Last Tango in Toulouse

by Mary Moody

  The ceiling downstairs has been timber-lined, and my first inclination is to rip away the narrow boards to reveal the chunky timber beams that I am convinced are underneath. However, I am later discouraged by David, who feels it best to leave well enough alone. Uncovering anything unknown may lead to all sorts of disasters, not to mention the fact that the wiring and plumbing are all hidden inside this ceiling cavity. Heaven knows what we might find if we start ripping the room to pieces.

  Some decades ago a back door was obviously excavated through the thick rear wall of the house, cutting the old stone washing up sink in half, sadly. This door leads out to the small square courtyard between the house and the barn. Unlike the rest of the house, the back wall has never been rendered with crepi, and the bare stone gives us a pretty good idea of how the house will look when we have chipped away at the front and side walls.

  The ground-level floor is timber, but unfortunately it’s very badly executed, a combination of narrow chestnut boards and mock timber sheeting laid over compressed board. Goodness knows what happened to the original oak flooring – I can only guess that at some stage a decision was made to raise or lower the floor level, and the cheapest option was taken. There’s a cut-out square just inside the front door that looks like a trapdoor and, sure enough, when we jemmy it up we discover a cellar, or ‘cave’ as it’s known in France, a must for any serious wine lover.

  A handsomely curved timber stairway leads to the next floor, which consists of a small landing with a traditional window and shutters and two quite large but extremely plain bedrooms. The one facing the street has two windows, while the bedroom overlooking the courtyard has one window and a deep stone sink that no doubt served as the family bathroom in times gone by. Once again the floors are of chestnut and the boards are narrow, but fortunately it’s all in good condition and quite authentic for the period of the house. This is the level I find most captivating.

  The top level is reached on curved rickety stairs that are badly in need of replacement. There’s plenty of headroom to the roof, but the beams are extraordinarily heavy and low – you have to duck your head to get from one area to the next. As usual, my first instinct is to remove the beams, but again expert advice indicates that this would be structural madness. The four thick stone walls are tied together by these massive beams and we would have to undertake major engineering work to create full headroom in the attic. I decide that we will think about it at a later stage and concentrate now on the two lower levels. Getting them comfortable and pretty will cost as much as we have in our limited budget.

  The gravelled courtyard is backed by a two-storey stone barn, which for me is the most appealing part of the entire property. The door to the barn is original oak with heavy metal hinges, still very handsome and solid. Inside the darkness of the barn, which has no plumbing or electricity, there is the potential to create the most wonderful extra bedroom and bathroom, and perhaps even an office if I ever decide to spend a year in France writing another book. The first time I stood inside the barn I contemplated what it might have been used for at various times – perhaps chickens and a cow, or even a couple of pigs. The concept of living in such close proximity to large animals in a confined space is fairly revolting, but it was probably the norm in villages like this for centuries.

  The least attractive aspect of the house is the bathroom, added along the back wall probably thirty years ago. It is an ugly concrete-block corridor that has been rendered on the outside with stucco and badly tiled on the inside. It’s gloomy, damp and cold, and definitely needs rethinking if we are to make the house comfortable for long-term visits.

  In spite of its shortcomings, the house is quite livable in a basic way, and we were lucky enough to buy it with all the furniture and furnishings thrown in by its former English owners. Although we plan to gradually replace everything, it is handy not to have to go out and buy items like vacuum cleaners, clothes dryers and tables and chairs. When we first move in all we require is some basic linen. There is no central heating, which locals insist is essential if you plan to stay in France for a full year, but there is a fully functional cast-iron Godin slow-combustion stove in the fireplace, which I light almost immediately after we arrive.

  Ignoring the fine details and the work that has to be done some time in the future, the house has an innately charming atmosphere and an appeal that is very plain, very French and very rural. At home I would never contemplate buying a house on a main road, but somehow in this French village it feels perfect. All the houses that adjoin the main intersection and the square that surrounds the Romanesque Church are in the same position as us, right on the road, and it’s as though we share the same living situation. Our neighbours on the high side are M and Mme Thomas, an elderly couple with a house clad in drab grey crepi just like ours. Their daughter and son-in-law live in the adjoining house, with two teenage sons who travel each day into Prayssac by bus to the high school. The Thomases have a walled garden just up the road, overflowing with produce and flowers. There are fruiting trees and vines, neat rows of lettuce and various greens, and in summer enough tomatoes to feed the two families all year round. Climbing roses and clematis drip from the stone walls surrounding the garden, and hidden at the back of the house is a modern swimming pool for summer dipping.

  Within a day of my return my diary is filled with a series of catching-up lunches and dinners and I realise that I am bound to fall back into my bad old habits – lingering lunches at Mme Murat’s, hazy afternoon sleeps to recover, followed by equally filling evening meals in the company of friends. Not the healthiest of lifestyles, but one that I can’t help but enjoy. I wonder, if I were living here full-time would I be a little more circumspect? Cut back the socialising and lead a more balanced and sensible life? Jock doesn’t, and I fear that I would probably be just like him. Heaven help my waistline!

  I still can’t believe it’s ten months since I was last here. I am so excited to come back and renew my many good friendships, the connections that bound me during my first visit and helped convince me that I should make France a permanent part of my life. My first friend in the Lot was Jock, a retired journalist and larger-than-life character in every sense of the phrase. When I wrote about my adventures in rural France I described Jock as the ‘King of Grunge’ because of his dishevelled appearance and penchant for red wine, the dregs of which often decorate the front of his shirt. My picture of his appearance and lifestyle draws roars of recognition from all who know him, but Jock steadfastly refuses to acknowledge this unanimous public perception. An advance copy of the book arrives a few days after my return and, after reading it, he lets me off lightly.

  ‘I told you that you could say whatever you wanted about me, as long as it wasn’t the truth. And because I am not the drunken, noisy slob you have portrayed in your book, I can’t possibly take offence.’

  Thank heavens for his self-deprecating sense of humour. Jock generally refuses to acknowledge reality and drifts through life with a blind optimist’s adoration of his much loved little patch of the world. Perhaps he’s indicative of men in general, who cannot really see themselves as dispassionately as the rest of the world (especially women) see them. A medical survey carried out a few years ago tested individual perceptions about weight and appearance. Most men, no matter what their size and shape, had a view of themselves as being quite slim and in good shape. They looked at their peers and commented on how they had ‘aged’ but couldn’t actually see themselves as being in the same boat. Women, on the other hand, no matter how slender, complained of looking unattractive and of being overweight. They worried at the first sign of aging and generally had a critical view of themselves.

  Inside Jock’s large, mid-seventy-year-old body there beats the heart of a man much younger and more energetic. He still sees himself as being about thirty years old, rakishly attractive (which he still is, of course) and with a constitution that can effortlessly tolerate a wild and often hedonistic lifestyle. He must have been blessed w
ith a fantastic set of genes and a cast-iron constitution, but he also has certain medically based limitations – lungs that wheeze and splutter after more than seven decades of chronic asthma and a heart that has successfully undergone major surgery and should be treated with a little more respect.

  Jock’s main problem is that he is such a popular and entertaining guest that his summer diary is crammed with invitations for lunches, dinners, drinks and general merriment. All his friends worry about him because from time to time his entire system falls apart, and on at least two occasions he has ended up in hospital with a life-threatening illness, the last one pneumonia. However, it takes more than a little brush with death to stop Jock in his tracks, and after a week of slowing down to recover he’s back on deck, ready to party.

  The contrasts in Jock’s life are profound. During the long, hot days of summer he is on a non-stop treadmill of social activities, with house guests and parties that stretch for weeks into months. He gains a lot of weight, becomes even more florid in the face and often looks as though he’s been to hell and back a few times. In winter the entire social scene calms down and, as temperatures plummet to below zero, Jock hibernates in his small stone house, often remaining in his study, where the only heater is, before wandering into the icy kitchen to cook up some dinner or up to his equally frosty bedroom to sleep. He attempts to brighten this dreary winter hiatus by throwing the odd dinner party – he’s an excellent and creative cook – but friends attend with some trepidation. A mutual friend recounts sitting through a delicious four-course dinner wearing her overcoat, scarf and gloves; others claim they furiously stoke the fire but still shiver all night. Last winter his oldest friends, Margaret and Lucience, ganged up and insisted that he install some electric heaters. However, Jock is still inclined to absent-mindedly leave a door or window open, so it’s never cosy.

  In summer Jock reverts to his wild ways, exhausting by association all those within his orbit. It’s not uncommon for him to attend a lunch that lingers on until five o’clock, go home for a snooze then out again to an evening meal or party that starts at 7.30 and goes until well after midnight. Concerned about his health, I once emailed him from Australia saying that I had heard via the grapevine that he had been ‘overdoing it’ a little, considering he was not long out of hospital. He replied with an amusing slice of his diary, detailing his various social activities, ending each one with ‘and woke the following morning feeling absolutely fine’. Well, perhaps Jock’s idea of ‘fine’ is different from most people’s. I know how I feel after a few weeks trying to keep up with his pace in France, and ‘fine’ isn’t the word. It’s ‘ruined’!

  Like everyone living in a remote rural region, Jock is totally dependent on his car for mobility. There are no taxis or trains or buses in the countryside so, after a five-hour lunch, driving home, no matter in what condition, is unavoidable. Over time Jock’s reliable old Peugeot has taken a bit of a battering. The rubber side-strips have been scraped off, one by one. The side mirrors have been known to take out the odd passing shrub, and the back bumper bar has born the brunt of more than half a dozen badly judged reverses. The driver-side front fender is entirely caved in, though Jock insists he wasn’t responsible for that one – someone backed into him in a car park. And there’s a running gag among his friends about a ‘Watch Out For Children’ sign erected in the driveway of a friend’s rental house: Jock has knocked it down at least four times.

  His worst accident happened one summer when he attended a morning drinks party that somehow became a lunch party that somehow continued with glasses of wine into the early evening. Jock suddenly realised the lateness of the hour and decided he should go home, weaving his car down the long driveway, pruning some of the hedge with his side mirrors. Next morning his neighbours were horrified to see his badly dented car parked out the front of his house. The passenger side was completely stoved in and the front bumper bar was on the road. Mid-morning, Jock emerged from his house a little rumpled and red-faced but none the worse for wear. He seemed highly amused, revealing that as he pulled in to park in front of his house, his foot ‘slipped’ off the brake and the car plunged forward into the thick stone front wall. The car was pronounced ‘totalled’ by the local mechanic, M Moliere, and without insurance Jock was faced with having to rustle up the funds for a new one. When asked by friends what had happened, Jock responded in characteristic fashion: ‘The front wall reared up and attacked the car,’ he said.

  Meanwhile, back in Australia, all is not running smoothly down on the farm. David is feeling a profound sense of loneliness and disconnection, not having me there to soothe his passage into our new environment. He has befriended our rather eccentric neighbour Russell, who pops over the fence for a beer and a chat about local life in the district. Like David, Russell is a hoarder, except that his collections consist mainly of junk which is scattered at random from one end of his property to the other. There are rusting sheets of corrugated iron, old water tanks riddled with holes, kitchen and laundry appliances, sinks, baths, toilets, buckets, and piles of railway sleepers and tangled coils of wire. You could be forgiven for thinking that his side paddock is the local tip, only probably not as tidy. In and around the drifts of rubbish Russell manages to cultivate organic vegetables mainly leeks and rhubarb for the commercial market, and has a large flock of honking geese that he allows to graze and keep the grass down. There are two old houses on the property but Russell actually lives in the shed. The houses are rented out to augment his meagre income. But Russell is strangely lovable and David grows immediately fond of him, looking forward to his spontaneous afternoon visits that help break the silence.

  As the weeks pass David discovers various practical problems around the property, a pretty normal occurrence when you move to somewhere new. The water pump frequently malfunctions, leaving him mid-shower with his customary head-to-toe soapy lather and suddenly no water to rinse it off. Neighbours come to the rescue, helping to prime the pump and get things moving again, at least for a day or so.

  The animals are also taking time to adjust to the new place. Floyd, our half-blind Labrador, disappears for hours at a time and David worries that he may wander as far as the highway, where he could be skittled or, worse, cause a terrible accident. Searching for him one day, he encounters a half-naked elderly man in one of Russell’s rented cottages who introduces himself as Frank. He has a thick Dutch accent and a broad sense of humour.

  ‘Have you seen a Labrador?’ David asks.

  ‘Sure I have,’ says Frank. ‘He was here two minutes ago and killed one of the geese.’

  David reels back in disbelief and becomes instantly defensive.

  ‘That couldn’t have been our Floyd,’ he stammers. ‘Floyd has grown up with chickens and ducks. He loves poultry. He would never ever kill a bird. He’s a Labrador.’

  Frank roars with laughter. ‘And I’m a fucking Dutchman. Don’t worry about it. I hate those bloody geese. I hope your Labrador comes back and kills the rest of them.’

  David slinks off and eventually Floyd returns looking quite innocent, no traces of blood or feathers around his mouth.

  The cats have been allocated the laundry to settle in, but eventually David starts to let them have the run of the house and garden. Disoriented, they immediately start messing in the corners and he rings Miriam in alarm.

  ‘The cats have crapped on the carpet,’ he reports in some disgust.

  ‘Well, clean it up,’ she says with little compassion. As the mother of four small boys, her life is a constant round of bum wiping and associated mess, and she has little time for her father and his helplessness.

  The cats are banned from the house until I return and some semblance of normal life is restored.

  Mid-October the weather suddenly turns bitterly cold and there is a black frost that burns the tips off every tree and shrub in the garden. The wind howls across the paddocks and buffets the house in icy blasts. David isn’t very good at keeping the fires going and the atm
osphere is bleak and dreary.

  Already prone to depression, during this period alone at the farm he falls into a black hole. When I phone him from France, bubbling with excitement about living in the house in Frayssinet and catching up with all my friends, the intrigues of village life and the joys of the local food, he sounds totally down in the dumps and negative.

  ‘Don’t you like it there?’ I ask with some degree of guilt.

  ‘Not really,’ he says. ‘It’s cold and the house is very large and very empty. I wish I was back in Leura.’

  My heart sinks at this news. I am beginning to feel that I have pushed for too much change in too short a time. Not only have I insisted on buying this little village house so that I can escape to it every year, I have also uprooted David from our home at Leura so that when I am away he is living in unfamiliar surroundings. Yet I also feel unreasonably irritated by his inability to adapt and cope. After all, Miriam, Rick and his four grandsons are only twenty-five minutes away by car and he can easily spend more time with them if he’s feeling lonely or down. In the back of my mind is always the niggling resentment from years gone by. He repeatedly left me to cope with a large house and four young children for months at a time, and now it’s my turn. It’s not that I don’t feel some compassion for his predicament, it’s just that I am determined to hang on to this precious time when I can be my own person.

  Just before Ethan and Lynne catch the plane back to Australia for the birth of their baby a surprise party is held in their honour – a combined farewell and baby shower. Our English friend Carole organises the party, collecting money for a present for the baby – an elaborate and very stylish French baby carriage that includes a car capsule for a newborn. I drive Ethan and Lynne to Bob and Carole’s, ostensibly for a farewell drink. A crowd of twenty-five friends have gathered and they leap forward as we enter, much to the kids’ astonishment. Lynne is overwhelmed by the generosity of her new friends and sheds a few tears. She and Ethan spend hours working out how the various components of the pram slot together. It’s great that they have been accepted into this community but also sad that they can’t stay and have their baby here at the local hospital. At a time like this, Lynne needs her family’s support, and they would not be covered by the French health system, which would make it a very expensive delivery.