by Jamie Ivey
Most evenings we sat outside on the terrace behind our farmhouse apartment discussing the details of the move: where we would put specific items of furniture, which paints would work well on which walls and what colour we should spray the shutters. For the first time since we'd committed to the project, we were able to relax. The money had not run out, the work had not stalled and our dream house had become a reality. There was a certain satisfaction to be derived from just looking at the solid walls, and knowing that we had created them. The closer we came to completion, the more the pain and hardship of the process of building began to fade. Neither Tanya or I would ever build a house again, of that we were sure, but we also had no regrets. We'd learnt a lot about human nature.
I'd come to appreciate that truth was not the inviolate, immovable set of facts I'd previously assumed it to be. Everybody had their own truths, and when cultures collided these could be distressingly different. More than ever I believed in the influence of the climate. The savage summers and brutally cold winters of Provence bred a certain type of person – hard, frugal and fearful of outsiders but, like Franck, kind and generous when they accepted you into their circle.
In the end we'd been lucky. Take just a quick look at the landscape of Provence, and amid the lavender, olives and vines, it's easy to spot abandoned, half-finished projects, where the money has run out and the dream finished in acrimony and legal fees. We'd persevered and in the end it had been worth it.
One evening towards the end of May a car horn hooted at the end of the long drive that led up through the olive grove and around the back of Manu's farmhouse. Just a few days ago an American man had phoned and asked to meet us. He'd bought a second home near the village – in fact, it was more of a castle – and was about to start the renovation. Everything was lined up and in place, including the team of tradesmen to do the work. Today was his last day in Provence before he flew home, but an unpleasant rumour had brought him to our door. Despite the difficult timing, we'd agreed to meet.
The expensive car became stranded halfway up the dirt track. The man got out. He wore a beige suit and white shirt, and clutched a bottle of champagne in one hand. A woman followed. Wisely she took off her high heels and linked the straps with her handbag. The sequins on her light dress shimmered in the sunlight as she stumbled towards us. Together the pair looked perfect for a night out in a smart restaurant on the Côte d'Azur – quite what they were doing in rural Provence I had no idea. They came closer. The man was short and balding, with a pronounced paunch and an unfortunate sweat problem. The woman was thin, equine almost, with a hooked nose and the visible bones of someone who didn't eat enough. From the phone conversation we already knew his name was Dwight. The woman was an unexpected guest.
'So kind of you to meet us. This is my attorney, Beth.' He motioned to his female companion and with his other hand proffered the bottle of champagne.
'Would you like a glass?'
'Rude not to.'
I disappeared into the kitchen, searching for the box with the glasses in. Elodie was inside, clutching her teddy and watching a DVD. Excited about the move and chatting about our plans, we'd forgotten her bedtime. Pouring the
champagne, I went back outside and handed around the glasses.
'Lovely place you have here.' Dwight took a large gulp of the vigorously fizzing champagne.
'Thank you.' I never tired of the view from the terrace, the rolling Luberon hills and the line of cypress trees spearing the sky. And from outside, the old farmhouse itself epitomised the Provençal dream – crumbling walls lit golden by the fading sun. Inside, things had improved with the new season, the damp had dried and the insect invasion had been temporarily repelled. For the moment at least, Dwight was right.
'And you've built a new place?' added Beth, attempting to cover her thighs with the scrap of material she was wearing that masqueraded as a dress.
'Worked a bit with our man Ange?' added Dwight.
'Yes.' I topped Dwight up. This must be the point of their visit. To ask for a recommendation or otherwise. 'Our man Ange' was already a worryingly familiar way to refer to a potential future employee.
Remembering Elodie, I excused myself. She was asleep on the sofa. I carried her into her bedroom and gently lowered her into the cot. I closed the shutters and patted Snuffle, who had padded after us and was now curled in a corner of the room. Parting Elodie's hair I gave her a kiss on the forehead.
'Sleep well,' I whispered and shut the door.
Back on the terrace the conversation had moved on. I assumed that Tanya had told Dwight and Beth of the terrible time we'd had with Ange. If they'd come for reassurance, they'd come to the wrong place. It was a shame their project would have to be delayed, but as we learnt to our cost, it would be better to start with the right people in the first place.
'And what's the village like in the winter?' Dwight's glass was empty and I poured him the rest of the bottle.
'We love it,' said Tanya. 'It's a lot quieter, but you really get to know the people. The weather's usually great, there are the Christmas markets, and of course the truffle fairs – it's so festive.'
Dwight glanced at his watch.
'If we're going to make the restaurant…' He left the statement trailing in the air.
Beth nodded eagerly. 'You're right, if we're going to make the restaurant.'
'Where are you going?'
'The resto on the road out of the next village.'
'Good, you'll enjoy it there.'
We kissed goodbye and they hobbled away across the field.
'Particularly tonight,' I added, once they were out of earshot.
Tanya looked confused.
'It's key-swapping night,' I grinned, 'and in that dress Beth's going to get a lot of attention.'
'Strange type of lawyer,' said Tanya.
We sat back down to our hardly touched glasses of champagne. Bats danced in haphazard flight as the moon replaced the sun. The air was still warm and the cluster of high village houses provided the first of many galaxies of light in the clear night sky. For a while we said nothing, listening to the animals, waiting as a blanket of stillness descended.
'So what did you say to them?'
'About what?'
'About Ange?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'I told them we'd chosen to work with someone else.'
'You didn't warn them?'
'They didn't seem to want to talk about it anymore. Why stir up bad feeling? It's a small village. The man's got to work.'
Snuffle emerged from the house and flopped contentedly at our feet. I wasn't sure whether Tanya was right. I'd been ready to tell Dwight how Ange had treated us. And yet I could understand Tanya's reluctance to discuss Ange. Firstly, Dwight was planning a renovation rather than building a house. This was Ange's professed area of expertise, so things should run smoother. And as Tanya pointed out, if they'd really wanted to know about Ange, they'd only had to ask. With his plans finalised and his flight home booked, Dwight had made his decisions and had not wanted to know. Our battle was not his battle.
Chapter 30
Franck's right leg stuck out from under the chassis of the hire van. His left leg was invisible, consumed by the engine. There was a problem with the gearbox, meaning it was impossible to find reverse.
'Merde, c'est pas possible.' It was hot already and in the confined space Franck was becoming frustrated. He'd declared the job 'vite fait', only it wasn't.
'Pass me the screwdriver.' There was a sweaty pause and then more swearing.
Outside our rental apartment our possessions were ranged on the driveway: a fridge freezer, some sofa beds, boxes of files, photos, cutlery, clothes and paintings. Everything was ready and labelled. It was imperative we pulled off one of the slickest moves ever. Tanya was now two days overdue and her labour was imminent. We'd considered professional movers, but somehow with our limited goods it hadn't seemed worth it. Another error had been to relinquish our
lease on the day we moved. Manu's team of painters had already arrived and were setting up inside. Tanya sat under an olive tree with Elodie, looking on anxiously. The heat of the day mounted.
Franck emerged from the bowels of the van. His face was smeared with oil and grease, his hands black from the work. 'C'est complètement tordu.' He shrugged his shoulders. Loosely translated, this meant the van was buggered. In fact, we were buggered too: thirty minutes ago, as I'd crunched the gears and finally stuttered out of the car park, the manager had confirmed there were no other vans available.
'There's a farm lorry I could borrow,' confessed Franck. 'That's if it still works.'
I nodded and pulled up a seat next to Tanya in the shade. The sun was full of future menace. We'd arranged to start early with the aim of finishing by midday. With the delay, we'd be toiling long into the afternoon. Tanya shifted uncomfortably. Her belly was as oversized as one of the region's peerless pumpkins. For the last week she'd been having daily massages to try to provoke the labour. Acupuncture sessions had also proved ineffective. Truffles were unavailable and so the previous evening we'd tried a curry. Again, no effect.
'How are you feeling?'
'Been better.'
Such was our luck, I was privately convinced that today would be the day. The heat and the stress of the move would surely combine to kick-start labour.
'No sign of the contractions?'
'No.'
Tanya sipped nervously on a bottle of water and we waited. The countryside throbbed with insects. Inside our old apartment the painters were at work, their radio blaring France Bleu Provence into the countryside. The show was Les Bonnes Affaires, the inimitably Provençal swap shop.
'I have a panini grill. My boys loved it, but they've left home now. It can make four sandwiches at one time. Their favourite used to be ham and Gruyère, with a little mustard. Oh là là, c'est bon. The sandwich maker really needs a good home.'
'And what are you looking for in return?' The presenter was getting a little impatient with the life history.
'Well, my husband has always wanted one of those outdoor gas barbeques; four grills, hot plate, smoking chamber, spit roaster, complete with utensils. The phone number is 06 78 68 06 99.'
'I see, a panini maker, in exchange for a four-grill gas barbeque,' said the despairing presenter, switchboard doubtless flashing with hordes of callers ready to exchange their 2CVs for Ferraris. 'The number to call is 06 78 68 06 99. Merci, Monica.'
Where was Franck? A blaring horn, reminiscent of the sound made by a large ship, answered my question. Making its way up the drive, at about the speed of a docking passenger ferry, was an extraordinary looking lorry. The exhaust tank was fixed to the roof of the front cabin so that great puffs of diesel billowed into the sky. It gave the vehicle the appearance of running on steam, which at the current speed of progress appeared a possibility. The front window was coated in a thick film of grease, punctured around the windscreen wipers by two half-moons of semi-clarity. There was no bumper, no number plate, just an unprotected rusting engine that alternatively shrieked, whirred and clunked. However, none of this really worried me; what worried me was the rear, where we were supposed to load our possessions. The tyres already sagged like a sumo wrestler's belly, there was no roof, no sides, and a rotten floor through which the ground was visible. The contraption might be suitable for moving hay bales from a field to a barn, but it surely wouldn't take the weight of our belongings.
'Come on, what are you waiting for?'
Franck didn't seem to share my concern and so for the next hour we heaved beds and boxes onto the rear, strapping them down with elastic ropes, like sailors securing the hatches before a storm. Last on was the fridge. It wobbled precariously, there was a creak of wood and one corner pierced the floor of the truck, falling half a foot towards the ground before becoming wedged.
'Perfect,' said Franck, 'you're going to need to hold it.' He wobbled the fridge experimentally. 'Maybe two people. Allez, on y va.'
We hoisted Elodie into the cabin with Franck. Snuffle leapt in beside her. Tanya and I climbed onto the trailer and draped ourselves around the fridge.
'The lorry's not insured for the road, so we're going to take the truffle routes,' cried Franck with glee.
The first bump nearly pitched us off the side. After that we were more cautious, joining hands and hugging the fridge as if it were a safe full of gold. Our farmhouse apartment slowly receded. The terrace from where we'd watched the sunset was bare, the olive tree underneath which we parked the car bushy and already filled with tiny green fruit. The skylight out of which the countless visiting hornets had escaped was up. To help clear the fumes of the paint our bedroom windows were open. It was as if our essences and smells were being encouraged to flee the building and chase us down the drive. Our presence was being whitewashed.
Manu was working in a distant field as we rocked down the drive. He stood still and looked but didn't wave. If our hands had been free I am sure we would have given a farewell salute, but they weren't, they were clasped tightly around the fridge. Our last view of the farmhouse was down a long row of olive trees, under a stone arch, to the Roman fountain around which roses bloomed. It was a good way to remember the place.
Franck came to the main road. He dismounted, crossed the carriageway, unhooked a chain which barred access to a dirt track and gave a wry smile. Once a truffle hunter, always a truffle hunter, even if it was the middle of summer. Into the hills we went, passing into the deep shade of the pines, emerging into the brilliant sunlight as we skirted a field of vines, and ducking into the softer light under a row of platanes.
Up we climbed, leaving the village below us, the occasional pastel shutter visible through gaps in the foliage. The smells this deep into the garrigue were heady, rich, and all enveloping. I kept a careful eye on Tanya. She looked white and pained. All the changes in gradient, the little bumps and larger rolling waves of terrain were dizzying and confusing to the stomach. On occasions she winced and instinctively released a hand to clutch at her belly. My cries of concern were drowned by the deafening racket of the diesel engine and the crunching, bucking, screeching undercarriage. It became more and more difficult to cling onto the fridge, and in the end, high above the village, I banged on the roof of the lorry to call a stop.
'Let's rest a little while.'
'Good idea, I want to check the rear tyre. C'est vite fait.'
Snuffle and Elodie disappeared into the trees. Barks and screams of enjoyment told us they were still around. The shade was pleasant, and the sight of the lorry loaded with our possessions in such an incongruous setting brought smiles to both of our faces. Neither of us broached the subject that was really worrying us. Here we were in the middle of a Provençal forest, at least an hour's walk from a main road, with only a decrepit lorry for transport, a decrepit lorry which now had one defective rear wheel.
Franck had been gone for a disconcerting period of time. One rushed last-minute charge to the maternity ward was unfortunate; two would begin to look like carelessness. With a judder the rear quarter of the lorry collapsed to the ground, sending a couple of beds sliding towards the edge. The fridge, wedged as it was between the floorboards, now teetered like the leaning tower of Pisa.
'No contractions?'
'None, I'm fine. Will you stop worrying.'
'It's hard not to.'
There was another juddering, wracking, splintering noise and I turned. It sounded like the whole lorry had collapsed in a wheezing heap to the forest floor. Franck reappeared, a grin spreading across his face.
'I've raised the whole suspension, should be a little smoother on the way down. Shall we get going?'
The suspension might well have been higher, but the problem on the way down was that the brakes didn't work. Trees hurtled by like slalom posts, bumps became jumps, and the fact that we only lost one chair overboard was a minor miracle. Somehow we clung on, emerging into the field of truffles trees above our newly constructed ho
use. The last vertiginous descent pitched Tanya and I forward against the dirty cabin window, and then rocked us backwards as the wheels found level ground. We'd arrived, and in what style.
Our new house lay before us, doors open wide, welcoming us in. The shutters were painted a delicate grey blue, the walls the colour of local sand. The roof was covered in aged tiles through which a small chimney protruded. The building was immaculate, clean, finished.
