Last Tango in Toulouse

by Mary Moody

  ‘They come down your street and the guide tells them, “Look to your right and see the house and garden of the television lifestyle presenter and garden writer, Mary Moody”,’ he said.

  The irony is that most of the tourists are foreign, generally Asian, and obviously wouldn’t have the vaguest idea about local television programs or personalities. While I laughed heartily at the notion of being part of the local equivalent of those tacky Hollywood celebrity tours, I also felt a strong sense of being invaded. It sharpened my resolve that leaving our home in the mountains was the only option open to us.

  3

  Meanwhile, I urgently needed to turn my mind to the task of finishing Au Revoir, the book I had started writing about my adventures the previous year in France. One of the basic guidelines drummed into me as a young reporter back in the 1960s was that ‘good journalists’ never put themselves forward, never project their own personality or viewpoint into the interview or article. I had spent most of my journalistic career either interviewing newsworthy people or researching factual topics for magazine articles or television segments, so finding myself suddenly writing about my own life was quite a challenge. During the last twenty-five years working as an editor or author of gardening books I have, from time to time, injected a little of my own philosophy and personality into the business of being a gardener. Yet I have tended to maintain those old-fashioned journalistic rules about being an observer rather than a participant. Besides, writing columns and books aimed at helping people grow better cabbages hardly allows the writer to include a lot of personal information.

  However, Au Revoir demanded something quite different of me, and I had to completely rethink the boundaries of the writing style I had adhered to for so many decades. My first thought was that I should write a sort of middle-aged woman’s travelogue/adventure story with lots of detail about the local food and customs in rural France. It didn’t turn out that way.

  Initially, while gallivanting around the French countryside, eating and drinking myself into oblivion, I didn’t even consider putting pen to paper. After all, sitting down to write every day for hours in order to meet a deadline was exactly the sort of pressure I was escaping from. I had a loose agreement with the publishers that I might or might not describe my personal and physical progress during this odyssey, but under no circumstances was I going to allow it to cramp my style. After several months of self-indulgence I finally realised that I could, without feeling too constrained, document some of my impressions of the region of France to which I had made my escape.

  At the forefront of my mind was the conversation I had had back in Sydney with my agent and my publisher before I left home, discussing the style of the book and the voice that would relate the story. They both felt it was not enough simply to start at the beginning of the actual journey to France, where I set off in search of some personal space and freedom. They believed that I needed to elaborate on some aspects of my earlier life that would help to explain why I felt so compelled to take time out. They were convinced that I had to paint a fuller picture in order to justify my sudden flight from home, family and responsibility. But the thought of describing the personal details of my life felt totally bizarre. I didn’t know where to start and was convinced, quite cynically, that nobody would be all that interested anyway. Most journalists have an inbuilt suspicion of ‘autobiography’ – weighty books written by those who happen to be in public life and believe themselves to be significant enough in the scheme of things to set out the fine detail of their lives for all to appreciate and admire; or by sporting heroes who, apart from scoring a few triumphant goals, haven’t even really lived a life. The thought of this style of book sent a shiver of revulsion down my spine and almost caused me not to start writing at all.

  My next obstacle was deciding which voice to write in. It is very difficult to write in the first person when you have been trained to avoid using the words ‘I’ and ‘me’ in your work. Feeling a sense of panic and a total lack of confidence in setting down even the first sentence, I phoned my agent at her Sydney office.

  ‘Who is supposed to be telling this story?’ I asked. ‘What is the tense – past, present or future? I don’t know where to begin.’

  She advised me to start at the beginning: to write about my childhood and take it from there.

  ‘It’s your own story, so it’s just a matter of telling it from the heart,’ she added.

  Early in the morning the next day, when my brain was relatively fresh I sat down to write. I gathered my memories together and started to recall what it was like being the child of alcoholic journalist parents who were also communists, living in what would now be described as a ‘dysfunctional family’ complete with domestic violence, infidelity and suicide. I wrote about it exactly as I remembered it, the good bits and the bad bits. The fact was that my home was often an exciting and stimulating household filled with the witty banter of authors and artists, but it also frequently deteriorated into a terrifying environment for a small child, with drunken brawling, bailiffs banging on the door because of unpaid bills and neighbours reporting ‘disturbances’ to the police.

  I wrote about my two sisters – Margaret, who fled from the family on her eighteenth birthday and never looked back, and Jane, who died at the age of eleven months under circumstances I have never really understood. And about my two brothers – Jon, who seemed to survive relatively unscathed and went to sea in his teens, and Daniel, fourteen months my senior, who also left home to make his way in the world as soon as he possibly could.

  For the first time, in writing down these memories, I tackled them head on as I had never done before. I sat at the computer in that tiny room in a medieval French village as the words tumbled out, with hot tears of anguish rolling down my cheeks. It wasn’t so much self-pity – although I did feel a lot of pain for that little girl all those years ago, coping with the hardships of her young life – but a cathartic realisation that I had never really come to terms with it all. That while I had always openly discussed incidents remembered from childhood, even joked about them with my family and friends at various times over the years, I had never fully confronted the fear and pain I had experienced all those decades ago.

  Writing it down didn’t necessarily give me a deeper understanding of what had gone on between my parents, but it helped me clarify my own feelings about what it was like being a member of my family – of being the only girl who remained after Margaret and Jane had both vanished from my life, and how my two brothers had emerged in their different ways from the same unhappy environment. It all came out very quickly, like a flood, as thoughts and words cascaded onto the keyboard, but I thought it would all probably be edited out at the end of the day. After all, who would be interested in the ravings of a middle-aged woman about her troubled childhood?

  Despite my anguish, I didn’t write in a bleak or tortured manner. Instead I tried to be upbeat, even vaguely bemused, about the circumstances of my childhood. More or less, I suppose, the way I believed I coped with it during my adult life.

  Next I wrote about my eccentric mother Muriel, who lived with David and me and our four children for nearly twenty-five years. Having a permanent extended family is unusual today, so I wrote quite honestly and with some humour about the ups and downs of my strong relationship with her and then about her sudden death. Muriel had a profound and very positive effect on our children’s lives, and it was quite poignant remembering some of the funny and sad things that happened during our long time together. Eventually the story reached the point where I set out for France and writing the next part – my French adventure story – was great fun. I delivered a semi-completed manuscript to my agent and my publisher a few weeks after I returned home.

  Their reaction was as I expected: the book needed a good rewrite and a strong edit. What I hadn’t expected was that they both felt it needed more, much more, about the personal side of my life. The editor thought so too. She combed through the manuscript, making copio
us notes about the areas she thought should be fleshed out: more on my relationships with my mother and my daughter; more on my marriage; more on my feelings about myself – my body image, my sexuality, my thoughts and the reactions to the people I met while living overseas.

  By now I was beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of exposing my private life in such a candid fashion. The prospect of pouring even more of my soul onto paper was daunting but, being so deadline-oriented (a result of years of journalistic paranoia), I put my head down and wrote like a madwoman. I started to wonder who I was actually writing this book for: for myself (a little); for the readers (I had my doubts); for the publishers (most urgently).

  I wondered if I was just reconfirming that lifelong role I had created for myself of doing what others expected of me rather than what I wanted to do for myself. Despite my reservations, I handed the finished manuscript in on time and then immediately tried to forget about it and get on with the other parts of my life – my family, my work on the gardening program and the plan I had for moving us from Leura to somewhere quieter and more rural.

  4

  Buying a piece of property in a foreign country is a major commitment, especially in a place as far removed from Australia as southwest France. While David and I still wondered, from time to time, if our decision to buy a rundown piece of real estate in France had been rash, we were committed to the idea of spending at least part of every northern hemisphere summer in our small village of Frayssinet-le-Gelat. The house itself was typical of thousands of deserted dwellings in France that are up for grabs by anyone willing to take them on. Every rural area has vacant properties that come on and off the real estate market according to the whim of the owner or, more precisely, the multiple owners, because this is one of the main factors influencing the abandonment of so many village and country houses. According to the French inheritance laws, which date back to Napoleonic times, no descendant – legitimate or illegitimate – can be excluded from an inheritance. This means that when a property owner dies there is frequently a brawl among the members of the family about what to do with it. Properties often sit vacant for decades, crumbling with neglect, because no decision can be made that will satisfy all the parties involved.

  When I was dashing around the countryside looking at vacant properties, I saw several attractive but derelict houses that had been vacant for thirty or forty years, or even longer. One in particular that I loved hadn’t been occupied since 1932. But David and I made a more conservative choice – a small village house in need of some renovation but still quite livable.

  In rural France, when abandoned properties eventually become available for sale, they are sometimes bought by the commune (council) to renovate for a specific community project. When we took our first steps towards buying the little house in Frayssinet-le-Gelat, we had to wait until the house was offered first to the mairie, the governing body of the council, because they always have first right of refusal. This is more of a formality than a sticking point; seldom will the mairie vote against a house being sold. They are generally quite relieved to see houses being occupied, even if only by part-time foreign residents, rather than remaining empty and falling into further disrepair. If the mairie did for some reason wish to acquire a property that was in the process of being sold privately it could cause all sorts of problems that could only be resolved in the law courts. Fortunately, in our case, the local Mayor had no objection to our proposed purchase. He even rushed the paperwork through for us because we had to sign all the legal documentation before we returned to Australia.

  Local government is very powerful in France and the local mairie (the name of both the town hall itself and the local council) is the centre of virtually all legal bureaucracy; it is certainly where all the important decisions that affect the commune are made. The size of the Conseil Municipal depends on the number of people in the commune. In Frayssinet-le-Gelat we have thirteen representatives, very similar to our local government councillors here in Australia, although the election method is slightly different. Prospective candidates put their names forward and this list is posted prior to election day. In small communes of less than 3500, names can be added to the list regardless of whether their owners have asked to be nominated – in other words, people in the community who are well liked might find themselves elected to office, like it or not! These elected representatives, who will govern for seven years, then vote for the Mairie (or Mayor) from among their number, and he or she has tremendous powers. The Mairie administers the local budget (drawn from the rates), performs marriage ceremonies and signs death and birth certificates; he or she also acts as police sheriff of the commune, in charge of security, and has the final say on all matters of law in the commune. The councillors, also known as advisers, are given specific areas to administer – it could be road maintenance or the organisation of local festivities such as village feasts or celebrations. Local government lies at the heart of the commune and everyone is passionately interested in local political matters.

  There are several English families already living either full- or part-time in the village and now, of course, a couple of Australians who will come and go and create a ripple of local interest. The post office opens only three mornings a week and there are rumours that it might close due to lack of business, not unlike post offices in country towns all over Australia. The rumours spur the locals into writing letters and sending cards and packages once again, in fear of losing this wonderful traditional service. There is a local school that takes children through infants and primary; then they must travel to Prayssac or Cahors for secondary education. There are two bars, one of which also operates as a pizzeria restaurant; there’s a very fine charcuterie run by the local butcher who is a highly respected figure in the community and always prepares the main course for the village feasts in the surrounding region; and there’s an alimentation, or corner store, which stocks all the convenience items any local resident or holiday-maker could require, from light bulbs to gourmet cheeses to regional wines and boot polish. The boulangerie is also very well regarded in the district, and locals have their cakes and tarts for birthday and anniversary celebrations made to order rather than going to the bother of making them themselves. There is also a garage that sells bottled gas for cooking stoves as well as petrol, and you can register your car and have all manner of mechanical and electrical repairs done there. Indeed, if you didn’t feel the need to see a doctor or dentist you could cheerfully stay put in Frayssinet-le-Gelat twenty-four hours a day every day of the year. It is a self-contained haven, and many of the older locals rarely step outside the village precinct; it’s much easier to shop locally than go through the hassle of driving to a larger centre further afield in search of a supermarket or hardware store.

  Several decades ago the village would have contained a much wider range of shops and services. The church would have been open for mass every Sunday instead of just one Sunday in four. There would have been a village doctor and midwife and other shops, such as the hairdresser’s which once occupied the front part of our downstairs main room. The fact that locals can now drive to a larger centre, perhaps only ten kilometres away, has meant that these facilities have become more spread out among the villages.

  Exploring the village backstreets and byways, I am enchanted by the number of gardens, especially potagers, that are tucked away in every corner. I sometimes wonder how the weekly markets make a profit when so many people grow their own produce, but I am quite relieved when I realise that my own little house and courtyard has no space for such an endeavour – the only two plants are an old red climbing rose and a wisteria which have tangled together to create a mass of colour every spring over the old stone barn. I am perfectly happy to leave it at that! This may surprise friends who regard me as a committed gardener but I am well aware of how impossible it is to maintain a garden when you are around for only a few months each year. Other part-time foreign residents in the village pay a small fortune for their gardens to b
e tended in their absence, and I know that we will have expenses enough with the house without having to pay for the garden.

  My lack of passion for gardening in France also reminds me that I have changed quite a bit over the last few years. Once I would visualise garden beds and pots overflowing with flowers at every opportunity, but now I feel quite ambivalent about all the work involved. It seems to me that I have spent half my adult life on my hands and knees weeding. Now I am wanting to move on to other things.

  5

  My film-making husband David is a passionate man who can be exasperating to live with because of his entrenched attitudes towards all aspects of life. He’s not a flexible or easygoing person in any sense, and we have clashed frequently over all sorts of trivial, day-to-day incidents and concerns. He is inclined to get upset about things that most people regard as unimportant, and he is a man with a strong sense of routine and order, baulking at spontaneity or unexpected change. He likes things the way they are because it makes him feel secure.

  That said, he is also a highly charged creative individual, very loving and loyal to his family and friends and seldom boring to be around. He is a Scot by ancestry, and many of the character traits attributed to that race apply to him. He’s careful and considered, pedantic and exacting, and in many ways quite conservative, despite his appearance and the fact that over the years he has been responsible for producing or working on films that could be considered radical. He is therefore a contradiction in many respects. On the one hand, when working with scriptwriters and film directors and actors he can be inspirational with his intense enthusiasm and deep commitment to the project. At the same time he can be dour and negative, tending to anticipate the worst in any situation. When he is in this frame of mind or when he plummets, as he sometimes does, into a deep depression, I wonder what on earth I am doing with him.