by Mary Moody
‘You have a granddaughter,’ she sobs. ‘Mum, Mum, it’s a girl, it’s a girl.’
I have a direct number for the hospital but I can’t seem to get through immediately. After what seems like an eternity, but in reality is just a few minutes, I manage to track Miriam down in the delivery room. Lorna is exhausted, but the birth went brilliantly. No painkilling drugs, thanks to Miriam’s ability to fend off the nursing staff, and one very lusty small girl who is to be called Ella Mary. I can hear her gurgling noises in the background, where Aaron is cuddling her while Lorna has a well earned rest.
After four boys it feels strange to think of myself as the grandmother of a girl. I am elated but also filled with a terrible hollow emptiness because I am so far away. I have always been actively involved in the arrival of my grandchildren, either assisting in the actual birth or doing all the practical things that are needed during the days and weeks after a baby is born. Now I am on the other side of the world and I can’t participate in any practical or emotional way. I lie awake most of that first night, unable to sleep because of my excitement but also because I feel alienated. I don’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt about not being there, but it is as though I have really missed out on something wonderful. I wonder how it will be greeting my granddaughter for the first time when she is three months old, instead of cradling her in my arms during those precious early days.
I am delighted for Aaron and Lorna that they have a daughter, and I hope that little Ella Mary will have as good a relationship with her mother as I had with mine, and as Miriam has with me. It makes me wish that Miriam also had a daughter, although she wouldn’t swap her three bright-eyed boys for all the world. She isn’t planning any more babies, so I guess this first little granddaughter will be it for quite some time. I’m looking forward to hunting down some gorgeous girlie baby clothes in the French shops and markets. Apart from that, there’s nothing much I can do, except feel happy and excited. And more than a bit ashamed that I have been so busy partying that the cot quilt is still only half finished.
24
WHEN PLANNING THIS ESCAPE to France I imagined myself leaping around all over the countryside, visiting as many far-flung places as possible, probably crossing the borders into Spain and Italy, and making at least one trip to England to visit relatives in London. I studied maps and worked out how long it would take me to drive to these various locations, but never gave much thought to how I would fit so much gallivanting about into my schedule.
The weeks and months have passed quickly, all through the galloping summer festivities and into autumn. I realise that I have not ventured very far outside a fifty-kilometre radius of St Caprais, and that I have not seen very much of France at all, except for the southern tip of the Dordogne and the western tip of the Lot.
I can easily justify this lack of initiative by rationalising that instead of dashing hither and thither, I am living the life of a rural French woman. I am shopping and cooking and seeing friends and being part of the community, rather than being a tourist who flits from one place to another and only ever gets a superficial feeling for a country. Over years of travelling I know that staying put for a week or a month in one place results in a more memorable journey than a few days here and there, with a lot of packing of bags in between. But nevertheless I feel a need to leap outside my safety zone and do more exploring if I am to feel I have ‘achieved’ something during this six-month retreat.
Part of the problem is that sightseeing on your own is never really much fun, especially if the place you are visiting is exciting and you feel the desire to share some of that excitement with someone else. Around where I am living it’s always easy to find someone to come along for a visit to more remote historic villages, or to touristy places like the underground river caves at Padirac or the ancient Christian pilgrimage cliff town of Rocamadour. But a trip further afield is more difficult to organise, which is why I haven’t been doing more of them on my own.
I am told that there are ‘sales’ on in Toulouse and decide to visit. I will catch the train from Cahors which takes just over an hour, and stay overnight in a cheap hotel. I park my car at Cahors station to find the train is exactly on time, as they tend to be in France. The French so pride themselves on their transport timetables running to schedule that any passenger on a train more than thirty minutes overdue is entitled to a free ride of equal distance; it’s a matter of honour. I arrive in Toulouse bright and early, and follow my guidebook to a tourist hotel in the middle of the shopping precinct. For less than 200 ff a night I have a very plain, windowless room with a hard bed and a huge bathroom. After months without a soaking bath I am momentarily excited until I realise the management has not provided a plug—obviously for such a low tariff they are not about to encourage guests to be lavish with the hot water.
Free of my overnight bag, I wander the back streets and numerous squares, but realise that few of the beautiful shops I have been told about actually open before 10.30 am. Time for a cup of tea and a quick read of an English newspaper before I start prowling the sales. The main problem I have is my new size and shape—I am reluctant to spend money on clothing that I cannot fit into and may never ever be able to fit into again. But I can’t quite bring myself to buy clothes that are two or three sizes larger than my normal size.
However I love looking at the architecture of this wonderful city. Toulouse is commonly known as La Villa Rosa because of the pink coloured bricks that have been used for so many of the buildings. It’s a university town, which gives it a youthful and vibrant atmosphere—quite the reverse of the low-key ambience where I have been living, where the average age is probably sixty-five. It is also a busy working city, not over-run with tourists and holidaymakers like Paris or Nice: it’s easy to wander around without feeling like one of the hordes. I don’t carry a camera and so I can even pretend that I’m a local.
Toulouse also has quite a large Vietnamese and Chinese population and I am easily able to track down a restaurant that serves Asian food, something I have been craving for weeks. Although I adore the food where I am living, I am accustomed to a more diverse diet, with at least one meal a week based on rice with stir-fried vegetables. Curiously, this restaurant has a set menu designed to appeal to the French custom of several small courses. Soup, and entrée, main course and dessert. No cheese, but otherwise an Asian-style Madame Murat’s. However I opt for a bowl of combination soup with rice and a side dish, which is a little different to the way Asian food is prepared in Australia in that it seems a lot heavier, not as light and fragrant. But after a solid diet of duck and goose fat, it’s heaven.
I have a short siesta after lunch, then hit the shops again with determination. I buy some sandals because at least my feet are the same size; a beautiful russet-coloured linen jacket that only feels a little tight across the shoulders; some scarves; and lots of glorious baby clothes in fine cotton fabrics. I also buy handmade animal puppets for the little boys, pack them carefully and post them back to Australia straightaway.
I opt for a light dinner then spend the evening sitting in a café in the Place Saint-George where crowds once used to gather for regular executions of religious martyrs. There is a pantaloon-wearing busker, naked to the waist, trying to earn some francs by breathing fire. He takes repeated swigs of kerosene from a bottle and lurches, spewing flames from table to table, terrifying patrons into handing over their coins to get rid of him. He is obviously extremely drunk. Some Americans at a nearby table are alarmed, but as one of my sons recently belonged to an amateur juggling and fire-breathing troupe, I am reasonably confident we are in no immediate danger, and soon the gendarmes appear and move him on. The Americans turn out to be a couple of rather refined art history experts on a university sabbatical, and fire-breathing drunks are not on their itinerary. I, however, am quite intrigued, as this busker is the first real drunk I have seen in France in more than five months.
Back in Pomarède I am still having trouble linking up to the Internet a
nd I decide that I must upgrade my computer to a more modern piece of equipment. The French keyboard is set out quite differently to the English, which makes fast typing an impossibility. The only solution will be to go to England and buy one duty-free. My friend Anthony tells me he is planning to drive there the following week, and I ask if I can hitch a ride. I will gladly contribute towards the petrol and he says he’ll be pleased of the company in the car—the trip from Pomarède to the ferry wharf at Caen is ten hours alone.
Anthony is a refugee from the financial bedlam of Hong Kong futures trading who found God and got divorced—I’m not sure in which order—and is gradually restoring a handsome stone house in Cassagne, near Pomarède, in an attempt to get his life back on a more even keel. Nothing like a major house renovation to bring a person back to earth with a thump. He has decided to undertake most of the work himself using a DIY handbook on house renovations and information gleaned from the Internet, and he seems to exist in a permanent maze of electrical cables, plumbing pipes and bags of cement. He has experienced some notable disasters—including a water pipe that burst in the middle of the night, drenching two floors of the semi-restored house—but finally seems to be getting into his stride with the assistance of one of Carole and Bob’s strapping sons. Anthony’s main hurdle is that he is too thoughtful for his own good. He analyses and agonises over every decision—the moral fabric of society, or whether or not to leave the fireplace intact or turn it into a storage cupboard. He’s one of those people who are seekers of truth, who can’t just take the world as it comes. Although my first impression of Anthony is one of quite an intense fellow, he turns out to be highly entertaining company when he can be inveigled into leaving his shambolic building site for a meal or a party.
Two days before we plan to leave for England he rings to inform me about the sleeping arrangements on board the overnight ferry.
‘We’ll have to share a cabin,’ he says a little sheepishly.
‘What does that entail?’ I am smiling to myself.
‘There are two bunks, one on top of the other, and a shared bathroom.’
‘Oh that’s fine,’ I quip. ‘I’ve always preferred being on the bottom.’
Silence.
We plan to leave before midday and have a seafood dinner at the port before boarding the midnight ferry. The car journey to the coast is a long one, but not at all tedious. The countryside changes dramatically as we travel northwards, with the fields becoming much larger and flatter, without all the winding hedgerows and little villages of the south. The traffic becomes busier and scoots along much faster, even when we leave the motorway and start heading west towards the Normandy coast. Anthony and I seem to talk nonstop. He’s a well-read man, with a broad general knowledge and a diverse range of interests that include history, music, philosophy and computers. Born in Africa, but raised and educated by his mother in England after his parents’ separation, he has spent most of his adult working life in Hong Kong which is why he has never been able to settle back into the existence of an Englishman. The Lot suits him much better.
At Caen we leave the car in the queue and wander back from the wharf to find a pleasant seafood restaurant. We linger a while too long over a meal and dash back to our position as the cars and trucks are starting to board the ferry. Then we realise we have forgotten to do the essential paperwork at the check-in point, which means our car is now holding up the long queue behind it. It’s all very embarrassing as the travellers in the queue behind have been waiting patiently inside their cars for their turn to board, while we have been sitting in a restaurant. On board at last, we head for the bar and a nightcap, where Anthony bumps into some friends. He decides to stay on in the bar for a while, and I head for bed, and am soon so soundly asleep that I don’t hear him come back later. It’s the first time I’ve shared a room with a man for many months, and I am not even really aware that he is there at all.
The bells ring at 5.30 am, allowing just enough time for a quick, greasy breakfast before driving the car off at Portsmouth. Anthony, who is looking slightly the worse for wear, drops me at Cambridge where I am to meet up with a rather zany but lovable woman called Bronte, whom I met when she was visiting the Barwicks in St Caprais. I warmed to her during her two-week stay, though I sensed she was a rather sad and lonely individual. When she heard I was coming to England she was very keen for me to visit. I am more than happy to spend a night in Cambridge because, apart from anything else, David’s younger sister Gillian, who lives in London, is working flat out until the weekend and won’t have a moment to spend with me before then.
Bronte also works, but she picks me up in the centre of town in the late afternoon and takes me back to her house. She has been living with the younger of her two adult sons and his girlfriend, but they are just in the process of moving to another city. It’s all a bit chaotic but very warm and welcoming, and I quickly discover why Bronte is the only person I ever meet in France who doesn’t drink one drop of alcohol: she is a bit of a dope fiend. Well, not exactly a fiend, but as I sit on her sofa hoping she may offer me a glass of something, instead she produces a fat joint. I’m rather over all that, so instead I suggest I take everyone out for a night at the local pub and a big English dinner. Bronte also doesn’t seem to be keen on cooking, and the fridge looks rather bleak, so I figure it’s my only chance of a drink and a feed.
Indeed we all have a splendid evening together, and are joined by her older son and his girlfriend. English pub culture and the food now served in pubs is rather pleasant, and a complete change from the southwest France cuisine and atmosphere. I thoroughly enjoy my fish and chips, and a couple of pints of good lager. Bronte is feeling low because, when her son moves the following day, she will be alone for the first time in more than twenty-five years. Her marriage failed many years back, but until quite recently she had a live-in lover who has since also departed. No wonder she is feeling sad. Living alone is all fine and dandy if you have a choice in the matter. This period of my life, in self-imposed exile, is causing me very little pain because I know that at the end of the six months I will be hopping on a plane and returning to the open arms of my large, warm family. For Bronte, who has a strained relationship with her mother, and two sons who are both now heading off in their own directions, the choices are much more limited. Being a woman of fifty without a partner is also problematic. The prospects of meeting someone congenial seems to narrow down with age, and working full-time to pay the bills means that life can become a grind of working and sleeping and little else.
In the morning I catch a train into London and am met at the station by David’s sister Gillian and her daughter Annabel, who is just a few years older than Miriam. Gillian lived the life of a country housewife and mother in New Zealand for twenty-five years; then, after her marriage broke up, she launched into a career as a school matron and private nurse, making good use of her pre-marriage mothercraft nursing qualification. Several years back, in a dramatic contradiction of her conservative lifestyle, Gillian upped sticks and moved to London where she now works as a nanny and shares a flat the size of a postage stamp with a girlfriend called George, also from New Zealand. George has found work with a high-flying dot com company, and is also having a great time living and working in London. Annabel is visiting from New Zealand, working part time as a casual teacher at several alarmingly confronting comprehensive schools, and she is also camping in the tiny flat. She is sleeping on the sofa in the sitting room and I am to sleep on a futon bed at the other end of the room where our toes will virtually be touching during the night. Despite its ridiculous size, the flat costs them a fortune every week, hundreds of pounds for an area that is half the size of my garage at home. All three work long, gruelling hours, spending a second small fortune on train fares and food, but they still manage to save enough money get out of town regularly on long weekend holidays. Greece and France, Sweden and Scotland are just some of the places they have visited to escape the dreary weather and the expense of London.<
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We have a pub lunch and, while at the bar ordering beers, I suddenly catch a glimpse of the opening ceremony of the Sydney Olympics on the television monitor overhead. The games are one of the reasons I have chosen this particular six months to leave Australia behind, imagining that they will turn Sydney into a chaotic nightmare. However all the newspaper and television reports have been to the contrary, and now as I gaze up at the screen I feel a terrible wave of homesickness. When I see Cathy Freeman running with the Olympic torch towards the giant cauldron I am completely undone. How perfect that they—the much-ridiculed organisers—finally got it right, choosing this amazing young woman to complete the most important part of the ceremony. I stand sobbing in front of the screen while the others wait for me at our table.
‘You all right, love?’ the barman asks with some concern.
I am all right, but I suddenly feel that I am once again missing out on something very special at home.
Gillian and I only have three days together, and I have to buy my computer and also catch up with Miles and Anne, who are keen for me to stay a night and have dinner with some other friends who visited the Lot in July. And although I have been to England several times I have never done the tourist thing and seen the sights of London—Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace. This is because David loathes the English class system with such a passion that he refuses to dignify the history of the city by visiting monuments that he considers are symbols of it. He has lived and worked in London on film projects several times over the years and felt he has been treated as a curious colonial, so this has greatly clouded his viewpoint. So Gillian, George and Annabel take me, via the tube, on a whirlwind tour of ten or more major tourist sites where I pose for a series of cheeky photographs, waving the Union Jack and grinning like Dame Edna Everage, to send to David back in Australia. I get plenty of funny looks from fellow tourists, especially when I hold a photograph of the Queen in front of my face while posing for my Buckingham Palace picture. I also indulge my love of kitsch by buying several Queen Mother plates and teapots to take back to France. In the pastel blues and pinks of her fluffy hats, they are truly hideous.
