in preparation for the evening’s meal. We gazed in amazement at the transformation of the tiny home. Claire’s house was always in immaculate order. She complained incessantly that living in the middle of a cherry orchard might be romantic and pretty but the dust and filth from the fields infiltrated every corner. Evidence of this has never been witnessed and Christmas Eve was no exception. Wonderful aromas wafted out from the room that was loosely called a kitchen but was in fact a long, large cupboard with barely enough room for the tiny stove and a sink, let alone a dishwasher. Claire and her two daughters nipped back and forth creating enough food for the nine assembled guests, all standing around with mouths watering. Behind the delicious aromas you could detect whiffs of the underlying bouquet from the floor washed with hot water and lavender oil, with the occasional hint of beeswax as you passed the highly polished wooden furniture.

  The space in the living room had all but disappeared, eaten up by the extensions on the dining table, making the normal-sized crèche impossible. Instead Claire and Raphaël had managed to construct a beautiful miniature crèche at the bottom of a hill, made from shoeboxes covered in the moss, lichen, twigs and other verdure they had hunted for in the hills behind the village and decorated with boulders and stones from our garden. Mary and Joseph were huddled together in the little manger. The minuscule crib lay empty, waiting for the stroke of midnight, when Baby Jesus would miraculously make his appearance. The showstopper was the cascading stream that wound its way down the cardboard hill, ending up beside the crèche in a small lake made from shards of my broken mirror. We were mesmerised by the beauty of this fantasyland. The amount of time and care that had been put in to achieve this folly, one of which graced a corner of every Provençal household, defied belief for my two little Australians, who had been brought up with garlands of tacky tinsel and an array of garish ornaments on a tall fake Christmas tree. For the past seven years, Christmas in our home had been a time of intense emotion about their absent father and my absent husband, which never seemed to abate with the passing years. Like most children, mine wanted a swag of presents and lollies, but even at their age they could sense that I needed Christmas to pass as quickly as possible. This year, we felt that we had been transported to a magical place where our cares could be left behind.

  The children disappeared to Raphaël’s bedroom while the adults started the aperitifs, making a quick detour past the crèche. As the youngest member of the family, it fell to Raphaël to keep the Baby Jesus out of sight until after midnight Mass, when he was officially born and could take his rightful place in the manger. This year he had kept Baby Jesus well hidden, perched precariously in a crook of a miniature tree.

  The staple pre-dinner drink in the Larmenier household was whisky, and Christmas Eve was no exception. The bottles of champagne that I had brought would be served with the dessert, if we could last that long. Arranged on large white platters was an abundance of treats: little mouth-sized morsels of puff pastry with cheese, bowls of tapenade (the thick, oily black or green olive paste), fat black olives marinated in herbs and garlic and the prerequisite bowls of grilled vegetables — some puréed into a paste and others rolled into bite-size mouthfuls. Vogue Living would have been proud to have photographs of the setting for their Christmas edition. For a very short moment, everything looked stylised and perfect until the guests’ hands started to dart greedily into the food. A sigh of satisfaction was breathed and we started the ceremony, toasting good health and happiness, rejoicing in the reunion of a happy family and friends with healthy growing children at Christmas time.

  By the time we were seated at the table I was wondering if it would ever again be possible to spend a Christmas to match this one. The table was completely swathed in a theme of white and silver: white plates, white roses and white and silver ornamental birds were perched between glass candlestick holders, small bouquets of holly and Claire’s best antique linen napkins. The word ‘sumptuous’ did not do the table setting justice. It was always a source of envy or amazement to anyone who came in contact with Claire that she managed to achieve her famous interiors with so little money. They lived a very modest life and money was constantly tight, even now that three of the four children were young adults and living away from home — a financial emergency was always just around the corner. Since November, Claire had been working her way through the second-hand shops, trash and treasure days in the villages and Red Cross shops to see if anything could be gleaned for use at Christmas time. It had paid off, and we now admired the latest pieces of furniture that had been scrubbed back, stripped down, repainted several times then the paint wiped off and wax applied. When I was with Claire on one of her many excursions to the opportunity shop in Cavaillon, we dragged a two-seater sofa to the truck. Claire could see past the horror of that sofa, saying that it just needed a bit of loving care. The amount of work and effort that had been expended was more than incredible, right down to changing the upholstery. Claire often said with pride that their tiny home for three people was barely 100 square metres but it always appeared to be infinitely larger thanks to the care and effort she took to coordinate all the fabrics, the wall friezes and the furniture. At Claire’s hom
e, even the smallest objects were harmonious and colour coordinated.

  The food never stopped coming out from the kitchen: fresh salmon had been whipped into a concoction of cream and herbs and placed in some sort of light pancakes then assembled in a large roll; breasts of duck had been pan-fried in olive oil and honey and herbs; vegetables had been steamed to perfection with large blobs of white salt-free Normandy butter drizzling down into the bowls; the wine flowed and the conversation was unstoppable.

  It was fast approaching midnight and we still hadn’t arrived at the end of the meal. The plates were cleared and new ones were handed out ready for the salad followed by the cheese platter, which consisted of a selection of goat’s cheeses: some rolled in ash, some covered in herbs — in various stages of maturity ranging from the very fresh soft cheese to the hard and dry older cheese.

  Patrick, twisting his very substantial handlebar moustache, gave the sign. It was time. Like good guests, the children and I took our lead from Patrick, who had leapt up from the table and was already in the process of putting on layer after layer to brace himself for the plummeting temperatures outside. We would be returning in an hour’s time to open presents and sample the delights that were held in reserve for dessert. Géraldine and Lorélie had drunk very little so that they could transport everyone in cars to the neighbouring village of Villars. Richard, their twenty-year-old stepbrother, had not been trusted with this task — and with good reason. As we entered the village and queued up in the narrow street to find a parking spot, I could see that we would not be the only ones running around at midnight on Christmas Eve. And when we walked into the village hall, the reason was obvious. The living crèche had started.

  Standing at the entrance of the hall, we were assaulted by noise and smells. On one side of the hall there was a temporary stall set up with animals from the surrounding farms, all braying in time. It was going to be a long night. Wisely, Claire and Patrick pushed us towards the hot wine that was on offer at the back of the hall. The crèche was spectacular, and so was the overpowering smell, with every animal from the countryside making an appearance: donkeys, chickens and roosters, dogs, pigs and cows — and in the middle of it were Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus. This year Jesus was played by the smallest arrival in the village, a baby girl whose little pink bootees hung outside of her linen robe while her mother sucked hard on a cigarette and swigged the hot mulled wine.

  On our return to Claire and Patrick’s home, we were greeted with yet more magic. Parcels of all shapes and sizes wrapped up in colourful paper and ribbons surrounded the nine single shoes that we had been instructed to leave beside the chimney. The children squealed with delight as they ripped open their new treasures. We arrived home at five o’clock in the morning, barely able to drag ourselves into bed for a couple of hours’ sleep before the next day’s marathon on the telephone.

  The real Christmas present would come with Raymond’s arrival in mid-January. I promised myself that 2003 would bring a resolution to our dilemma: full commitment or a decision to break off our relationship.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Advance Australian Fare

  Raymond’s arrival heralded the beginning of the beautiful Provençal winter weather that is continually written up in upmarket travel magazines and sets this sliver of the south of France apart as a truly magnificent January destination. The sky was forever crystal blue and cloudless. The early mornings were frosty and crisp but by lunchtime it was often possible to consider peeling off the winter woollies and exposing small areas of white flesh to the sunlight.

  Time was always limited with Raymond so family discussions at the dinner table were boisterous and lively, as Mimi and Harry talked nonstop about their activities and their school life since they had last seen him. We mulled over where we should go and what we should do during the children’s February holidays: ‘Italy!’ everyone shouted.

  Important issues about the long-term future of our relationship eased towards the back recesses of our minds. Raymond continued to seduce me with words of love, admiration and adoration. Showered daily with these words and displays of love, it became impossible to talk about breaking up. We enjoyed each other’s company far too much and knew each other far too well to part. Yet again my New Year’s resolution went down the drain.

  As we moved towards the end of January, the decision was made that a celebration of some magnitude was in order: an Australia Day Celebration. Telephone calls were made. Lists on sticky notepaper were glued to every part of my desk as we tried to secure the maximum number of Australians for a barbecue lunch and cricket match on 26 January. Guest lists were made. Emails were sent out. An Australian couple with two young children who had stayed in Saignon over Christmas but were still travelling in France were asked via email if they would like to make a return trip and come by for the weekend festivities. They were a couple of hours away by car but the idea of eating lamingtons, pavlova, burnt sausages and lamb chops, and other shining examples of Australian cuisine, was enticing enough to lure them back.

  The title of Best Drinking Buddy for Raymond belonged to Kit, who lived in Saignon. Too many times I had explained to the two inebriated fools that taxis, not me, were required for transport after a big afternoon of rugby and beer at the bar in Apt. Kit and I had lived less than ten kilometres apart in Sydney, but it wasn’t until we were on the other side of the world in Saignon that our paths eventually crossed. He announced that he would arrive on his Fat Boy Harley Davidson carrying a large Australian flag, a case of Fosters and some frozen meat pies in the saddlebags. I delicately put it to his ex-wife Pam that Kit would also be attending the party and that I was not quite sure how to divide my loyalties. Pam laughed at my clumsiness, saying that although they both still lived in the Luberon their paths rarely crossed due to their work commitments. She would be delighted to see him again. After all, Pam was not about to miss a winter party; as a professional caterer, this was the only time of year when she had the luxury of socialising. As she said, she would always have a deep tenderness towards Kit, but living with him or having anything to do with his life would certainly never be on her agenda again.

  My own marriage had only lasted five good years before Norman became desperately ill and then passed away. It had not given me a great deal of experience in marriage or how it works, but I could not help wondering why two people could drift apart when they were so obviously made for each other. But I was happy that they both would come, and whatever reason that they were no longer together would remain firmly locked away behind their closed doors.

  Deirdre was next on the list. She originally came from a tiny town in Queensland called Goombungee, which has the dubious distinction of being known as the rural Iron Man capital, as it hosts Iron Man and Iron Woman competitions each Australia Day. Her naturally inquisitive mind, combined with years travelling with her pilot husband Geoff in the far-flung reaches of Asia and Europe, allowed her to pick up the language and cooking skills of any country. She had a working knowledge of a variety of Asian and European languages, but her strongest suit was without a doubt her cooking skills: Asian in particular. Deirdre had a secret that she shared with few people. In a moment of weakness, she confessed to me that her true claim to fame was her tap-dancing; when she paused for effect, I had held my breath and hoped that she wasn’t about to say ‘erotic naked tap-dancing’. With her fifties making an alarming appearance on her horizon, she had enrolled in classes in Singapore and discovered that whether she had talent or not, she adored tap-dancing — and she had continued to tap for the next eight years. Deirdre never held back with a song or a loud joke. It would not be long before this secret was exposed. Those in the know had joked in vain about a tap-dance spectacle that she should perform for family and friends, in the vain effort to edge her away from the immense depression that she was succumbing to daily as her husband lay in the hospital in Apt fighting for his life in the advanced stages of throat cancer. We all agreed that it wasn’t fair; Geoff had neve
r smoked a cigarette or a cigar in his life.

  As in the majority of my relationships, I was split in two. I had a few toes of one foot in the Anglophone expatriate community, whose company I enjoyed but for the most part were in a different stage of life, whiling away their evenings with canasta and bridge. For them, afternoons filled with schoolwork problems were long gone. My other foot was firmly in the camp of the French speakers with children of similar ages to mine.

  Living in France had thrown my life completely off kilter. The social skills that I had observed from a young age and assimilated almost by osmosis tended to be useless in France. I was still coming to terms with how to meet other mothers in my new world, where my expectations did not match theirs. For the French parents, it would never cross their minds to chat over endless pots of tea or go to a coffee shop after school drop-offs. It just wasn’t part of their culture. There appeared to be some unwritten laws for socialising that were the same for both the local primary school and the high school in Apt. When it came to socialising with other parents, certain things were completely acceptable:

  1. To stand in the middle of the street talking and blowing smoke into pedestrians’ faces.

  2. To stand at the front door of the family home but never enter.

  3. To stand and chat in the middle of the aisles of the local supermarket (but not near the bread section, as you can never admit that you buy bread from the supermarket).

  4. To bump into each other at the market with your basket brimming with vegetables and a large plait of garlic and several stalks of leeks on view. This proves that you fall into the category of the Good French Wife and Mother.