In a good place. Part 1

Story contd.

Nothing is miserable unless you think it so;

Conversely, every lot is happy if you are content with it

Boethius, Anicius Manlius Severinus

I had much to be thankful for. All the family were well and healthy William and I were getting accustomed to seeing less of the boys and appreciating our extra freedom and we both enjoyed our individual occupations – his important job in the city and my successful emporium. For leisure William could go sailing on his brother’s boat and I could go to France with my friend Sally, and we still visited Greece together.

Sally was a stalwart of the theatre club, she was quite a bit older than me and had had an exciting life She had been an actress in the professional theatre and experienced many adventures travelling round Europe with her friend Elizabeth David, when the latter was doing research for her revered cook books.

In spite of her maturity Sally believed in having fun: buying a second hand car became ‘Hunt the Mini’, rehearsals were never dull if she was around and she gave the most wonderful parties with delectable food. I remember one dinner party – for some reason we were all in full evening dress. She had cooked – I think it was a Creole recipe, where the meat had been soaked in rum and it was so delicious we all sucked the string. Afterwards she was determined that we should learn to do the Gay Gordons and it is with an ache in my heart that I realise how rare it is now that one sobs with laughter. We did that night.

After our visit to Le Puy, Sally and her husband decided to buy a house in France. I missed the exploratory trips but after they had bought an old farmhouse in the Dordogne, I was invited to accompany the two of them in their car and share expenses whilst the others went independently. It was a beautiful spot – near Riberac. The plumbing had been fixed but there were lots of jobs to do and mine was to wash all the blankets and I spent hours jumping up and down on them. Determined that no-one would ever forget this mammoth task I had taken on, I embroidered a scarlet P on each one. When Sally – ever restless – later moved further south, I was very cross when she admitted she had left the blankets at the farm house.

Life was idyllic. First one up would go for fresh bread – croissants were just for Sunday and NO butter as croissants are all butter she would declaim, in her booming voice (Sally could be quite bossy but we were happy to humour her) Then if we had worked on our allotted tasks to Madam’s satisfaction there would be champagne cocktails – with frosted sugar round the glasses and oysters and always one of her delicious salads. Siestas followed lunch (I started reading Proust) then lots more work until dinner time. We ate out on alternate evenings and took it in turns to cook on the evenings in.

Sometimes at night when the lights were dimmed it could be quite creepy. I had a small bedroom on the ground floor and using the downstairs loo, an enormous creature jumped in through the open window behind me and was there on the floor between me and the locked door. My screams brought the others down and as I didn’t dare step over it, they had to remove the door. It turned out to be a giant cicada.

Another night I saw a something scoot down the door lintel in my bedroom. I knew either a centipede or a millipede could kill you – I didn’t know which and in any case there wasn’t time to count the legs. I didn’t dare rouse them again and lay trembling and praying for most of the night.

In spite of the new plumbing there developed a very unpleasant smell and finally we had to get the plumber. It seemed that Sally had been putting bleach and disinfectant down to keep everything sweet which then killed the bacteria that made the cess pit work. That’s the science bit – more or less.

Next door was a farmer and his wife who spoke no English but were very helpful and friendly. During a thunderstorm Monsieur Chabot lost his beloved cow and he told Sally how the cow had been struck by lightening, with tears streaming down his face. We felt so sad for him and took round a basket of goodies including a bottle of whisky. In return they asked us round for supper. Unfortunately Monsiour Chabot was under the weather that day, but he had a little box bed in the kitchen so he could join in the fun. In the middle of the meal he became unwell – it was a tummy upset, and rose to go to the bathroom dressed only in short vest. Being British we all treated it as perfectly normal and carried on eating. I guess it was France Profonde.

Sally’s next move was further south to the Languedoc, an affordable Provence and I was delighted to be invited once more.