5. To telephone at lunchtime as everyone is at home while having their main meal in front of the news on television.
6. To invite parents around for a glass of summer rosé — but be prepared for refusals as this would take place in your own personal domain.
Being a non-native French speaker, I was given leeway only up to a certain point to grasp the cultural connotations. Gradually, I was coming to terms with what was completely unacceptable:
1. Never under any circumstance use the friendly ‘tu’ form for ‘you’. Always address other parents as monsieur or madame — their surname is redundant as it suggests familiarity. Wait until they offer to use a slightly friendlier form.
2. Never invite other parents around to your own home.
3. Never invite other parents out for an easy weekend meal.
4. Never talk about how sport should be part of the education curriculum.
5. Never mention that any red-blooded Australian man would not be seen dead with a glass of rosé in his hand.
6. Never mention that you don’t understand how France can operate on a thirty-five hour week, a two-hour lunch break and seven weeks’ paid annual holiday leave.
7. Never ask if the Marseille football team won the match the night before.
8. Never admit that you have French television but you never watch it because you prefer expensive English satellite television.
To disobey these basic rules would make other parents look on in fright, like rabbits caught in the spotlight, laughing nervously at my Anglo-Saxon ways and my ignorance. On the rare occasions that a coffee was accepted, we would go to the local café in the village, where we consumed short black coffees while everyone else drew heavily on their umpteenth cigarette of the morning. Ten minutes later, coffees downed, cigarettes stubbed out, butts thrown out into the street or into a nearby dying pot plant, hands were shaken, or for those who had been friends since kindergarten there would be the Provençal three kisses to the cheek; more cigarettes were bought and everyone scattered back to their busy lives.
It was against this background that I had thrown caution to the wind and invited my French friends to bridge the cultural divide between the French and the mad Australians, who wanted to have an outdoor luncheon in the middle of winter. They were ready to learn about cricket, meat pies and beer. The Australian tradition is to bring a plate or a carton of beer or some wine to contribute to any festivities, but after long discussions with Raymond, I felt that this would be too culturally confronting. Their presence would be enough.
The children were far more interested in Pam’s promise to whip up some lamingtons, which had to be explained as a wonderful light vanilla cake concoction with a cream filling, rolled in chocolate and desiccated coconut. She had also promised a pavlova. Mimi and Harry promised their best friend Raphaël that it was the dessert to die for: a meringue base topped with fruit and whipped cream. The children idolised Pam because not only did she always look unflappable, but she also cooked great food. I couldn’t help but pass the snide comment that she had the worst behaved and the worst looking dog in the area. Pickles was a snappy little fox terrier that tended to attack and kill chickens in their coops, given half the chance. These words were uttered well before I found out that our dog Zorro would turn out to be the biggest mistake I had made in France. It had not taken very long to discover that Zorro was spoilt and undisciplined and there was no one to blame but myself. Claire continued to point out that dogs took after their masters and I could only reply that I was neither sleek nor black. With no proper fence around the property, Zorro’s latest trick was to escape from our home on a regular basis and forage in the garbage bins throughout the village. His fluorescent red bandanna was meant to keep him safe from hunters’ wayward shots; instead it clearly identified him as the dog of Madame Taylor.
The morning of our festivities was clear but extremely cold. I sighed with relief that we would be able to have the barbecue outdoors and the cricket match could take place without the threat of rain. Claire and Patrick had promised to bring around their ping-pong table, at which we could seat twenty guests with enough leg and arm room. In anticipation of its arrival, Raymond began to move all extraneous furniture from the main living area to the garage. Having a cricket match in the undulating backyard around worm-infested prune and rotting cherry trees did not constitute the real deal in his books. Much to my chagrin, he wondered out loud if he would be the only one who knew the rules of cricket — and moreover, if the guests would be able to put their wine glasses down in time to catch the ball. If Raymond couldn’t be sitting on a boat in the middle of Sydney Harbour, beer in hand while eating prawns, at least he hoped that it would be possible to watch the Australian Day festivities on television; he moaned and carried on like a juvenile. There were times when I wished that he would disappear straight down to the earth’s molten core via one of the many deep holes that housed the control valves for our garden irrigation system, and never come back. Yet another thing on the list of things to do: the metal safety lids never had turned up. My children had memorised the location of the holes, but my biggest concern was that in the fading light, someone could break a leg.
‘Raymond, there’s over a hectare of land. You must be able to find somewhere to play a game of cricket.’ He and Harry were dispatched with a can of spray paint that they proposed to spray on the grass to show where the wicket would be. There was no blood link between them but as I watched them walk off together, shoulders sloping, sinking under the pressure of the tremendously difficult task, I wondered if they resembled each other due to their sex or if Harry considered Raymond as a role model.
Beautiful old white linen tablecloths covered the whole of the massive ping-pong table without looking like second-hand sheets; yet again Claire had waved her magic wand and created a fabulous table setting. The room was bedecked in Australian flags; iconic photographs taken from old calendars were tacked up on the walls along with other Australian paraphernalia, making the room look like an exhibition from an Australian souvenir shop. Twenty chairs and stools were squeezed around the table; leftover Christmas crackers had been discreetly placed near the youngest members of the party. Words for the Australian and French national anthems had been printed so the guests could sing along with the CD that had been made especially for the occasion. The blue skies continued to make a mockery of the previous evening’s weather forecast for heavy rain or snow in the north and, for us living in the belt between Avignon and Aix-en-Provence, a small chance of snow flurries. The weather report manages to raise a laugh with every nationality, no matter where you are in the world — it is notoriously wrong. No snow flurries could be seen on the horizon. The sky was crystal clear, devoid of anything that resembled a fluffy cloud. Nothing would hamper our celebrations.
Our French contingent arrived and discreetly peered around; beers in neoprene holders printed with football team colours, Australian flags and other similar symbols of dubious taste were handed out to the guests as soon as they entered the gates. They were designed to keep the drinks cool, but that seemed completely unnecessary as the first of the predicted snow flurries fell.
The Australian XI versus the French was a huge success when Catherine, one of the Two Ladies, discovered that she was the Mistress of Spin. The wine flowed and food continued to arrive from the kitchen all day long. A wonderful feeling of bonhomie reigned. Those who could keep up the pace watched as the lunch turned into an afternoon tea party then into an impromptu dinner party, ending at two o’clock in the morning with Deirdre challenging the spelling of Fair or Fare in the title of the national anthem. It was time for everyone to go home. The Two Ladies staggered down the path to their house on the neighbouring property. Claire and Patrick left Raphaël sleeping in Harry’s room while they held hands and wove their way along the path through the neighbour’s vines and across the cherry fields that would lead them eventually to their house. Luckily, the biting wind muffled Deirdre’s renditions of bawdy pub so
ngs and confidently worded interpretations of the French national anthem as she accompanied them halfway along the track to her home, glass in hand.
Problems continued to be added to my list of things to do, but occasionally a few fell off. The lack of a proper fence around the property had been a source of immense worry, as I had found human and animal footprints scattered across the back section of the garden. The first time hunters took aim and let out a volley of shots across our property, I realised that no matter the expense, I needed to have a fence around the hectare. Jack decided that his grandchildren needed protection and I gratefully accepted his offer of some financial help to resolve this matter. Once the new fence was in place, the wild boars and other beasts kept me awake at night as they charged towards old feeding grounds that had now been fenced off.
I was not sure whether my father’s generosity would extend to building a high wall around the Monet pond. Drowning has always been my biggest fear. By the beginning of winter, Zorro was big enough to learn a new trick: stealing clothes and sheets from the triple clotheslines. He overstepped the mark when he stole them and dragged them through the lily pond that was fast freezing over — but not fast enough. Luckily I was on hand to watch in horror as he cracked the thick ice on the pond and plunged into the freezing murky water. Fully clothed and finally able to shake myself into action, I jumped in to save him. Ignoring my heroic feat, the children took Zorro to dry in front of the fire, more concerned about potential brain damage to the dog than any danger to my health.
The 2003 season was off to a shaky start as we were still feeling the repercussions of September 11, but inquiries were turning into some solid bookings that made the prospect of a forced sale of one if not two of the properties recede just a little. Throughout the winter I had been working on a low-budget advertising scheme, focussing mainly on Internet companies that offered good rates and that were already well placed in the French holiday rental market. Running some advertising in the print media did not generate nearly enough inquiries to warrant another spate of advertisements. I had spent a vast quantity of time in front of the computer screen, becoming faster at typing and more computer literate, but it was still an unquestionable fact that searching on the Internet was exhausting and time-consuming. I set up tables to cross-reference various rates against the circulations for magazines and newspapers in Scandinavia, Germany and the Netherlands. These tourists from the sunless north represented tried and tested markets, and they returned year after year, blocking the roads leading down to the south of France with their fast Mercedes and camping cars. Even Raymond, whom I often called Doubting Thomas under my breath, was amazed at my dogged determination to gather information and watched me with guarded admiration as I revealed the various ways that I was attacking the problem of nurturing a clientele base for my properties.
Information and reference sheets that I had initially clipped into folders had finally been written into a weighty volume that was left in the houses for the clients. All the trips, restaurants, markets and various places of interest in the Luberon and surrounding areas were given our own personal tick of approval or the big thumbs down. After I finished writing the large information folder, a small seed had been sown at the back of my mind: all of my life I had wanted to write, but I had never found nor taken the time to indulge in it seriously. Like most of my ideas, it was pushed to the back until it resurfaced six months later, when I blurted out in front of friends that I intended to write a memoir and put down on paper — or on a floppy disk, to be more precise — all of the memories, funny ideas and opinions that had been floating around in my head for decades.
My initial foray into serious writing had to be delayed, though, as a disaster was about to crash on my doorstep. There was yet another large-scale calamity waiting to happen: a disease called Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome — shortened to SARS. On 14 February a report hit the media that over 300 cases of a severe form of pneumonia in the Guongdong Province of China had resulted in five deaths. By 15 March the World Health Organization issued a heightened global health alert as more cases of the mysterious illness had been found in Singapore and in Canada. That is when the bookings all but dried up. Few brave tourists from the southern hemisphere were prepared to pass through Singapore; those who did not need to travel did not and those with children decided that overseas travel was not high on their list of priorities.
Any precious time that had been set aside as writing time was consumed in a desperate search for Internet agencies that would list French properties on a free trial period. Little by little, it began to pay off. For some reason Canadians decided that it was time to pay a visit to the south of France — and better still, it was time to come to my properties.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Provençal Painting Lesson
My short time in business had shown me that there was no room for compromise when it came to financial decisions. Looking at my 2003 booking sheets, I could scrape by, and in theory I would still be in business at the end of the year, but the letters telling me yet again to sell one of the properties were ten feet high — downsize as soon as possible, they read. It was exhausting trying to budget for the monthly mortgage payments. Even if we had a dramatic turnaround, with clients booking every property for every week in 2003, the truth was that I was overextended and therefore had become financially vulnerable.
Launching a small business in a field in which I had no knowledge and little to no experience (except in basic housekeeping), there had been a steep learning curve with hard lessons learnt along the way. Any little crumbs of information were ferreted away for use at a later date; knowledge was gleaned from as many sources as possible. My acquaintances in the English-speaking group had rental properties and gave advice freely and generously, without fear of competition, as everyone had something slightly different to offer holiday-makers. Small properties within the village with no parking did not compete with those that were far from the village with large sparkling pools, well-kept gardens and parking at the door. We all had a common link: the problems always remained the same — perpetual leaks, broken dishwashers or washing machines plagued everyone. I had developed a close and happy relationship with the plumbers, electricians and washing machine repairmen in Apt. As soon as they heard my accent on the telephone on a Saturday, they would know that I had yet another urgent job for them.
Refurbishments and repairs were a necessary evil of the business; they were time-consuming, costly and left the owners feeling pathetic and inadequate, asking themselves why they did not have the necessary skills to fix some niggling problem themselves. Unless they were urgent and interfered with the running of the property, small problems went onto an expanding list for winter, when the necessary time would be found for some basic do-it-yourself repairs and tradesmen were slightly more available.
By mid-March we were still in the throes of winter, with no sign of a thaw. Understandably, the children were not particularly interested in giving me advice about what to do with our future, so Claire was now becoming my business confidante. We could decide whether to sell Place de la Fontaine at a later date; meanwhile, it was time to spruce up the property that we had called home for twenty weeks during 2000.
Claire looked at me in total horror when I told her that I intended to paint the entire house by myself — there was no one else, after all. She felt that paintbrushes should be added to the long list — along with screwdrivers, electrical drills and any kitchen appliance with sharp moving parts — of devices I was banned from operating. I was notorious for breaking, jamming and snapping appliances — I could destroy any toy and computer that was not 100 per cent idiot proof. In my defence I would bleat pathetically that I was a time-poor mother who did not have a mechanical type of mind. Since I waltzed around the house until ten o’clock in my mauve kimono dressing gown, teacup in one hand and newspaper in the other, Claire muttered under her breath that she thought that I was perhaps just bone lazy and didn’t want to learn. She, on the
other hand, worked like the Roadrunner on amphetamines. I scrambled in her wake, trying to keep up with her speed and efficiency.
Our differences aside, she was first and foremost a Frenchwoman, and from earlier experience I thought that it was best to ask her opinion about paint as I would never hear the end of it if her views had not been aired, analysed, discussed and then finally accepted. Compromise came into our relationship a lot: she told me what was best and I had to agree. When it came to paint, fabric choices, colours, clothes, cars, wood suppliers and repairmen, I allowed her to rule me with an iron fist. Somehow we managed never to fight, and remained best friends who saw each other nearly every day, and when the final decision was taken we were both happy with the direction we were taking.
Place de la Fontaine had last been painted from top to bottom a little over three years ago, before it was used for short-term holiday rentals. After only two years of fairly constant traffic, the property was looking tired and in desperate need of some new paint. I could never understand how a house could look so weary and worn in such a relatively short period of time. I had never before had the need to paint a house every two years. It was Claire who pointed out the obvious: every week, clients arrived with heavy suitcases that they dragged rather than lifted, scraping the steps with their heavy loads, bumping into the walls looking for light switches. I maintained that the majority of my clients were vain and lazy like me and probably just needed glasses and stronger arms.
It was time for a visit to my friend Kamila’s chambre d’hôte at the top of the main road in our village. She and her husband Pierre had created the most spectacular guesthouse, which was also an art gallery and a residence for artists from all across the world. You were guaranteed to meet interesting people actively involved in projects that were fascinating, especially compared to my very mundane life of washing and ironing sheets. Their house was large and rambling, built across several levels. On each floor corridors led off to bedrooms, bathrooms, the art workshop and, of course, the walled garden that contained secrets and magic, which was reached from the house by a wooden drawbridge. Every room in the house featured a colour theme, painted in chaux — a kind of chalk mixed with ochres from the region. Claire and I went through the house admiring the effect that Kamila had been able to achieve with the kind of bold colours that you would normally avoid: lurid purples, deep chocolates, violent hot pinks and almost fluorescent greens. Although it was fascinating to see the bold colours in action at Kamila’s enormous house with its huge rooms and high ceilings, Claire and I agreed that Place de la Fontaine needed very creamy light colours.
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