Au Revoir

by Mary Moody

  ‘It isn’t her,’ Miriam said. ‘It’s her body, but Grandma isn’t there.’

  What she said was exactly the truth. Yes, my mother’s face in rest was recognisable, but her spirit had entirely gone. There was nothing there, just a shell. But we gently combed her hair then massaged a little makeup into her cold, tight skin. To my horror one of her eyes suddenly popped open, and I gingerly pulled the eyelid back to cover it, hoping it wouldn’t open again to wink at everyone if we did decide to lift the lid. It was a moment I probably would have found almost impossible to share with David, or with one of my sons. But somehow with Miriam and I working together, tending a loved one in death as so many women have before us, it felt just right.

  A few months later Miriam gave birth to her second son, Sam, this time in a little old cottage she and Rick had recently bought in Katoomba. Every man and his dog was at that birth, and I’ll always remember David sitting in my mother’s old rocking chair, which I had since passed on to Miriam, and sleeping through the most torrid and noisy part of the labour. Two years later a third son, Theo, was also born at her home, by which time I had amassed the most wonderful collection of photographs and even videos of these intense family occasions. Theo was born late one Saturday afternoon and Miriam and Rick decided, despite his newness, to bring him and his brothers to our house for our ritual Sunday lunch. I have a photograph of David asleep in his big old wingback chair, snoozing after lunch with his less-than-day-old grandson tucked in the crook of his arm. To be included in the births of your grandchildren is a privilege, perhaps not one that every grandparent would relish, but one that I wouldn’t have missed out on for all the world.

  18

  APART FROM THE ANTIQUES and book fairs there are regular village fêtes which are also a major feature of the summer months. Each town and village has a set weekend for their festivities, so as not to clash with each other, and the event usually involves two days of celebrations with colourful circus-style children’s rides trucked in and set up in the town square. The Saturday evening event, called a ‘repas’, is a feast of traditional foods prepared by the women and served on long wooden trestle tables under the moonlight. There are lively bands, light shows, dancing and fireworks, and all the village people and farming families come together in a celebration of the season. Visitors and holidaymakers are always welcome, and in St Caprais Jock is always greatly admired for his ability to fill a table with friends, and therefore boost the success of the event. This year’s St Caprais fête is held over the first weekend in July, and the weather is perfect—if it rains the villagers have to put up a marquee, which spoils the ambience of dining outdoors in the ancient square.

  The St Caprais fête has the reputation of being one of the liveliest in the region. During this period I am visited by two Australian backpackers—Jenny, the daughter of a dear friend from the Blue Mountains who died several years ago, and her friend Anthea from university days. They are two-thirds of the way through a six-month, ten-country tour of Europe and are badly in need of a break from youth hostels and railway journeys. Jock, generous as ever, offers them a room and two comfortable beds, and they love the region so much they decide to explore Toulouse then return to St Caprais for the fête.

  More than thirty friends gather at Jock’s for a drink beforehand, and the mood is relaxed and happy. There are dozens of children, both French and English-speaking, playing in the square, where a bar tent provides draught beer, aperitifs and wine to augment the jugs of quaffing red that are served as part of the 100 ff menu. It is nine o’clock by the time we are seated at the long tables, with the setting sun glowing on the creamy stone facades of the tall buildings that surround the square. There is a disco playing in the background—fortunately not loud enough to swamp the convivial conversation—and a woman singer who can certainly belt out a tune. We start with traditional tourin blanchi (white soup) with plenty of garlic and bread in the broth, followed by a rough pâté du porc that has the most intense flavour. The meat is being barbecued over an open fire and the fragrance is mouthwatering; the lamb cutlets will be served with huge bowls of steaming white beans in rich sauce. During all this the wine is flowing and the village children are throwing more and more lengths of crusty bread onto the table to mop up all the wonderful sauces and juices. Crisp green salad follows, with more bread and platters of cheese including the famous Cantal and some wonderful soft goat cheeses. More wine and then the dancing starts, with the music now blaring and lights flashing against the backdrop of mediaeval buildings. I find myself linking arms with farmers and their wives, leaping around the square with total joy and abandon, then dashing back to the table for apple tart and just a touch more red wine. Children are dancing with their grandparents, teenagers are snogging in the corners and the bar tent is doing a roaring trade. It’s well after 2 am by the time I slink back to Jock’s to collapse, having decided that driving back to Villefranche isn’t such a crash-hot idea. The music continues for quite some time and I imagine there will be some monumental hangovers around tomorrow, not just mine.

  Next day the restaurant across the road is having a Sunday lunch and somehow Jock and I scrape ourselves together to start eating and drinking again by midday. The backpacking girls are looking worn but quickly rally at the thought of more fine food. They are both so skinny I wonder where they are putting it all. Lunch is naturally another six-course extravaganza and we are barely able to walk when the time comes to leave in the late afternoon. Kind friends give me a lift home and I sleep comfortably in a dead coma for twelve hours. Sadly, I miss the last evening of the fête, which is apparently an absolute hoot. An all-female dancing group called Johnny and the Boys perform to loud head banging music in the square, dashing into a grotty caravan to change outfits between brackets. Close to midnight there are fireworks against the church wall, and miraculously everyone manages to recover by Monday morning. The square has been cleaned and looks pristine, the tractors are back in the fields and the rhythm of life returns to normal.

  There are two village feasts in Loubejac, the first being a moules et frites night early in the season which is my introduction to these communal outdoor parties. On this occasion a massive bonfire is set ablaze in the field beside the church, and following an ancient custom, we hold hands in a huge ring, dancing round and round the fire wildly in a stumbling circle to the clapping of hands from the assembled throng; in some of the villages the young men jump over the embers when the fire dies down. The main Loubejac repas, held in August, is a méchoui, or spit roasted lamb for the main course, which is enormously popular. Indeed, we are lucky to have bought seats early in the evening because by 9 pm there is a queue 100 metres long and in the end dozens of groups are turned away disappointed. This fête is quite stylish and more sophisticated than most, with a timber dance floor set up inside a marquee, disco lights and a snappy band.

  After the wonderful meal I enjoy a few spins around the dance floor with Roger, a man whom Jock regards as his best ally here in France. Roger is certainly one of the more eccentric English imports, dashing and lovable in a curious, oldfashioned way. A romantic figure and somewhat solitary, Roger is a talented artist in his early fifties who has been living in France on and off for thirty years. He’s been married and divorced but now lives back in Brighton during the winter with his ex-wife who in turn comes to stay for a month or so in France during the summer. They are an interesting couple, who spend more than half of every year living apart, perhaps because they have established themselves as individuals. Every spring Roger abandons Brighton and rushes back to his small stone house in Loubejac, which has a well-tended garden and panoramic views down to fields and woodland copses. In many ways Roger sees himself as a French peasant in the traditional sense—living off his wits and the land rather than cold, hard cash: he cultivates an excellent vegetable and fruit garden and knows exactly where to gather nuts, fruits and wild mushrooms in the woods. He bottles and preserves fruit during gluts and has a good eye for wine, which
he buys bulk, bottles himself then puts down for several years to mature. As he’s also a great cook, a meal at Roger’s place is always an event, but he seldom joins us in our restaurant outings or village fêtes, except for his own local Loubejac repas. Way back, he decided that long lunches were not a great idea for one’s health or waistline, and he calls Jock, with his penchant for whiling away so many hours at the table, ‘Sir Lunchalot’.

  Roger speaks excellent regional French, having been among the first wave of English to descend upon this part of the world, and is a mine of information about the local customs and way of life. He mourns the passing of the small, farm-based vineyards around Loubejac, which provided so much community spirit during harvesting times when neighbours rallied to get the grapes in on time. What vines remain in the area are now mechanically harvested. Each farm once produced its own wine, but these days it’s considered too labour intensive, especially as the mass-produced wines are so cheap. Roger also regrets the introduction of the huge hay-baling machines which mean that locals no longer rush to each other’s fields in the late afternoon to help gather the small bales on the back of a cart to be put under cover lest rain falls during the night. It was this sense of helpfulness that made Roger feel bonded to his neighbours, and certainly here at the Loubejac repas Roger is regarded very much as a local, not just a foreign fly-by-nighter.

  Following his example, I try some restraint, limiting myself to just a few glasses of the rich and heavy local red wine, though I still decide that it’s more sensible to drive back to Villefranche through the woods rather than down the main road. I can see no moon or stars and the woods late at night are black as pitch. As I round one sharp corner my headlights catch sight of a huge barn owl sitting in the middle of the road. It turns and gives me a cold stare before flying off into the dark.

  The Pomarède fête is also on a larger scale than the one at St Caprais. I join a mixed crowd that gathers for pre-dinner drinks on Lucienne’s leafy terrace, then wanders to the square as the sun is going down. It’s a handsome square indeed, fronting the church which is in the midst of some major restoration work. There are lots of children’s rides and circus-style sideshows, the obligatory bar tent and plenty of loud music. This time the village organisers have opted for the more traditional piano accordion group, which provides the style of music that the older couples enjoy dancing to. As the evening progresses and the various courses are laid along the tables, the couples swirl around the square, husbands holding their wives tightly against them as they spin and perform some fancy footwork. It’s a terrific floor show but I don’t feel confident enough of my formal dancing skills to join in. The children rush around the sideshows, shrieking with delight as they return to the tables clutching cheap plastic prizes won at the stalls. I wonder where the teenagers who served our meal have disappeared to. The music somehow isn’t quite their speed, and I later see them in a huddle drinking, smoking and talking intimately.

  In Frayssinet there is a fête de la bière (beer festival) at the end of July, organised by the local football club. Instead of the usual black beret, these club members wear bright yellow ones which make them look like a bunch of demented bumble bees as they set up the beer tents and trestle tables. The meal is choucroute and sausages, and the entertainment is to be provided by a country music group called Chicken Gerry and his Hot Potatoes. Who could resist? Another gorgeous twilight and the square behind the school is slow to fill so we end up drinking several beers while waiting for things to get underway. When it does finally arrive the choucroute is remarkable—a plate piled high with steaming spicy cabbage covered with about five different types of sausage and salted pork. There are various mustards and chunks of crispy bread—the crust of the bread here is so crunchy that you can easily cut your gums or tongue when eating. Choucroute is another dish that has its origins in Germany, but has long been adopted as a hearty dish, although in the French version the cabbage is much sweeter—and because it is still high summer, and very hot indeed, we feel a need to wash it down with more and more ice cold beer.

  It’s quite late when Chicken Gerry takes to the stage and starts to play, but the peculiar brand of French-style Irish country music, featuring electric fiddle and guitar, is terrific. Before long half our table is dancing a wild jig, with the beer and cabbage swirling around inside. After an hour or so of this frenetic bopping my stomach feels fit to explode its deadly contents and for once I am defeated, making my way home well before midnight.

  One of the most popular summer activities is the circus, which spends four months travelling through the southwest, setting up in a new village square every second day. There are two or three troupes, and the one that visits our region is ominously called ‘Albatross Circus’, although it has a fine wagon train of modern trailers and caravans. The big top is impressive too, and also quite new, giving the appearance of an extremely slick and professional outfit. They arrive in Villefranche early one Sunday morning and tie their animals up in the triangle of grass that marks the entrance to the village. There are two midget horses, several goats, a donkey, a dog and a llama. The posters have been up for several days, advertising a starting time of 9 pm, which seems to me rather late to be taking small children to the circus. The tent goes up in the small square outside the post office, along with a drink and food caravan and a ticket booth. I saunter along at 8.30 and feel alarmed to see few people and little activity. A storm is threatening and I am concerned that it’s going to be a flop. Eventually, at about 9.15, dozens of families with children of all ages start to arrive, and the circus members eventually begin selling tickets. It’s close to ten o’clock by the time the show gets underway. The Hollywood-style circus music blasts from several loudspeakers and the performers enter the ring.

  There are two men, a youngish woman and two children—a boy about fourteen and I presume his young sister who looks about nine. She is blonde, very pretty and dressed in colourful leotards. One of the small horses, with feather plumes attached to its head, opens the show. The taller of the men, in clown costume, stands in the centre of the ring and the horse, attached to a long rope, canters around the ring about twenty times. The horse prances into the centre and lifts one of his front hooves into the air, receiving wild applause. He repeats this sequence three or four times, each time ending with the cute hoof-in-air finale. More applause. A large drum is brought into the ring and the small horse somewhat reluctantly places his two front hooves on the top of the drum. He then lifts one hoof into the air and the crowd goes wild.

  Next the teenage boy performs some unsteady juggling tricks and every time he drops a ring or baton his little sister runs into the spotlight and throws her arms in the air for an audience reaction. They clap enthusiastically. The little girl then does a few acrobatic flips and handstands, the last few from the top of two tables. Act four is the clown and the young woman in a small mime act that involves him stuffing various objects down his pants; it’s quite amusing, and the children appreciate the humour. The first half culminates in an act with a goat performing exactly the same routine as the small horse. The only difference is that, being a goat, he is capable of standing on a stack of three barrels before lifting his front hoof for the grand finale.

  During interval the performers staff the drinks tent, selling beer, Pepsi and popcorn. The little girl works hard flogging lucky dips to every family with a child—she manages to offload at least fifty parcels. She then comes around with a hat held out for donations. Given that the door price was quite high and that most families have also had to shell out for drinks, popcorn and lucky dips, I fear for many it will be quite an expensive night out.

  The second half differs little from the first, except that the shorter man, in a leotard and white singlet, performs a balancing act on a plank of wood and a cylinder placed on a table, about one metre from the ground. It is quite a simple routine, but he is playing it for all it’s worth, jumping off every few minutes and inviting applause. Halfway through a stray dog enters
the tent and wanders into the centre of the ring, sitting directly beneath the table where the balancing man is performing. He then proceeds to lick his testicles enthusiastically, which sends the crowd wild. The performer naturally assumes the reaction is in appreciation of his act, and beams with delight.

  The last act is the llama, which goes through exactly the same routine previously performed by the small horse and the goat. Round and round he dashes, then into the centre and up with the hoof. The music ends and the audience straggles out just as the storm starts. The whole proceedings, including the interval, have taken just under an hour and by lunchtime the next day the big top and wagon train have vanished. As if they were never there at all.

  19

  THERE ARE SOME THINGS in life that are impossible to escape, and for me gardening is one of them. I was quite looking forward to a break from the responsibility and hard slog of maintaining a large garden, but so many of my new friends have gardens that I can’t help but get a little enthusiastic and involved. The plants used in the average landscape are basically the same, with the exception of a dearth of Australian native species, but the techniques are a little different. In the local nurseries I see that old-fashioned roses are popular over here again, just as they are back home, and by the wide range on sale it’s clear that people also love to grow herbs for cooking and productive fruiting trees and shrubs. I am told that the winters in the southwest are much harsher than those at home, and I know the summers—as I have experienced them first-hand—are very hot and dry. There is a great emphasis on summer colour, with gaily flowering begonias, pelargoniums and petunias in pots and tubs outside virtually every front door. Lots of energy is also invested in growing vegetables. It looks like a lot of fun.