Escaping

by Henrietta Taylor

  But how was I going to carry out renovations and manage a business I knew nothing about from the other side of the world?

  Lizzie was the first to say it.‘Do you really want to live in Sydney? Why don’t you think about moving here, at least for a couple of years? The children will learn to speak French fluently,’ she added as an incentive.

  This last remark hit a raw nerve. Mimi and Harry had spent just under twenty weeks at the local village school and I had only just realised that they’d hardly progressed in their ability to either comprehend or speak French. The only thing they appeared to have advanced in was the hand–eye coordination required for the Nintendo 64 and the thousands of expensive games that went with it.

  I’d been so preoccupied with the financial aspect of our lives that one of the main reasons for coming to France had been lost along the way. Why could Mimi and Harry speak or understand only a bare modicum of French? What on earth was the problem? Were my children so traumatised by their father’s death and my erratic behaviour that it had had such profound effects on their educational abilities?

  The dilemma was soon solved by a visit to Raphaël, the principal. He explained that when both children were put into his class they’d been asked to attempt work within the range of their abilities; he was happy as long as they weren’t disruptive. He always spoke to them in English and they sat with Lizzie’s children, who were completely bilingual. No wonder not much had gone in: they’d spent their entire time in an English-speaking bubble! This explained why they had enjoyed themselves so much! I could only laugh.

  So when Lizzie encouraged me to stay in France for their benefit, I could see she had a point. She and I had spent a great deal of time together and talked a lot about our hopes for our children. I was beginning to feel that all decisions about my children’s futures had been made for us by Norman. I had come to terms now with the inequities of his will, particularly since the legal settlement, but to keep our love alive I was still trying to honour his wishes. I wasn’t looking forward to returning to the life in Sydney that he had wanted for us, but I still saw it as our destiny. Sometimes, though, you just have to let destiny take its course.

  Norman would always make a list of pros and cons before embarking on any major decision and I had just done the opposite, buying three properties without blinking. I was being ruled by my heart, not my head. Pick your game up, mother Hen! It was time to do things Norman’s way. The children sat down with me at the table and we weighed up the arguments for and against.

  Harry sat in awe of his big sister in action. With her fingers splayed out, and looking directly at me, she proceeded to list her side of the argument in point form. By the time she arrived at point number five, I waved my hands in surrender. Mimi might only have been a child, but she had a clear mind and a real way with words.

  The children had places in two of the most sought-after private schools in Sydney. If we moved here we would be trading in their privileged, secure lifestyle for a whim. Yet a French education, culminating in the baccalauréat, which was an international qualification of secondary schooling. Surely this was more valuable long-term than any type of education I could buy for them in Sydney. Surely it would increase their tertiary opportunities. Plus, they would broaden their horizons through travel: we would be able to go anywhere in Europe, either by road or air, at a fraction of what it would cost from Australia.

  But most importantly, I felt I had a responsibility to teach my children ideals and values that they would need for their journey through life. I didn’t want them just to sit around waiting for the inheritance from their trust fund. I needed them to see that work equals freedom and independence.

  This was completely alien to the culture of Mosman, where money appeared like magic through a hole in the wall. Since I quit my job as a teacher all those years ago I’d had very little experience as a breadwinner. Then Norman had died and I’d had to learn about investing in shares to make money. But it was all just paper; there was very little actual sweaty work attached. No child could admire an adult for paper shuffling.

  Lizzie had generously spent hours and hours explaining the pitfalls involved in the day-to-day running of a rental house. Surely the only work required was a quick clean of the house after the guests had departed? Lizzie fell over laughing, saying that Saturdays usually involved a twelve-hour stint of making beds, cleaning, fixing, repairing — in short, the houses had to be perfect for the next lot of clients. Sundays and Mondays meant washing the sheets, drying and ironing. Then of course there was the paperwork, the advertising, working out budgets and the taxes. If you broke even it was a miracle.

  I would probably have to work harder than I’d ever worked in my life — and even then there was a risk that I’d fall flat on my face. On the other hand, if I succeeded, I would have the satisfaction of knowing I’d done it all myself. For my children’s sake — and my own — I had to at least give it a go.

  So, just like that, our life-changing decision was made. The children would return to school in Sydney for Terms 3 and 4, while I sorted out all the loose ends of our life in Mosman. Then we would return to France in January 2001.

  It was a daunting prospect. But what was the worst thing that could happen to us here? I would rent out the house in Sydney, and if things were too difficult we would return. I never wanted to feel that I hadn’t gone to France because I was scared. Death scared me, but not life. There are no second goes after you’re dead. Norman’s short time on earth was a harsh reminder of that. But he was still very much alive in our hearts, and I knew he would be with us every step of the way.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  French Bricks and Mortar

  IN THE END, MAKING the decision to live in France had been easy. Now for the hard part: how to tell the family what I’d done.

  Before I left Sydney, friends had given me a tongue-in-cheek warning not to bring home a baby as a souvenir of the long French winter; my father had told me not to buy too many shoes, a snide reference to the stiletto fetish I had as a young girl; and the Latin Lover had instructed me to change my underwear every day, an allusion to a private joke. All these sins were looking fairly trifling compared with running off and buying three properties in Provence; my father would be particularly impressed that not one of them had had a building or a termite inspection. I could put Imelda Marcos and her shoe collection in the shade!

  How does one broach the subject of having become a French property mogul? Guess what I did during the holidays! A little house in the south of France has so much appeal; surely three are even better. Should I tell the truth and be done with it? Hell, no. Never go down that road! The Latin Lover was already vaguely aware of my intention to buy some property, but I was such a coward that spelling out the whole truth was beyond me. My friends the Wise Sages always say that it’s best to pull off a sticking plaster in one swift movement, but I disagree with them. A few small lies and deceptions are often a much better option.

  So I took the easy way out. I sent them all loads of pictures of the property in Chemin St Roch, but I was deliberately vague about my plans: ‘This is the kind of house that’s on the market in the Luberon at present. Wow! I can’t believe that house prices in such an upmarket destination are so low!’ Who can resist children rolling around lush green lawns with yellow buttercups strewn through their hair? (Large, well-built, single-level dwelling behind them, good paintwork, good garden.) More photos of them gambolling around a large wheelbarrow near the flowering cherry tree. (Spacious, level property, nearest neighbours a good distance away.) More near the outdoor table setting. (Hey, this place is fantastic!)

  The feedback was terrific. Everyone was delighted with the house. But had I bought it or not, and if I had, why? These were the questions on everyone’s lips.

  So far, so good — but the entire family was about to arrive in the flesh! Now that winter was over, they would be descending en masse. The timing couldn’t have been worse: everyone was arriving and departin
g within days of each other.

  First, as arranged before I left Sydney, the children’s aunt and uncle (Norman’s sister and her husband) were coming to spend five days with us in the third week of May, before their annual visit to Finland, which was the children’s uncle’s birthplace. Next would come the Latin Lover, who was the only one I was desperate to see — in more ways than one. He would overlap their stay by two days. I had all sorts of mundane things like tax and mortgages to discuss with him — but first I wanted romance. We hadn’t seen each other for over five months; real estate would have to wait.

  I realised that it would be very confronting for my sister-in-law to see her deceased brother’s children throwing their arms around someone who wasn’t their father and welcoming him with kisses and squeals of delight. I could imagine how difficult it was going to be for everyone to be in such close proximity after all we’d been through. We’d just have to make a huge effort for the sake of the children.

  When my sister-in-law and her husband resumed their travels to northern Europe, my father would replace them for the last days of May and the first few days of June en route to his own homeland in Scotland — and this meant yet more tension. Jack had never particularly warmed to Latin Ray, having spent vast sums on sending me to Italy to mend the broken heart that Ray had caused. Like all fathers, Jack was biased when it came to his daughters; no man was good enough.

  What a recipe for disaster! I had definitely been far too cavalier in extending hospitality to so many of my ‘nearest and dearest’ at once. For a start, it translated into a huge amount of extra shopping and cooking for me. But the worst thing was that the general unease would make it even harder to break the news about my three properties.

  To top it all off, our stay in Place de la Fontaine would come to an end on 3 June. Once again I had made a mistake with dates; now I discovered that the children’s school term didn’t finish until almost the end of that month. So I found us a week’s accommodation just two doors away with Madame Blanc. We could stay until 9 June, to experience some of the end-of-school activities, but no longer: we had invited Latin Ray to travel with us for five weeks in Italy, during the whole of June until early July, when my tenants would be vacating the house in Mosman. We would arrive back in Sydney a week late for the beginning of the third school term; both schools had already sent me stern letters about this.

  But first we had to get through the ordeal of the family onslaught. I just hoped no snakes lay in our path.

  The constantly beautiful May weather heralded the family’s arrival. The children were beside themselves with excitement, while I was in a state of permanent anxiety.

  The children’s aunt and uncle arrived at the newly opened TGV (super-fast train) station, on the outskirts of Avignon, and followed us for an hour along the main road in their hire car. We couldn’t have ordered a better day for their initiation into the beauties of the Provençal countryside; everything looked radiant as we swept past vineyards, fields of cherry trees laden with bright red fruit and startling green lavender bushes planted in long straight lines.

  The stark silhouette of Saignon against the early evening sky was absolutely perfect. Welcome to our twelfth-century village, known only to devotees of Provence as one of the best-kept secrets in the area. The narrow cobbled streets and lack of bustling commerce are ideal defences against large tourist buses and the hordes desperately trying to experience the true Provençal life via an afternoon spent shopping for the perfect tablecloth embroidered with intricate lavender or olive designs. They were enraptured by the tranquillity of the little village: the tinkling of the fountain with its pure spring water, the climbing vines against the centuries-old houses. And of course, they were taken aback by Place de la Fontaine.

  Later in the week, after we had visited a fraction of the local sights, we sat out on the balcony and they toasted us on our good fortune in finding a place of such unspoilt beauty. I laid it on thick, talking about the white flowering cherry trees, the purple irises and the bright yellow fields of rape — and the dismay I felt because we would be in Italy when the sunflowers arrived and when the intense green of the lavender bushes turned into fields of dancing mauve.

  A few drinks later, we wandered around the corner to visit Rose Cottage in all its afternoon glory. A kitten was sitting next to the fountain, warming her little back against the stones. The roses were out in full splendour, arching around the windows on the first floor, dazzling the little square with their iridescent red beauty. It was now or never: rip the plaster off.

  ‘I hope you like this place, because it’s mine. Place de la Fontaine as well. And there’s a little bit more: the photos of the house with the garden, I bought that too. The children and I have decided that we’re going to come back next January to live in Provence for a couple of years and rent the houses out to guests. What do you think?’

  ‘Is there anything you haven’t bought?’ they replied, laughing.

  Their happiness for us was more than I had ever expected. They were terribly upset that they wouldn’t be seeing Mimi and Harry grow up in Sydney, but understood that it was the kind of opportunity that comes along rarely. They were delighted the children would be put into French schools and have the chance to learn to speak the language fluently. I kept very quiet about the fact that they hadn’t progressed very far with their French up to now. They were happy, and at nine and seven, surely that was the primary objective.

  We were steering around potentially dangerous subjects, so fortunately questions like where I got the idea, let alone where I got the money, never entered the conversation. I was still extremely cautious of talking to anyone about my financial situation.

  The next few days were going to test everyone to the maximum, as the Latin Lover was about to fly into Marseille. I didn’t want my relationship with Norman’s sister to go crashing back down to zero in front of the children just when we all seemed to be making such progress.

  Latin Ray had been travelling for over twenty-seven hours due to a delayed stopover in Singapore and another in Frankfurt. Unfortunately, by the time he reached Marseille he was not only dishevelled but also drunk. He and I had opted to spend our first night together at a little hotel in a small seaside town near Marseille. I was desperate for romance, but it could wait until he’d showered.

  Lumpy uncomfortable beds sent us on our way to Saignon at the crack of dawn the next day, and we knocked on the heavy door well before breakfast time. Crankiness caused by lack of sleep made me anxious that this ‘grand reunion’ would blow up in my face. But somehow the magic of Saignon wound itself around us all and the dreaded meeting passed by without too much fuss. By the end of the day, and after a couple of bottles of some wonderful red wine, it was clear that I had nothing to worry about. And with every hour we spent together, it became easier.

  The following day severe exhaustion caught up with Latin Ray and all he wanted to do was spend most of the day in bed. But I couldn’t have anyone thinking that he was hiding away, not wanting to confront the situation. I gave him an ultimatum: we would all go to the market together and we would all have fun. At the best of times Ray finds shopping of any kind on a par with having a tooth extracted — let alone while coping with jet lag and a hangover, plus the tension of being constantly on his best behaviour and unable to ravish me in the kitchen as he wanted to. But dutifully he staggered after me to the car, ready for fun at the market.

  We piled in and began our descent down the twisting road to Apt — stopping just in time to allow the Latin Lover out of the car at the fork in the road; he’d had a sudden attack of motion sickness. We left him on the roadside waiting for it to pass, holding his head in his hands and unable to stand upright. We knew we were being cruel abandoning him like this, but it was payback time: he’d spent a good deal of the previous night unable to sleep because of severe jet lag, and the blaring television had kept the rest of us awake too.

  At dinner that second evening, we teased him unmercifully
about his weak stomach and his pathetic state. Red-eyed and weary, he still managed to make everyone feel at ease by regaling us with horror stories of his school days, full of corporal punishment from the Marist Brothers. I was grateful for the huge effort he was making.

  It was a pleasure to have a potentially difficult situation resolved with so little trouble. I couldn’t help but think that we should have been able to deal with the problem of the wills in the same manner, but it was pointless looking back. We had all turned a page.

  We spent less than forty-eight hours together before Auntie and Uncle left to resume their trip to Finland. Mimi and Harry mumbled a tearful goodbye.

  It felt like revolving doors. Within a couple of days we would be back at the Avignon station to pick up their grandfather. Jack was coming to view for himself what his daughter was up to. He had been thrilled by my sudden success on the stock market, but was unaware that I’d actually begun the legal process of buying the two properties in Saignon and the other one outside St Saturnin les Apt. But this problem was small compared with the pressing one of having the two men together in the one house; Jack and the Latin Lover needed as much distance between them as possible.

  The timing was not good: Jack would arrive for our final two days in Place de la Fontaine, and then we would all have to move two doors up to Madame Blanc’s apartments for our final week in Provence. Worse still, Mimi and Harry would be in school for most of the time, throwing the rest of us continually into each other’s company. Jack was normally so easygoing, but I suspected this situation would test him to the limit.