by Mary Moody
Eventually, after fifteen minutes or more of this, Joyce rolls back the diary to the week in question, unfortunately not to the Wednesday, but to the Monday before.
‘Now this is going to be interesting,’ and she launches off again. Who will be staying with them over the preceding weekend. The relatives of those staying. The achievements of their children, and, I think, their nieces and nephews. I’m not too sure because I have stopped listening about twenty minutes ago.
Eventually I summon some courage. ‘But what about the Wednesday? Can you come?’ I ask lamely.
‘That should be absolutely fine,’ says Joyce, and scrawls it in her diary.
The date finalised and the friends formally invited, I plan a simple menu. I will slice up baguettes and top them with mounds of egg mayonnaise, caviar and smoked salmon. I will track down some excellent pâté and cheese and also layer this onto crusty bread. It’s far easier for people to cope with finger food if it isn’t large and messy, but can be put in the mouth in a single bite. The cats look very interested in all this food preparation, especially the enticing smell of the salmon, so I need to close the windows and doors until just before the party starts as there is nowhere to hide food platters from their greedy clutches. The day I have chosen turns out to be the hottest day in August, more than 40 degrees, with the afternoon sun belting directly onto my shutters. I clear the furniture back against the wall as much as possible, chill the wine and beer and make a big bowl of Australian-style punch with pineapple juice, rum and chopped-up fruit.
Everyone seems to arrive at once and as most people know each other, introductions are not required. Before long I have twenty-nine hot and sweaty visitors crammed into my tiny room, although they soon spill out into the corridor and onto the street. My landlord looks a bit alarmed and kindly offers to bring over some extra chairs—he even generously suggests we all move across the road into his walled garden. I don’t imagine he ever anticipated this tiny room being a major party venue. However everyone is having fun and even the cats have joined in, skulking around in corners looking for odd scraps of food. Luckily there is a public toilet just a few doors away, so nobody is required to brave my prefab thunderbox. By the time it gets dark the hangers-on decide they are still hungry, so we all wander through the back streets to a restaurant that specialises in thin, crispy pizzas. Next morning my room looks somewhat shattered but the memories of the party are sweet so I don’t resent mopping up the aftermath. That same day I start packing for the move from Villefranche to Pomarède.
23
THE DAY I MOVE HOUSE IT’S A stifling 40 degrees, and very humid. I am really keen to get settled in quickly because I have discovered that there was once a phone line to the cottage and Lucienne has helped me organise with France Telecom to have it reconnected. I will move in the morning and the phone will be linked up between 3 and 5 pm. I am anxious to have a phone because Lorna’s baby still hasn’t arrived, it’s now more than a week overdue. When I moved from Jock’s place to Villefranche my possessions easily fitted into the boot of the car, with a few clothes on hangers in the back seat. I can’t work out why this move is going to take at least two full car loads. But there are the contents of the fridge and pantry shelf, including half a dozen or so bottles of wine, tinned food and bottles of spirits left over from the party. There’s the bedding from Margaret and Jock, the electric wok, a borrowed sewing machine, plus some extra bits and pieces I have bought since I first moved in. It’s a sad fact of life that no matter where you live you manage to accumulate all sorts of stuff. I even a have small basket of odd bits and pieces like stickytape, batteries, toothpicks and birthday candles—just like I have at home. How did it happen?
After I settle I find the main problem with the house in the woods is that it’s dark—very dark indeed. The attic room, which has been converted into the only real bedroom, has no window at all, just stone walls and a wood-lined pitched roof with heavy timber beams. Although appealing in a rustic way, walls of natural stone and timber ceilings with heavy beams simply absorb the light. Even when several lamps are glowing it still feels dark and gloomy. In many of the renovated houses around here the owners have wisely painted the timber between the beams pure white with uplights to brighten the interior. However in my little cottage in the woods it’s all very natural and old-fashioned, and extremely dim. I cannot read a book even in the middle of the day. Most old stone cottages also lack windows and doors, which would let out too much heat in winter. The Petersens have put candles everywhere, hanging chandeliers of them in the dining area, and placing huge candle stands on either side of the open fireplace in the living room. It’s certainly a romantic effect for the evenings but I know that I will need light, for reading and sewing, and also for my mood. Rooms that are dark during the day are depressing, especially when the weather is cold and the sky is overcast. I hate overhead lighting which is often oppressive, preferring lamps scattered through the rooms and realise I may have to buy a few more. I know that the fire will add greatly to my good humour and that I will probably start lighting it in the evenings long before it becomes really cold.
The gas bottle needs to be connected for the stove and hot water, and this is done by a sunny-natured stocky chap called Florent. He has been employed by the Petersens as a sort of general factotum—he drops around to keep an eye on security when they are not here, mows the lawns and does any odd jobs that are required. He is to be my helper if I get into strife. I offer him a cold beer after he’s hooked up the appliances, and he drinks it with great enthusiasm. When he leaves he kisses me goodbye and it’s quite an experience. He is a good deal shorter than me but he clasps me firmly by the shoulders and drives his face against my cheek, kissing with a vigorous sucking action. Instead of the usual two light cheek pecks he gives me four hearty sucks, and this greeting and farewell is repeated every time he calls in. Which is often. I have to brace myself for the warmth of his embraces.
The little house suddenly starts to breathe with life when I open the shutters and clean the windows. I vacuum away the layers of dust and cobwebs and install the paraphernalia I now carry to ‘set dress’ my budget abodes. The tablecloth, the pretty bedcovers and the lamps all look well, but I definitely need some extra lamps to brighten up the place, especially a strong halogen for reading, writing and sewing. A bunch of flowers from Carole’s on the kitchen table, a bottle of wine on the ice, and I am set. I love doing a bit of an interior makeover. It probably stems from the days of my messy childhood, when I frequently dashed around tidying up after the rest of the family. I have a dreadful tendency to sweep things off surfaces into drawers to get rid of unwanted clutter, which means that I often cannot find things when I need them. However I do have a strong sense of maintaining order in my life. For me a house must be clean, light and warm, preferably with the smell of something wonderful cooking on the stove. I love flowers from the garden and comfortable places to sit. This little stone house can fulfil most of those requirements. In fact, I can’t wait for a cold day so that I can light the fire in the vast fireplace that dominates the main room.
There are many empty houses in this part of France, either closed up for months of the year because their owners are overseas, or simply left to rot by their proprietors for various reasons: sometimes an inheritance dispute with several members of one family unable to agree whether to occupy or sell; sometimes the families really don’t need the money and would prefer the house to fall down rather than sell to an outsider. They figure that one day their grandchildren will inherit the property, but sadly, many of the younger generations—living in Toulouse, Paris or even further afield—have no real interest in occupying or restoring a house in such a remote place. In Frayssinet I notice that at least half the houses surrounding the main roads are permanently shuttered, with roof tiles showing signs of neglect and walls buckling. The village once had two bars and a whole row of busy shops along the main street. Now there is only the post office, one bar, and three food shops. Bette
r than many villages, but at any stage one of these could close through lack of business, because so many of the homes are empty.
It was hard saying goodbye to Villefranche and my cats, especially Pierre, but it is sheer delight to be here in the countryside. Having some extra space to move around in gives me a sense of liberation, while having a garden where I can ‘sit out’ is a real luxury. The garden is little more than a rough-mown lawn and shrubs bordered by woods, with two large fields that were once used for grazing and crops. The owners have planted some shrubs at random in the fields, but they are struggling through lack of water. I yearn to dig them up and bring them all together in a single bed where they can be tended more easily; apart from anything else, they look totally out of place plonked in the middle of a field, and mowing around them must be a nightmare for Florent. However it is not my garden to interfere with, and I simply drag hoses to the unhappy plants and give them a long soaking whenever the weather gets really hot. The view of the fields is somewhat impeded by some badly located conifers that tend to close the house in and add to the darkness inside. Oh for a chainsaw . . .
Florent finds a table, umbrella and chairs for me, which I position on the lawn outside the kitchen window. I can now sit out for hours, even bringing my computer out onto the table. I ask various friends to pop around for a drink, and enjoy having some space for entertaining. People are much more likely to ‘drop in’ than when I was living in my tiny room. I expect it was like calling on someone in their bedroom rather than in a house with a proper front door.
Now that I have enough space to invite a few people around, I start organising some dinners. There are just so many wonderful ingredients to experiment with, and I have missed the ritual pleasure of cooking and serving meals for people, something I do almost every day at home. I try out the new stove, first cooking a lunch for Lucienne and Margaret and David Barwick who are about to spend six weeks away visiting their daughter in America and their son and grandchildren in the Cayman Islands. I then invite five men for dinner: Jock, Claude, Anthony, Roger and Danny. I spend the whole day shopping and cooking, casseroling rabbit and bacon in red wine and making my favourite Spanish entrée of chorizo sausage and poached eggs. It’s a meaty, blokey meal and they all wolf it down. I thoroughly enjoy playing hostess to a bunch of unattached men.
The woods around the cottage are curious, with multi-trunked chestnuts lining the deep driveway into the property and continuing outwards, mingled with the occasional oak and pine. My first walk through the dappled woodland reveals the awful truth. These were once majestic stands of huge chestnuts that have been sheared through at ground level then simply allowed to reshoot from the base, producing up to ten spindly trunks. They still bear nuts but the entire character of the forest is changed. When I see the occasional old chestnut that has been left from the initial clearing, I can visualise how this area must have once looked. The French normally pride themselves on their forest management, but this looks like mismanagement to me. I would love to have seen new chestnut saplings planted after the clearing, to develop the same wonderful shape as the previous trees, but this would be a much slower and more costly option.
Mind you, there is virtually no original forest remaining anywhere in Europe, with the exception of some remote remnants at altitude. The woodlands around here are termed ‘tertiary’, which means they are at least three generations from the original cover, and probably bear little resemblance in terms of balance and diversity of species in comparison to what was once growing here. The clearing and destruction of these woodlands would have been well underway more than one thousand years ago, and over the centuries would have changed beyond recognition. In Australia we still have a small percentage of original bushland and forest, but Europe’s mistake should teach us to clear no more, especially the old-growth forests that are a precious reminder of our botanical heritage.
One good thing is that the percentage of woodland here in southern France has greatly increased over the past one hundred years. Again, this is a symptom of the decline in population, with fewer farmers to work the land. And the phytophthora plague which devastated the vineyards in France on two separate occasions, has actually meant that land once cultivated has been allowed to regenerate as woods, which in turn has increased the bird and wildlife population.
But I am immediately in love with my woodland surroundings, even if they have been so badly bastardised. I listen and look for the birds and watch the changing scenery as the weather turns from summer into autumn.
I am still in my fairly laid back routine of sleeping late, doing a little writing in the morning, eating lunch, either in or out with friends, then falling into bed for an afternoon nap. Sleeping in the stone house is weird during the day because the bedroom, having no windows, is totally black. There’s just a stairwell with a chink of light from a first-floor window. I awake from my afternoon sleeps feeling totally disorientated, wondering where I am and what time of day it is. I decide to try and change my lifestyle as winter approaches, for fear of turning into a bear and hibernating in the dark. I will forgo big lunches with wine, stay awake for all of the daylight hours, and go to bed early after enjoying a few hours by the open fire. More like the routine I have at home.
The house has a television and what appears to be a satellite dish against the back wall, weirdly pointing into a tree. But when I hook it all up, all I can get on the set are one or two local channels and even then the reception is very fuzzy. I decide that watching television may help improve my language skills, and I get into a routine of sitting with a notebook and jotting down new words, then looking up their meanings in my dictionary. Initially I just watch the news, but soon I am hooked on a couple of quiz shows and two very amusing reality programs. One is called ‘Tous Egaux’ and it features two very pretty studio hosts—one male, one female—who introduce a series of completely loony people who have two minutes to explain their particular and usually extremely odd passion—be it making unusual objets d’art out of recycled junk, playing the piano accordion while standing on their head, or belly dancing. The participants are totally earnest and they speak stacatto-fashion at the camera while performing. It is bizarre, but I find that after watching a few episodes, I can understand quite a bit of what they are saying. I assume it’s because they are unsophisticated people whose use of language is fairly basic. Right up my alley.
The other is a more in-depth program called ‘Striptease’ which is a fly on the wall style of documentary on the lives of various people. Old drag queens, pigeon fanciers and other slightly eccentric members of the community. It’s quite riveting and I always manage to get the general drift of what’s happening. I later learn that this program has won several international television awards and I congratulate myself on my excellent taste.
On the whole, however, French television is fairly abysmal, as any French person will readily agree. I find it a comfort to have the television blaring from time to time, especially as background noise while I am cooking a meal. I have splashed out and bought a better quality radio that also plays tapes and CDs. I realise that I really missed hearing classical music while living in Villefranche—I grew up in a family where music was being played day and night. Silence, although soothing, can begin to grate after a few months.
At no time, either in Villefranche or in my little house in the woods, do I feel nervous about being alone, even in the dead of the night. Coming home late in the pitch black doesn’t worry me in the slightest. I am not even vaguely concerned about locking up the house before I go to bed, although I always lock the doors before I go out—only because I have a brand new computer. I’m not a person with a vivid imagination when it comes to the possibility of danger from intruders—unlike my mother who spent her last few years incapable of being left alone at night. She wouldn’t or couldn’t sleep a wink if there wasn’t another person in the house. I have been known to fall into bed leaving the front door not only unlocked, but actually open. I also reason that the cri
me rate in this part of the world is pretty low, and that I am therefore highly unlikely to become a victim. Having this relaxed attitude certainly gives me a great sense of freedom. If I were nervous, I suppose, I would never have chosen to live alone in a small stone house so isolated from its neighbours.
With the phone now connected I can ring home whenever I choose, and I do so more often than I really should. The line is amazing, I feel like I am just around the corner, ringing my darling daughter every couple of days as I would at home, calling David on location in Queensland, and checking in regularly to see how Aaron and Lorna are managing at home. I decide to sleep downstairs beside the telephone because Lorna’s baby is now nearly two weeks overdue. I have a voicemail option on the phone which I use for storing messages, and check in every few hours in case I have missed the important call I am waiting for. I am feeling very strange about not being at home for the birth of this child, and am worried that when it finally happens I will be plunged into a depression. People are constantly asking me for any news of the birth, but the days drag on with nothing to report. Then late one night I come home from a dinner at Lucienne’s to a frantic message from Miriam. Her voice is shaking with excitement and emotion.
