A House in the Sunflowers

by Ruth Silvestre

  ‘It’s great. We can have it Dad, can’t we?’ he said.

  His father looked at him, glass in hand. ‘I think we might. There’s an awful lot to do, it’s in a dreadful state and you’ll have to help, you realise. But I feel it’s manageable and it’s less than five thousand pounds.’ We were home and dry.

  By the time M. Bertrand returned we were planning which would be the main bedroom, which the kitchen, and Matthew had already chosen for himself the floorless room facing south. I now realise that he was the only one who got it right but we had not lived in our house then. We hadn’t even bought it.

  M. Bertrand seemed delighted. We shook hands again and then it was a matter of returning to the Agency to pay a deposit and sign the agreement. It seemed a comparatively simple procedure.

  ‘There’s another way back to the road,’ said M. Bertrand. ‘It will be quicker for you. Go down that track,’ he shouted, pointing, and then he whizzed away. Ten minutes later we were completely lost in a strange farmyard encircled by dogs, cats, chicken, ducks and guinea fowl and a family of three generations who had come out to show us the track that we should have taken. Our new home was certainly remote.

  In order to pay the deposit and, more important it seemed, the Agent’s commission which was, we discovered in our region, six per cent and, alas, à la charge de l’acheteur, we spent the next hour chasing from one bank to another. At that time one could only write a sterling cheque for fifty pounds cash so the process had to be repeated in each available bank. Fortunately the small town appeared to be full of banks. Returning to the Agency we struggled to make sense of the official documents. Mike, who many years before as an eighteen-year-old soldier in wartime France and the only one in his squadron with any French, had had a great deal of practice but nevertheless found it hard going. My own French was abysmally rusty and Matthew, who could just about conjugate avoir and être if he put his mind to it soon got bored and went to have a snooze in the van.

  We were almost finished when we were joined by a newly bathed and dressed M. Bertrand and his small, fair, girlish wife. With a wide face and a radiant smile she was clearly enjoying this unexpected trip into town. At last the documents were completed and we could all leave the airless office for a drink at the café across the road.

  ‘Tomorrow I must get the géomètre to measure your land exactly,’ said M. Bertrand, and we arranged to meet at the house the following day. We toasted our new friendship in Pernod and Dubonnet. Clinking our glasses we beamed at each other. Time would tell us the quality of these friends that we had had the good fortune to find.

  Le Géomètre was young, handsome and very serious. He walked round our house to the front porch and regarded it in silence for several minutes. Then he said solemnly, ‘Oui. C’est très recherché.’ We were suitably pleased. We thought so too.

  He paced and measured, M. Bertrand following him banging in small wooden stakes at each corner. The narrow strip of land between the barn and the house was evenly divided and then he marched off along the track with his giant tape measure. The further he went the further fell M. Bertrand’s face. We were to learn over the years that our friend is totally without guile, his face mirrors each succeeding thought. Then we only saw that he had not realised quite how much of his meadow would soon be ours. We watched the graceful young man pace onward. ‘Right!’ shouted Mike. ‘That’s plenty.’

  M. Bertrand looked surprised but extremely relieved. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ we nodded. We knew that it would be a long time before we would worry about the size of a garden, there was so much to be done on the house. So the stakes were hammered in and Le Géomètre disappeared slowly down the track in his elegant car. A man of taste. He knew something recherché when he saw it.

  So with our holiday at an end we took our last look at our house. We were a little disconcerted to learn that it was called Bel-Air. A name with such a smart, trans-Atlantic connotation seemed singularly inappropriate for our neglected and unpretentious dwelling. M. Bertrand explained that within a few kilometres there were four ancient houses all called Grèze Longue and that grèze was a kind of chalky soil. There were Grèze Longue Haut and Bas for obvious reasons, Au Bosc de Grèze Longue because it was in a wood and our house was actually called Bel-Air de Grèze Longue because we had the best view and caught all the fresh air. That made it much more acceptable.

  Excited as we were there was nothing more to do but return to England and dream about it. Until the transaction was completed we could not begin any alterations. We took a few inadequate photographs to show Adam, our eldest son, who was somewhere in Europe touring with a pop group. In London we had to apply to the Bank of England for permission to buy abroad and we also had to pay the iniquitous dollar premium which was, in 1976, 45%, for the privilege of spending our own money on which we had already paid tax!

  In October we received a letter from the lawyer, or notaire, saying that our agreement would be even more delayed. When le géomètre had consulted the ancient map he had discovered that at some time in the past M. Bertrand, in order that his cows should have easier access to the pond, had simply altered the position of the track or chemin rural which passed our house. This explained why it now ran past the back, rather than the front door as it had originally done. Such an alteration was, it appeared, strictly forbidden and French bureaucracy now required the passing of a special acte by the commune. We could only imagine M. Bertrand’s face when he heard this piece of news!

  CHAPTER THREE

  By the end of November the contracts were ready to be signed. As we also wanted to contact a local builder to at least begin those urgent tasks which were beyond us, namely the roof and the dangerous floors, we decided on a brief, weekend trip to France. On a cold Thursday evening we set out for Newhaven. The rain lashed the side of the van all the way from London and by the time we reached the coast the wind had risen. As we drove through customs there was a loud bang as the rocket announced the launching of the life boat. The next hour and a half was spent swaying up and down on board the ferry as we waited for a tug to pull us out of harbour against a force-ten gale. It did not seem a propitious start.

  Landing at Dieppe after midnight we drove until four in the morning when we tried to sleep in a lay-by. The passing headlights of early lorries soon made sleep impossible and we continued our journey through the relentless rain. France had never seemed such a huge country. We lost our way more than once in unfamiliar towns and it was almost seven in the evening and with a thick mist closing in when we drove into Villereal, a small, medieval town about twenty kilometres from our house. We could go no further.

  Exhausted, we pulled up in front of the hotel in the square and climbed stiffly down from the van. It had at last stopped raining. The soft air, warmer than in London, was scented with the smoke from the wood fires which burned in the sleepy houses. The church clock chimed the hour. We looked slowly round at a view which, apart from the television aerials, had hardly changed in six hundred years and we knew why we had made this long, wet journey.

  After a restoring bath and a drink we telephoned M. Bertrand. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘At Villereal. In the hotel.’

  ‘But your room is all ready for you – here – with us!’ he cried. But he understood when we explained our fatigue. Even the idea of crossing the dreaded channel made him shudder. We promised to be with him the following morning and we were so tired that even the effort of that short conversation was enough. We were quite glad not to have to continue in French for the rest of the evening. It was in a blissful silence that we enjoyed the oysters which followed the soup.

  Our first call next morning was to Maître Fournon, the notaire. A great rugby enthusiast, he enlivens his office with dozens of trophies and photographs of stalwart teams with folded arms. The documents duly signed he told us that we still could not have a copy of the deeds until after the final redrawing of the map to include the changed chemin rural. Ho
w long would that take? He gave a Gallic shrug and advised us to forget about it until we came at Easter.

  Now for our village and M. Bertrand. We drove up to the farm, automatically turning left round the raised lawn shaded by high elms.

  ‘Everyone else goes round the other way,’ he teased as he came out to greet us with his wife. Mme Bertrand wore thick stockings, and a woollen cardigan over her flowered overall but her wonderful smile was the same. M. Bertrand had the addresses of a charpentier for the roof and a maçon to do the floors. We soon began to appreciate the demarcations. Off we drove again. There was so much to be packed into that day as we had to be back in London the following night. Looking back on it I marvel at our energy, but that was twelve years ago!

  The charpentier, tall and somewhat lugubrious, was not sure that he would be able to manage our roof before Easter but the maçon, older and broader with a round flat face, in which his mischievous eyes looked like currants in a bun, promised that our floors would be done. He suggested that he take away all the rotten wooden flooring and replace it with cement which could be tiled at a later date. He laughed a lot and spoke so fast in his strong South West accent that we could barely understand him but he and M. Bertrand had been schoolboys together and we felt that all would be well.

  That evening we were invited to supper at the farm and we met the rest of the family. M. Bertrand’s parents-in-law, to whom the farm had originally belonged, lived separately in an adjoining, small house, but all meals were en famille. We were formally introduced. M. and Mme Meligny were both small and slender but wiry with rough, strong hands and weather-beaten faces. M. Meligny had shrewd blue eyes and a surprisingly loud, resonant voice, and when his wife smiled her rather solemn face lit up just as her daughter’s did. Philippe, the boy we had seen on our first visit, brought his ten-year-old sister to meet us. Véronique was plump and shy and said nothing but gazed at us all the time with large dark eyes while her brother tried a few words of English in a clear and precise accent. The whole family were impressed when we obviously understood him.

  Before eating we were invited to tour the farm; M. Bertrand was clearly keen to show us everything. In the first barn adjoining the house we admired his herd of massive, cream-coloured cows, called, we were told, Blondes d’Aquitaine. Next door we threw scraps to three great snorting, squealing pigs who ran out of their sties at the sound of our voices. We helped Véronique and her mother to shut up the dozens of chickens, ducks, guinea fowl and turkeys that range freely during the day. We saw cages of quail and rabbits and M. Bertrand pointed out his plum orchards, two quite close to the farm and another just visible on a distant hillside. The fourth, he told us, was nearer to Bel-Air and we would be able to enjoy the blossom when we came at Easter. We saw the the tall shed for drying the tobacco and as we returned to the house Mme Meligny came down the steps carrying a steaming bucket.

  ‘Ah,’ he said eagerly. ‘You’ll find this interesting.’ Innocently we followed. ‘We are fattening these ducks for foie gras,’ he said. There in one corner of the barn behind a low wooden barrier were twelve fat ducks and a small stool. I was completely unprepared for this and not at all sure that I wanted to watch. Yet what an opportunity to see for myself! He laughed at the expression on my face. ‘Venez. Venez voir,’ he said kindly.

  Mme Meligny took her first duck firmly and holding it between her knees she carefully put a funnel down its throat, all the while stroking it and talking softly. She put a handful of the warm maize into the funnel which had a handle like a baby mouli and slowly the feed was forced down the duck’s throat. Another handful disappeared into the duck who was then released. It staggered back into the corner and sat down ruffling its feathers. The others quacked and fluttered but, I had to admit, made little protest when their turn came. The origin for foie gras was, they told me, the result of the natural gorging of ducks on ripe figs which made their livers both larger and tastier. ‘C’est du travail,’ the old lady said. ‘It’s a lot of work. Twice a day for eight weeks.’ She finished the last bird and we went in to supper leaving the ducks quacking softly as the barn door closed.

  In the farm kitchen delicious smells greeted us. This splendid meal, the first of so many at this long table, began with pumpkin soup, soupe de potiron, golden and warming. This was followed by slices of home-cured ham and tiny gherkins, with dishes of butter for the bread. Next came an enormous stew of tender veal with carrots which was so good that we made the fatal mistake of allowing ourselves to be persuaded to take second helpings, imagining, not altogether unreasonably, that this was the main course. We drank a light red wine made on the farm.

  ‘Ce n’est qu’un petit vin’ smiled M. Bertrand. He asked how much a litre of such wine would cost in London and his eyes opened ever wider as we estimated.

  They asked us so many questions. They wanted to know about the English weather, what we thought of the Common Market, what it was like to live in London and all the details of our families. We were clearly objects of great interest. They wanted to know where in France Mike had been as a young soldier and we learned that for the first five years of his daughter’s life M. Meligny had been a prisoner of war in Germany. ‘How did you manage then?’ we asked the old lady.

  She shrugged and smiled. ‘It was hard,’ she said, ‘but in the country you help one another – c’est normal.’

  I was curious about our predecessor at Bel-Air. Her name I learned was Mme Costes; they called her Anaïs.

  ‘Anaïs was the mother and Alaïs her son,’ said M. Bertrand emphasising the difference. He spoke slowly and clearly and watched my face intently to make sure that I understood.

  ‘How long had she lived there?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he replied.

  ‘She was already there when I came here to be married,’ said Mme Meligny, ‘And that was nearly fifty years ago. She was vaillante. Her son was handicapped after he caught polio and her husband died suddenly when she was in her forties. Poor Anaïs. There’s an old photograph of her somewhere. I’ll see if I can find it for the next time you come.’

  Replete and contented we were astonished to see Mme Bertrand carrying in two dishes, one of roast pork, the other of chicken and bowls of French beans. We had, of course, to try some and anyway it smelled so good. M. Bertrand was carefully filtering the darkest wine that I had ever seen from a dusty, unlabelled bottle which was to be our first introduction to the vin noir de Cahors. This especially dark wine from a local grape is grown in the rich red-brown soil which slopes down to the river Lot near Cahors. These factors, combined with the climate and an ancient method of production, give the wine a very high tannin content and its unique colour. In 1971 it was accorded an appellation contrôlée; this long overdue elevation, according to M. Bertrand, was chiefly due to its popularity with M. Pompidou. I must say I share his taste.

  A simple green salad was followed by a selection of cheeses and then, as the coffee was poured, Mme Meligny brought in a plate piled high with still warm small yellow pancakes, rather like Scottish bannocks. These too were made with pumpkins. ‘C’est la saison du potiron,’ laughed the old lady. We ate and drank far too much that evening. It was all so wonderful and strange and yet, there was also a sense of homecoming. We slept that night in a high wooden bed with rough linen sheets in Véronique’s room, filled with dolls, and were woken next morning by the shattering cry of the cockerel under the window.

  It was with thick heads and uncertain stomachs that we said our farewells. London seemed a million miles away. I remember almost nothing of the return journey apart from the strange things that slid about in the back of the van; a tall, wicker-covered bonbonne which held twenty litres of M. Bertrand’s petit vin, a great bouquet of Chinese lanterns and silver honesty and the largest pumpkin I had ever seen.

  On the last day of the year we received a letter from M. Bertrand addressed to chers tous. He wished us health and happiness for the coming year. He had, he said, been in touch with both the water board an
d the insurance man on our behalf. Water in France is metered. Although there was piped water up to Bel-Air it had never been connected. Anaïs and her son, presumably unable to afford it, had continued to haul it up from the well. M. Bertrand promised to arrange for us to have a simple outside tap before our return. As for the redrawing of the map to include the changed chemin he wrote:

  Enfin c’est terminé et Bel-Air est bien à vous!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We spent the next few months collecting things to take to Bel-Air at Easter. As far as possible we wanted everything to match the feel of the house. I scoured street markets and jumble sales for odd pieces of Victorian china and unstripped pine furniture which, at the time, one could still buy cheaply. As our only running water would be an outside tap we also needed buckets and washing-up bowls and, most important, a camping lavatory and tent.

  We could, of course, cook in our van but I was delighted to find in a government surplus shop a large, ex-army dixie. ‘Don’t get much call for these,’ said the assistant climbing up to reach it, ‘apart from the odd gypsy that is.’ I remembered that there was a hook and chain for just such a pot in my wide black chimney. We bought enamel water pitchers and flowered jugs and basins to wash in, reminding me of my country childhood. ‘Don’t forget to put the cold water in first or you’ll crack the basin’, I could hear my mother saying. We were excited at the thought of the primitive few weeks ahead and impatient for Easter to arrive.

  ‘Can I take Durrell?’ begged Matthew. We decided that the extra and precious space taken up by Matthew’s friend Durrell would be more than compensated for by his unfailingly cheerful company. The night before we left we packed our camper to the roof, packing and repacking it several times, each time squeezing in yet one more thing. We took two wooden armchairs, a small cupboard, rush matting, a step ladder and white paint, mattresses and bedding and, a last minute bargain at auction, a pine seaman’s chest with G. GUNN painted on the lid. How many journeys had that already made we wondered. The only spaces were two slits into which, letter-like, the boys were to be posted.