Escaping

by Henrietta Taylor

  PART TWO

  The Destination

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Perched Village of Saignon

  PARIS IN THE WINTER is beautiful: cold and still. There were few crowds; most were indoors dunking croissants into steaming cups of thick hot chocolate. The children and I had two days here before we were due to pick up the car I had hired on a long-term lease of 175 days, which would cover our stay in France and our anticipated trip to Italy.

  First stop: a trip to the the world-famous department stores of Galeries Lafayette and Printemps, in the heart of the city. I wanted to see if we were still in time for the huge January sales.

  Going into the bowels of the earth to catch the Métro was an eye-opener for the children, who had never been on underground public transport. (When we travelled into the city in Sydney we always used the wonderful ferry service that ran practically from our doorstep at Mosman Wharf. It was difficult to pass up an opportunity to be on one of the most magnificent harbours in the world.) Before setting out from the hotel, I looked at the map of the Métro and plotted our course. I also pinned the hotel business card into the children’s coats, a habit I’d adopted when we were travelling in Scotland. But after all, what could happen to us? We were only going to do some harmless shopping. ‘Toys, more toys!’ the children screamed.

  Standing on the platform, we could feel the rush of warm wind surging down the tunnel before the arrival of the train. Mimi squeezed my hand. She was so excited to be in Paris.

  We stepped into the train and I told the children to count four stops and then we would get out and change trains. But I had made a mistake. It wasn’t four — it was three. As soon as I realised where we were, I leapt up and dragged Mimi with me out of the train. But Harry, who was sitting beside us, didn’t respond quickly enough and was left behind in the train after the doors shut.

  All my worst nightmares had come true at once. My face contorted with helpless rage as I bashed my fists helplessly against the train’s glass doors. My seven-year-old son was separated from me, and about to be whisked off down the tunnel!

  The Parisians, who see this occurrence every day, reacted as they always do and pushed the release button. The doors sprang open, ejecting Harry into my arms.

  Not for the first time in their lives, I had embarrassed my children past the point of no return. I was severely berated by my nine-year-old: ‘Look, Mum, pick up your game. We can’t have you doing things like this. Come on, Harry, you hold my hand in future. You’re safer with me. For heaven’s sake, Mum, wipe your eyes. You’ve got mascara running down your face again. Come on, let’s go by taxi.’

  We returned to the hotel that afternoon laden with toys for them and waterproof mascara for me. Thank God we would be driving down to Provence in a car!

  It was too early for dinner, so we walked around the streets nearby. Seeing an open space through a gap in the buildings, the children headed directly towards it, knowing that an open space means one thing: a park. It was better than an ordinary park; it was the Champ de Mars, right in front of the Eiffel Tower.

  ‘Can we? Can we? Can we?’

  Sure. Let’s go to the top. It was so late on a winter’s afternoon that most people had packed up hours ago and were already indoors in front of the television. When you’re in a state of jet lag, your body often confuses excessive tiredness with an overabundance of energy, which was why we decided we’d walk rather than take the lift.

  Halfway up, complete collapse set in.

  ‘Carry me, Mum!’ The begging from Harry continued until finally he clambered a few steps ahead of me and launched himself in my direction, throwing his arms around my neck.

  Harry is what many would call a robust boy. I could feel all my ligaments stretch with his weight.

  Mimi had run on ahead. She was in her element.

  ‘Mum,’ she said as we neared the top of the tower,‘Mum, I know he’s here with us! I know Norman is here! He knows that we need as much help as we can get. We almost lost Harry in the Métro. Norman is our Guardian Angel. Nothing bad will ever happen. He’ll keep us safe.’

  Seeing everything in Paris in two days is a fairly tall order, especially when children are asleep until midday. Jet lag had attacked and they had a huge sleep deficit to make up. When they finally woke up the next day, a taxi ride to Nôtre Dame Cathedral was in order, to see where their current favourite Disney film was set. Harry had been forewarned that anything that involved climbing stairs had to be done unassisted.

  Up we went to the top, taking all the obligatory photos, and then it was off on a brisk walk up the Champs Elysées, with the two children moaning all the way. I knew what I was doing, though. The next day we would be driving to Provence, and a lot of activity today would make the car trip much quieter.

  At the same instant they both spied the hideous golden arches of McDonald’s. They had never been great fans, but suddenly, being out of their normal environment, they wanted to touch base with something that just never changes.

  The giveaways were better than the meal. More toys were pushed into their pockets and into my bulging bag, which was exploding with every single figurine that had recently come onto the market.

  On to the Arc de Triomphe. More stairs to climb. Every step brought the children closer to giving up, and my temper closer to fraying. By the time we reached the top, I was ready to throw myself off and let the kids find their own way back to the hotel. Just to top things off, the heavens opened and the winter rains began.

  Cold, wet and bedraggled, we eventually arrived back at the hotel, where there was a fax waiting for me. It was from my new landlady Lizzie in Provence. She was expecting me tomorrow evening. The fax contained a diagram of Apt, the nearest large town, and directions for how to get from there to Saignon, four kilometres away, and to the little house of Place de la Fontaine.

  I looked at the map. All very easy. Drive to the large roundabout with ancient olive tree in the middle . . . what the fuck did an olive tree look like? I would have to deal with that later.

  The next day, with all hopes of an early start abandoned, we piled into our rented car around ten o’clock. The last time I had driven in France had been more than twenty years ago, when I had learnt to drive a manual car around the Arc de Triomphe. The experience had not been a stunning success: I’d only managed to get into second gear after circling the monument for over thirty minutes, trying in vain to manoeuvre into the outside lane.

  These days I was a little more confident about my driving skills (which was a godsend, as all hire cars in France are manuals unless you specifically order an automatic), but I had my doubts about being able to stick to the correct side of the road. I painted my right thumbnail a deep magenta-red to remind me to stay on the right.

  Big-city driving is always traumatic; the exits to unknown cities loom up and pass too quickly. I desperately tried to remember the number of the expressway to the south — was it the A6, A7 or A8? As we approached Porte d’Italie, there was an impressive array of signs pointing to the Autoroute A6a, which would in turn lead us to Lyon and from there to the A7 towards Marseille.

  Everything went smoothly except for the extremely aggressive driving by the French, who I soon decided were completely mad. My strategy was to sit in the slow lane and ignore them. They could simply overtake me. And they did, with lights flashing and horns honking. What was their problem? Get a life! Go Zen, Baby! A hundred kilometres later, it clicked that the right lane was the slow lane. Zut! Crotte! Flûte! Here in France, you overtook on the left!

  By the early evening I was seeing double, and we voted unanimously to find a hotel by the side of the expressway and stay the night. We were on the outskirts of Orange — in the north of Provence — and it was impossible for me to go any further. I needed to call and tell Lizzie that we would be delayed until the next day, but my address book was packed neatly away at the bottom of the suitcase and out of reach — I never remembered to put it in my handbag. I’d just have to ap
ologise profusely when I got there.

  The next morning we jumped into the car once again, excitement barely in check, knowing that we were within striking distance of the little village of Saignon.

  Seeing the Avignon exit, I followed it sixty kilometres east to Apt, the famous market town of the Luberon. There was nobody in the streets, the trees were bare, and everything was dirty and grey. The surrounding hillsides were bleak and wind-torn, denuded of any foliage. My heart sank; I felt I had brought us to a barren wasteland in the middle of nowhere.

  Following the map on the fax, I skirted the town and then saw the large roundabout with what I assumed was the ancient olive tree.

  My spirits lifted immediately as we began the ascent to Saignon. There, high above the little town of Apt, peeking through the misty morning clouds, was a citadel of rock with a cluster of charming little stone houses perched below it. Never in my wildest dreams had I expected the tiny village of Saignon to be so breathtakingly beautiful.

  We pulled over into a paddock beside the road and let the sight sink in. This was where we were going to live for the next five months!

  But that was nothing compared with the moment when we found our little house. Eighteenth-century Place de la Fontaine (Fountain House) stood opposite a gurgling fountain in the central village square, whose medieval history was written into every cobbled stone. (I later discovered that there is a water-quality test in the region every year and the fountain water in Saignon consistently scores in the top ten.) On the ledges of the three wooden windows stood planter boxes filled with blue and white pansies and pink and white cyclamens. One of the blue shutters had come loose from its hook and thumped continuously against the stone walls, which looked at least a metre thick. The leaves and dust had been neatly swept away from the front door. Of all the houses looking onto the square, it was the only one that appeared to be truly loved.

  Lizzie had said she would be here to meet us, but since we were over eighteen hours late she’d given up and gone home. We moved towards the huge oak door, which had been left unlocked for us. It opened more suddenly than expected and I literally flew into the room, my coat and bags spilling across the floor. It might have looked heavy and unyielding, but the hinges had been well oiled and sprang open easily.

  The hearth contained the remnants of a fire, and Harry busied himself with throwing on extra sticks in an effort to rekindle the flames. The kitchen table was covered in a pretty tablecloth, and on top of it sat a bunch of flowers, a bottle of red wine and some fizzy non-alcoholic cider. There were candles and little tea lights on shelves and mantelpieces. Old enamel signs advertising French paint and ancient boxes and wine crates were arranged artistically along the top shelf of the kitchen, wicker baskets hung off old wooden handles, and a huge assortment of old rusty keys dangled from metal hooks with animal designs. All the crockery was either pale blue or white; in fact, everything in Place de la Fontaine was either pale blue, white or grey, obviously Lizzie’s signature colours.

  Mimi was already upstairs, calling for Harry and me to come quickly. We both rushed up to look at her discovery: a huge old-fashioned cast-iron bath with claw feet and a telephone shower, attached to the bath faucets and extending upwards on a long flexible metal hose. A dark wooden door creaked open at my touch, and I peeked in at two large single beds with cast-iron bedheads. Next door was another large bedroom flooded with morning light, which illuminated the whitewashed walls. Fluffy blue, grey and white towels sat in piles at the end of the large double bed.

  The third and main bedroom, with an en suite bathroom and a terrace, was on the top floor. I understand why everyone gasps when they see this bedroom for the first time, as it was exactly the same for me. There before me was a room full of a charm and simplicity I had never seen before. It was positively delightful, and I just knew that Lizzie would be the same. Every detail clearly had her mark on it.

  As if in welcome, the church bells resonated from the village as they struck the hour. We counted the eleven bells. I silently prayed they wouldn’t go all through the night!

  The phone rang; it was Lizzie. I apologised for our delay and we agreed that as I had everything more or less under control, meeting her could wait until the next day, after I had enrolled the children into the little school in the village.

  The next morning I could read the look of anxiety on both their faces at breakfast time. It was going to be really hard for them to sit through a class without any other English children for over eight hours a day. Our friends back in Sydney would be starting the new school year in late January, whereas we’d arrived in Saignon just after Christmas and the students were already well into the school year.

  During his first term of schooling the previous year, at age five, Harry had been marked as a student with specific learning difficulties; words such as dyslexia and dysphasia were bandied around. Psychometric tests were performed. Appointments were made with specialists. Endless lessons with speech therapists followed by an occupational therapist became part of our weekly routine. How could a child score so well in tests yet not be able to read like his peers? All he wanted to do was play with his superhero figurines. I did my best to find out more about learning difficulties and the options that were available to us. But my heart told me that Harry was just a little boy who had missed out on the first three years of his life, with a mother in absentia and a father who was dying. It wasn’t an ideal beginning for anyone. I was positive that all he needed was to catch up on his lost childhood and spend time with his mother — without flashcards in her hands. I was determined that from now on Harry’s school experience should be as enjoyable as possible.

  Mimi didn’t have the same problems as Harry: she was as bright as a button, as Jack often said — though I felt that as her grandfather he might have been slightly biased. Mimi had marched straight off to Queenwood in her shiny red shoes, ready to be a sponge for any information they threw her way. She had thrived under the tutelage there, and learnt everything from the cello to computers to French. The school day was never long enough for her. Drama lessons and ballet were added to keep her interest, and more would have been added had I allowed it.

  Everyone said that Mimi — and to a lesser extent Harry — would pick up the language within three months and would be chattering away with the other children in no time. At nine and seven, they were no longer babies. But I understood how high the hurdle was going to be for them. I had taught French, so I felt confident that I’d be able to guide them through the basics. It depended on whether they wanted me to help or not.

  We closed the massive door behind us and started up the road to the school, which was a mere 100 metres away. We went cautiously in to meet the school principal, whose name was Raphaël. He was hip, dynamic and very appealing. In the Provençal manner, he kissed the children on the cheeks three times and welcomed them to the school. This wasn’t like any Australian school the children or I had ever attended. Dumbfounded that the principal could be so young and so welcoming, we sat down in his office and started filling out the mountain of paperwork needed to enrol both children.

  Mimi was supremely confident. Knowing that she had done particularly well in her French lessons at Queenwood, it never occurred to her that she wouldn’t be able to communicate perfectly with Raphaël.

  ‘What’syourname?’ he asked her in a gentle voice, running the words into each other. I could see they were drawing a blank. I’d taught enough language lessons to know that young students are easily thrown if the question is not exactly the same as the one they have learnt. ‘What. Is. Your. Name?’ Each word had to be pronounced clearly.

  ‘My surname is TAYLOR.’

  My heart soared. She understood! Her accent was great! My darling could cope.

  Mimi heard the next question and replied:‘Céleste.’

  ‘Darling, no. He wants your first name, not your middle name.’ She looked at me with daggers.

  But Raphaël had already jotted down ‘Céleste’ on the
first of the many forms. Mimi would have to be called Céleste from now on. Changes to forms were not allowed. Rules must be observed. Welcome to the world of French bureaucracy. Raphaël brought out a large inkpad, joking that it was for their fingerprints. He thought this hilarious, but I knew anything was possible when it came to the French.

  Raphaël told us the school was divided into two main groups: the Little Ones, aged from four to six, who had their own special area downstairs, and upstairs the Big Ones, who ranged from seven to eleven. There were two classes for Big Ones, and due to his age Harry should have been in a different class from Mimi, but his eyes filled up with large tears at the thought of being separated from his sister, so Raphaël changed his mind and told them they could both join his class.

  I edged closer to Mimi and asked her in a whisper whether she wanted me to pick them both up at lunchtime, as there was a two-hour break in the middle of the day.

  ‘Don’t you dare come within a metre of this school!’ she hissed back at me. ‘Why can’t you just leave us be? We’ll see you this afternoon.’

  She was just so feisty, confronting the situation head-on, dragging her little brother in her wake. They didn’t want to be any different from everyone else. If the majority of the Big Ones ate at the canteen, they would too. Mimi grabbed her brother’s hand and marched straight into a new world — as usual, without a backward glance.

  As arranged, Lizzie met me right outside the school and rushed into my arms, greeting me like a long-lost friend. Linking her arm through mine, she invited me to drive down with her to Apt for a coffee. She was a summer breeze in the middle of a cold winter’s day: smiling and laughing, talking about her life and her family. Her husband, Andrew, was an architect. They had three children: eleven-year-old Louie, nine-year-old Olly and three-year-old Margaux. The two boys had had all of their education at the little Saignon school and acquitted themselves with ease in both English and French. They took after their parents and were extremely gifted in both creative and scientific pursuits. Both of them were in Mimi and Harry’s class; I hoped that some of their ability would rub off.