Au Revoir (33 page)

Although I have been accustomed to long separations from David during our thirty-year relationship, I feel as excited as a nervous teenager at the prospect of seeing him again. I wonder what he will think of my extra curves? I have managed through walking and sensible eating to shed a couple of the kilos gained during my early eating and drinking exuberance, but am still carrying quite a few extra layers around the middle. He probably won't even notice. I clean the house and light the fires because it's now well into winter and suddenly very cold. I am to meet him at the Gourdon railway station thirty minutes from Pomarède in the early afternoon. He arrives in Paris from Sydney earlier in the morning then transfers to the southbound train, so he will undoubtedly be exhausted.

He emerges messily from the last carriage, manhandling far too much luggage as usual, and I gallop along the platform to
meet him, sobbing with joy at our reunion. It does seem unlikely at this stage of our relationship—tears and passionate hugs on a French country railway station. But we are genuinely thrilled to see each other again.

I have made up a double bed in the living room so we can snuggle in together in front of the fireplace. The upstairs room, with no windows, is just too cold and dark and dreary for the purposes of our reunion. The size of the bed downstairs is laughable compared to our own at home—French doubles are not much larger than a standard single bed—we will be sleeping very closely together indeed. David is by no means a small man, so if my feet are hanging over the end, and they are, his will be practically dangling on the floor.

When we finally make it into the bed, after a lightning tour of the local villages while talking ten to the dozen, it's the feeling of his familiar body against me that gives me such great pleasure. I can't help but cry a little, of course, at the joy of making love after such a long time, but it's the comfort of skin to skin contact that I have really been craving. We lie together like that for hours and hours, and almost feel reluctant to go back out into the cold to meet people and look at houses.

The next few days are exhausting. At lunches and dinners I introduce David around to my new French friends and to those members of the expatriate community who remain in the southwest for the winter. So many of them have already gone to warmer climates that he's really meeting the bare bones of the group, the stayers and the permanent residents. With typical generosity, they all host dinner parties and lunches in his honour, but for me it feels very odd suddenly having a man with me after six months' complete independence, being defined
only by who I am, rather than whom I am married to. David also feels strange, coming into my intimate social circle and meeting people who I am obviously close to, but who have to him only been names in my conversations. He feels disoriented and is obviously still jetlagged because after two or three days he can't keep up the pace of eating and talking till the wee hours.

‘I can't believe you have been doing this for six months,' he groans as we set out on yet another social engagement.

There is also a sense that David is coming to France to take me home. That his arrival means the beginning of the end of all the good times we have been having together over the summer and autumn. He feels this strongly too, and worries if he will be perceived as the ogre, the spoiler of everybody's fun. However the warmth of the welcome extended by my new family eases this feeling of insecurity. He will never really feel the same bond I feel with this place and these people, but he will love every moment of being here in the future. I feel totally confident.

With Alice the agent I show him over the short list of houses on offer. None of them excites his imagination. He likes the look of the Frayssinet cottage, which I show him from the road, but it is still just out of our reach.

In desperation we approach another immobiliers in Prayssac. I have been loyally sticking to my English contacts, mainly I suppose because of my language difficulties. In the window we see a property at Cazals that looks quite promising, and ask if we can see over it. The Prayssac agent, Pierre, speaks only French but tells us that he has an English woman in the agency who will be back after lunch. When we meet Liz and explain our situation, she quickly makes up a list of six or eight possible properties. Pierre takes us through the Cazals house, which is in fact two
adjoining houses, one habitable and one derelict, later in the day. We take Anthony along for a second, more experienced opinion. The renovated house is small but has lots of French features and a workable bathroom and kitchen. We don't have keys to the second part of the property, but peer through dusty windows to see a large room with a beautiful stone fireplace. We love it, and Anthony nods in approval, though he points out that it doesn't have a garden of any description. Nowhere to sit out in the summer, but it's cheap and picturesque with potential to be made gorgeous. And Cazals is a wonderful ancient town with a beautiful village square and lovely shops and restaurants. This is it! We agree on the asking price, without even making a lower offer, and Pierre says he will contact the elderly owners who live just a few doors up the road.

David and I finally have an evening alone in the cottage in the woods, snuggled up by the open fire eating a simple meal that doesn't require endurance to digest. David is greatly taken with Jacques le Roux, who hasn't shown any signs of departing since he first landed on my doorstep. Jock has said he will take Jacques at a pinch, but I am concerned about his survival in St Caprais where so many cats are either run over or targeted by hunters. I can't just close up the house and abandon Jacques to his fate. We could take him back to Australia, of course, but would a French country cat ever feel at home in the Blue Mountains? The quarantine period is four months, and then there are our own cats to consider. It's a real problem.

The following morning Liz calls with frustrating news. The owners have phoned their son in Paris and he has changed his mind about the property being sold. He will inherit the two small houses one day and keeps vacillating about whether or not he
really wants them. Apparently this is the third time the houses have been on the market and then withdrawn when a firm offer has been made. Pierre and Liz are furious, not just because of our obvious disappointment, but because of the waste of their time and money. Apparently this is not unusual in France. The owners want to test the market, to see how much someone is prepared to pay for their property. Then they withdraw it when a keen buyer appears. We feel angry and totally desperate because we now have only eight days before our flight back to Australia.

Liz produces a new list of properties, although a majority are further from the villages for which I have indicated a preference. We set off early the following day to look at what's on offer. The first one is at Martignac, on the other side of the Lot River, past a wild gypsy encampment that is littered with debris. It's a small village without shops but with a lovely church. The house is structurally sound but in a sadly rundown condition. The views from the windows are rather uninspiring, but it's cheap and has lots of potential if a good deal of money is spent. The second property is huge and beautiful but we don't have keys to get in. It's at Duravel, which is a township but half an hour from St Caprais and that is a real concern for me, because all of my connections are in the vicinity of Jock's village. Will I feel like a long drive home after dinner with friends? Probably not, although again this property is within our limited budget and has great potential for restoration. The other main downside is that it's smack bang beside an ugly car repair yard, which is probably why it has been on the market for several years. We move on.

The third house is in Frayssinet-le-Gélat which is right in the centre of the action as far as all my friendships and contacts are concerned. Five minutes from St Caprais. Five minutes from
Pomarède. It's where Claude lives permanently and where Miles and Anne have their summer house. Perfect. The property in question is a typical two-storey village house, with the front doors and windows opening right onto the road. I had determined not to buy a property next to noisy traffic, but we are running out of options. The house is bathed in sunlight and looks very solid, but has a crumbling layer of crépi on the outside that will need to be chipped off. It has a courtyard garden at the back and also a barn that looks large enough for conversion to a studio, or perhaps a couple of extra bedrooms. Inside the house immediately speaks to us, although we dare not sound too enthusiastic lest we are in for yet another disappointment. The main room is huge, with a wonderful fireplace that has been fitted with a slow combustion stove that serves as both central heating and as an open fire. Some of the walls are warm, cream exposed stone while others are lined with plaster, and the floors are attractive polished timber. The house is owned by an English man who has been using it as a summer residence for many years, but he is now too frail to make the journey to France. It contains simple but comfortable furniture which is all part of the purchase price—a fridge and a washing machine, a vacuum cleaner and a well-equipped kitchen. Up a handsome flight of curved timber stairs to the second floor there are two large, fully-furnished bedrooms. Unlike so many of the houses we have seen, this one hasn't been invaded by owls who have splattered the floors with their guano, the roof isn't leaking water down the walls, and the windows are intact. You could move into this small village house tomorrow and be warm and dry and comfortable. I can tell by his body language that David is excited, and we go into a small huddle. Let's do it.

Liz calls the owner in London who immediately accepts our offer. In haste the papers are drawn up, we send for funds from Australia, and we sign a preliminary but totally binding agreement with a notary at Cazals just two days before our departure. In some ways the house is a compromise, being so close to a main road, but it qualifies on every other level and we decide that we absolutely love it. We are given the keys and are able to show friends around, who congratulate us on our good fortune in finding a well-located house, in good condition, for such a ridiculously low price. We light the fire, open a bottle of good wine, and toast our future as part-time French villagers.

Next morning Alice calls to say the other house at Frayssinet, the first one I saw with the large garden, is now available. The owners have managed to extricate themselves from the contract with the other buyer. I don't believe it. We have signed for the village house, and nothing further can be done. However David and I decide that things have actually worked out for the best, as they so often do in these situations. The village house is much less expensive, so we will have more money for new furniture and renovations. It requires a lot less work, is bathed all day in sunlight, and living in a village will offer many compensations. We can walk to the bar or for lunch at the Plan d'Eau. We can get to know our neighbours more readily, which will help improve our language skills. All in all, we have come out on top!

We realise that if we are to be coming back to France every year we will need a car. I phone Richard who lent us the Peugeot and ask about his plans for the vehicle after I leave.

‘Oh I'll just sell it off as quickly as possible,' he says, delighted that I haven't managed to wreck it during my six months of erratic driving.

‘We'll buy it, if it's not too expensive,' I say with glee, because I have really come to appreciate its reliability and low cost of maintenance. Danny offers to store the car in his barn while we are back in Australia. This means someone can come to meet us at the train station in our own vehicle every year when we return. It's ideal.

A couple of days before we leave for home our neighbour Hugues comes to dinner with several of our other French friends. He spies Jacques curled up by the open fire, and swears he is the spitting image of his own much-loved ginger tomcat. I explain my dilemma of finding a safe home for poor Jacques, who has become so dependent on the warmth and food provided at the little house in the woods. Hugues looks delighted. His elderly parents, who live at a nearby farm, recently lost their cat who was nearly twenty years old. Although still in mourning they would love a replacement, but definitely not a little kitten. It seems too good to be true. The following night I wrap Jacques in an old blanket, with his head poking out like a baby's face from a shawl. We load the boot of the car with tins of cat food and Hugues leads us down various winding lanes to his parents' farmhouse door. They have made up a basket for him by the fire, but while we sit and drink an aperitif, thanking them profusely for adopting our stray cat, Jacques finds his way to one of the bedrooms. By the time we leave he is curled up, purring and looking absolutely at home.

Our friends combine to throw a farewell dinner for us at Claude's lovely house. No expense has been spared with the finest of foods and wines and everybody contributing to the table. David is presented with a floppy black Basque beret, which suits him to perfection, and a huge baguette to tuck under his
arm. He couldn't look more like a local. My gift has been painted by the Barwicks' clever daughter Jan. It's a wonderful landscape of the southwest, with every detail included. The geese and ducks and wild boars, the village houses and walnut trees and mushrooms in the woods. There in the middle on a picnic rug are David and I, he carving the bread and me clutching a huge bottle of red wine. It's a perfect memento. I am also ceremoniously presented with my own blue pinafore, now that I am to become a real French country housewife. Wearing it I look as comfortable as any of the hundreds of women I have seen watering their geraniums or sweeping the front step.

The following morning we pack up the house in the woods and are driven to the railway station by Jan and Philippe. It's very, very hard to say goodbye.

I
T'S ALWAYS THE SMELL
of Australia that hits me when I have been away. This is the longest I have ever been away from my homeland and it's more acute. The air seems thick with the smell of eucalyptus as I emerge from the airport, even in polluted Sydney.