Our House is Certainly Not in Paris by Susan Cutsforth Page B

soft rain falls gently and is pierced by the last rays of glistening sun. There is an otherworldly quality to it. It is an utterly magical moment; a moment to tuck away into the box of precious French memories.
    I am invariably in bed just before the light fully fades. I rarely reach for my book straight away. Instead, I lie against my soft pillow, and watch the puffy clouds scud across the still-blue sky. At home, our white walls are filled with paintings and artwork.
    Here, in our tiny chambre, just like our cuisine, the walls have been left unadorned in their white-washed simplicity. The oblong-shaped windows, surrounded by dark wood, frame the view of the trees, sky, clouds and ever-changing weather. No art is needed.
    Cuzance itself is a still-life.

Weed prevention measures.

26
The Morning of Le Maçon
    The morning of the next highly-anticipated le maçon’s visit with Jean-Claude, dawns clear and sunny. Of course we have no idea when they will appear. Such is the desirability of artisans that it is impossible to pinpoint a time. This makes it difficult to leave Pied de la Croix and go to Martel for our daily pain . Stuart points out that I could always go by myself. After a week, I’ve still not driven our voiture and am reluctant to do so on a busy market morning. I learnt the word for car very quickly last year when the roofers were always asking me to move it from in front of la grange . Just like all my stumbling attempts to grasp French, a word only penetrates my vocabulary out of necessity. I did however, quite quickly learn all the essential words for all the delectable cuisine . Canard rates highly though duck is not a word in my grocery shopping lexicon at home. Of course, like artisans the world over, the maçon does not appear. There are shades of last year and the oft-repeated cry of, ‘When will the plombier come?’
    There is a strange symmetry between our renovating days in Sydney and buried deep in the French countryside. Without going anywhere at all, I still manage to have several ‘chats’ during the course of the morning. A walk to the communal bins brings a lovely encounter with Marinette, the matriarch of the village. She is sitting on a wooden bench under the shade of a chestnut, cane by her side and wearing her well-remembered blue and white straw chapeau . Le Bureau de Poste van stops and delivers her letters to her while we sit companionably together on the bench. Marinette points to her last name ‘Barre’ on a lettre and tries to get me to pronounce it. I attempt several times. Marinette purses her lips to show me how to produce the correct ‘ ooh’ sound. She laughs kindly at my clumsy attempts. I simply cannot twist my mouth in quite the right way. I know she secretly thinks that a three-year-old child would do better. After her sixth attempt, she accepts that I have failed miserably. She shrugs her shoulders in a very Gallic gesture and abandons my elocution lesson. It is precisely what happens when Jean-Claude tries to get me to pronounce Cuzance correctly. I can never, ever pronounce the ‘ ooh ’ sound the right way.
    I try to convey that I will be attempting to improve my French by having cooking lessons with Françoise. This way – or so my ambitious plan is at this stage – is that I will use all the accompanying French words to produce my sure-to-be magnificent tarte aux pomme . I already know the words for butter and flour – beurre and farine – so clearly I think I am about to be a Michelin chef in no time at all. At this point in our vacances , I still think I have all the time in the world, for the summer seems to stretch endlessly.
    Clearly, I have romantic visions of wafting through the village in my summer frock and chapeau , French market basket over my arm with apples from our own orchard in it. It is well known that I tend to live in a fantasy world of romance-induced visions. As I leave Marinette on