A House in the Sunflowers

by Ruth Silvestre

  They started before eight-thirty in the morning, worked until midday when M. René drank an aperitif, and then disappeared. They began again at two and worked until eight. When I brought them lemon tea and biscuits at five they accused me of teaching them bad habits, but they drank the tea. There was a slight problem next day when they replaced the tiles. For some obscure reason they each began at opposite ends. This did not matter with the underneath, stop tiles, for they lock into place, but the curved canal tiles can be overlapped as little or as much as one wishes. It was Mike who realised that there would be a problem when they met, or rather did not meet, in the middle. I went for a walk while he pointed this out as tactfully as possible and we helped them begin again. ‘Impeccable!’ said M. René happily when it was finished. And it was.

  My sister and her husband arrived for a week with enough clothes for a month, not sure what weather to expect at the very end of September. The plum machine shook the last tree, folded its wings and hibernated. The last few plums which fell to earth stayed there as Raymond busied himself with greasing the montecharge, the elevator, and dragging it out of the barn. He cleared the ground around the base of le crib, the tall, narrow cage in which the corn cobs are stored, the grain being stripped later. The harvester and driver arrived the following morning, and the elevator was positioned so that the cobs would drop into the end of the crib. I went down to the edge of the field of maize to watch the first cut.

  High in his cabin the driver grinned and waved. The wide machine, scarlet against the blue sky, had four glistening steel rockets on the front. The driver lowered his sights and charged. Four rows of stalks ten feet tall went down like feathers and the cobs were stripped. When the machine was full the back rose up to disgorge the golden shower into a waiting trailer which in its turn carried the load and tipped it into the base of the elevator. The cobs flowed upwards to tumble at the top into the cage. Raymond was everywhere, the first section almost full he ran up the ladder to rake the piled cobs flat and lower the first roof section to protect them, then down again to attend to the machine which had stopped. Something was jammed. He threw the motor into reverse and restarted it. ‘Could someone pick up those?’ he pleaded, pointing to the cobs which had missed the crib. Someone could. It made a change from lifting roof tiles.

  The first section full, the elevator was repositioned and all the loose grain underneath had to be shovelled into a sack. Someone else, my brother-in-law, volunteered. ‘What a pity you don’t have any chicken,’ shouted Raymond as he hauled the elevator into place and switched it on to propel another yellow stream upward. Tractors and trailers trundled to and fro. Everything was motion until without warning the elevator stopped again. Now it seemed it would only work in reverse. What to do? My sister and I, not in the least bit interested in machines that don’t work, sat chatting, while the men, including the combine driver, held conference. Various remedies were suggested but in the end they reversed all the wiring and once again the corn cobs clattered to the top where Raymond leapt about with his rake.

  With only one more trailer full to unload, the field a massacre of broken and twisted stalks and empty paper sheaths, the elevator once again hiccupped and was silent. Raymond cursed. It was almost dark. The only possible solution was to couple it to the drive of the tractor, itself twenty years old. As the final load inched its way up we heaved a sigh of relief. The last strip of sunset faded and we shivered in a sudden breeze which had a touch of autumn.

  Supper for fifteen was ready at the long table, soup, saucisson, croque monsieur, roast guinea fowl, pommes dauphine and floating island, and we drank our ‘81 which we had matured in the famous oak barrel for four years. Inevitably Raymond told tales of the corn harvests d’autrefois and the communal stripping of the sheaths from the cobs. ‘We would all gather in the barn,’ he said, ‘a great crowd of us. We always ate sardines and bread and what les jeunes enjoyed was finding the mouldy cobs, there were always a few, and we would daub our faces with them.’ He sighed.

  Even as the farmers in this region of la polyculture group together to buy sophisticated machinery, as they enlarge and modernise their coopératives for processing their grapes and plums, as they change crops to take advantage of financial inducements, soya beans, strawberries and sunflowers replacing wheat and tobacco, their pride in the new is tempered by a real nostalgia. At local midsummer fêtes the old and not so old delight in demonstrations of ancient machinery. Dressed in their best clothes they reminisce, seeming to enjoy being covered in chaff and dust as sweating volunteers hurl forks full of wheat into a snorting clanking steam-driven threshing machine. The very old laugh. To them even this is modern. They can remember machines pulled by oxen, a child following behind with an old saucepan to catch the excrement lest it spoil the wheat, and the great meals that were served afterwards for twenty or thirty harvesters, and always the best wines from la cave. ‘Ah les beaux jours d’autrefois,’ they sigh as they go home in their Volvos and Renaults and telephone the entrepreneur to see when the combine harvester might arrive.

  Only la vendange still has something of the olden days about it, as we had discovered. The last grapes were to be picked on Monday and we would leave on the following day. All day Sunday while we closed the other bedrooms, covering the beds with plastic sheets and putting the linen and pillows in lavender scented chests, Claudette was cooking. She and Grandma even made two tourtières. It was not only the last day of la vendange but the last harvest meal of the year. ‘And we shall be able to relax,’ said Raymond, ‘the grapes are for vin de Pays, les Cabernets Sauvignon et les Merlots. We don’t have very many and we shall be finished by midday. That will please Mme Barrou,’ he laughed.

  Next morning as we were waiting to start we were introduced to a farmer whose land adjoins our own. I recognised him but I had never seen his wife, a sad creature with gnarled hands and cruelly veined legs. She was very shy and her French was difficult to understand. Eventually she told me that she was, like her husband, originally from Italy. He had been brought by his parents as a baby but she, without a word of French, had come when she was eighteen to be married. ‘I was so lonely,’ she said.

  ‘Do you remember Anaïs at Bel-Air?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she smiled, ‘she would wave to me but I could not speak to her. I could not make friends.’

  Mme Barrou roared into the courtyard on her Solex as the bee-keeper, le garagiste and their wives arrived in an ex-Post Office van. Carrying our baskets we walked down to the vineyard and began. ‘I am getting past this,’ said the bee-keeper, puffing slightly. ‘I only come to pick these because they were planted on les hautes tiges, not so much bending!’

  ‘I love la vendange,’ said his wife, ‘you know that once it is in everything is done, and it’s not too hot to work.’ The air was soft and warm, the pickers as mature as the grapes and we worked at a leisurely pace. The bell for midday sounded from the church and Mme Barrou decided to go home to change her working dress before lunch. Walking back to the house I found it hard to believe that in two days I would be back in London. We had been here for three months, our longest stay ever.

  There were wonderful smells in the dining room. Everyone smiled in anticipation. As he passed me an aperitif Raymond whispered, ‘you will sing, Ruth, won’t you? It’s the last day. I’m warning you beforehand so you can think about it.’ He smiled half-apologetic, half-mischievous. It ruined my appetite but not for long. I knew the acoustics were good. If I were singing on some after-dinner engagement in London I would be outside waiting while everyone else ate, worrying about the state of the piano, the band and the microphone. Here there were none of these.

  Unaccompanied I sang the songs which over the years I have learned that they love, ‘J’attendrai’, ‘Le Temps des Cerises’ and ‘Le Blé d’Or’. I was sitting opposite my Italian neighbour and when for her I sang ‘Santa Lucia’ her eyes filled with tears. Claudette, passing behind me with the coffee pot hissed, ‘Chantez “Granada”, Ru
th.’ Heaven help me! We had listened to ‘Granada’ sung with an expert flamboyance by José Carreras on television a few nights before. But how could I refuse? I would never have an audience like this in London. These are not well-to-do sophisticates out for an evening’s diversion. I look at their faces, their hands. Our backs ache and we have worked together, and they are kind people. I sing and am grateful for such an audience.

  That night, as though they know we are leaving, there is a mouse in the bathroom and a tree-frog on the bedroom shutter. What will we enjoy in London? Our other home. Other friends and neighbours, a piano, the theatre, concerts and everything else that London offers. Carpets, central heating, good television and work, if there is any, will ease us through the first cold months of the new year.

  As the days warm and lengthen we shall begin to think about returning to Bel-Air. We know that whatever happens in the coming year it will be there, tucked into the hillside, its head down against the westerlies, waiting to restore us all. The cats and owls will chase the mice in the attics which we leave open for the clean sweet air to blow through. Les Bertrand will telephone, ‘il fait beau, le coucou est arrivé, vous venez?’ And we shall begin making plans.

  A la prochaine fois!

  APPENDIX

  The author cannot claim to be an expert on buying property in France but the following information may be useful.

  In France estate agents’ charges are higher than in England. Commission may vary between 4% and 10%. Usually the cheaper the property the higher is the commission. With good French, buying from the vendor directly may be possible but beware the farmer whose long-empty property awaits un pigeon, someone with more money than sense.

  The choice of house is, of course, an entirely personal affair. ‘If in doubt, don’t buy,’ might be good advice. Article 1642 of the Code Civil protects a vendor against liability for any obvious defects so it is important to check for these and bargain accordingly. Water is metered, so a working well may be more than just a decorative feature.

  Once a decision has been made, an agreement, le compromis de vente, must be signed by both parties and a deposit of 10% paid. Once signed, both parties are committed. It is advisable to check all clauses with the notaire, who will act for both parties. This speeds up the process, but his fees are for the buyer to pay.

  For any property classed as a ruin, or for substantial alterations to an existing property, a permit de construire is required. Before making drastic alterations, consideration of climate and prevailing winds may be wise. Most very old houses were built that way for a reason. In the South, in particular, before enlarging all the windows, it may be prudent to experience a day when it is 90°F in the shade. At least one cool, dark room may turn out to be a blessing.

  Local rates and taxes vary but Les Impots Locales are divided into two parts:

  Le Tax d’Habitation, is based on the size and amenities, and a large proportion of it goes to benefit the local community. Automatically included in this is Redevance Audiovisuelle, a television licence. Opting out each year is necessary if you don’t have a television.

  Les Taxes Foncieres is a land tax providing funds for La commune, le department, la region et divers organisms!

  If the track leading up to an isolated property is part of the chemin rurale de la commune, the owner is entitled to a free load of stones every two years. The mayor will provide a chitty for the local supply. Getting on good terms with your mayor is essential. He, or she, will also provide a permis de residence, which is useful for bringing small items of furniture through customs. Good second-hand furniture is expensive in France.

  Finally, if you have no French I would urge you to learn. It is a fascinating language, and imagine how much a French family buying a cottage in rural England would miss if they spoke not a word of English. I suggest that no matter how much they smiled, even the friendliest of locals would eventually tire of being addressed in French, however loudly, or slowly, they spoke.

  And if, like me, becoming really bi-lingual looks like taking the rest of your life, what more stimulating way to spend it?

  Bonne aventure!

  A HARVEST OF SUNFLOWERS

  BY RUTH SILVESTRE

  Twenty years after first setting eyes on Bel-Air de Grèzelongue, her dream house in the sunflowers in South West France, Ruth Silvestre brings us the long-awaited sequel to the adventures.

  Local friendships and bonds of loyalty that she and her family formed during the gradual restoration of their once derelict farmhouse have now deepened. The children, both hers and her neighbours, are now adults. Wedding festivities and banquets are described in mouth-watering detail as, with natural joie-de-vivre, a close-knit society celebrates and prepares for the coming generation.

  A Harvest of Sunflowers is a joy to read from a writer who can illustrate the simplest experience with exuberance and affection. Both moving and highly amusing, this book will hold the reader.

  REFLECTIONS OF SUNFLOWERS

  BY RUTH SILVESTRE

  The final book in the Sunflower trilogy sees Ruth and her husband returning to Bel-Air de Grèzelongue, their much-loved home in the Lot-et-Garonne region of South West France. In 1976 their dreams of purchasing a peaceful summer home came true when they spied this derelict farmhouse surrounded by fields and orchards, and saw what it could become. Renovating the primitive, rural house truly was a labour of love – and the love affair between house and owner has lasted over twenty-five years.

  Over the years there have been inevitable sadnesses, but also the joys of new grandchildren, anniversaries, village fêtes, and splendid meals taken with their neighbours. And whilst the family have seen many changes during their time with the local farming community, the warm and welcoming atmosphere they first fell in love with has remained the same. Now they face their own personal tragedy, but through all their sorrows Bel-Air continues to be a place of healing, hope and happiness, as well as extraordinary beauty.

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  About the Author

  RUTH SILVESTRE is a singer and actress, her most famous role being Dulcinea in Man of La Mancha at the Piccadilly Theatre. She has published many articles on France, and a number of children’s books. She divides her time between London and France.

  Available from

  ALLISON & BUSBY

  A House in the Sunflowers

  A Harvest of Sunflowers

  Reflections of Sunflowers

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  12 Fitzroy Mews

  London W1T 6DW

  www.allisonandbusby.com

  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 1991.

  This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2013.

  Copyright © 1991 by RUTH SILVESTRE

  Illustrations © 1991 by MICHAEL GRATER

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-0-7490-1598-5

  e, A House in the Sunflowers