Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) Page 6

  CHAPTER 6

  Bonne Nuit et Beaux Rêves

  (GOOD NIGHT AND SWEET DREAMS)

  Guest : n. person invited to visit another’s house or have meal etc. at another’s expense; person lodging at hotel etc.

  The Australian Oxford Dictionary

  Guests, the human sort, were exactly what I’d expected when we launched our little, village entreprise. Even the odd puppy or two were to be expected in rural France and generally speaking, they were as finely groomed as their human counterparts. French people are even dafter about their pets than most nationalities I’ve encountered. The wonderful thing about French law is that it permits pets into public places, for example, bars, restaurants and even onboard an Air France flight if necessary. We regularly took our own pampered pooch, Guangzhou to the local café for his afternoon session of coffee culture.

  However, pets aside, there were some guests, and I use the term loosely, whom I never invited, I never received a reservation from and who definitely never paid for their sojourn. With the exception of family and friends, of course.

  Living in a 16th century residence had never struck me as bizarre or even extraordinary. Our home was warm and inviting and it never occurred to me, at any time, that an unwelcome presence could be lingering within the depths of its ancient walls.

  I had felt hideously foolish recounting my story to Jean and our friends but had found myself so frightened and bewildered by my encounter of the ‘other’ kind, that I felt compelled to share my experience.

  Jean worked a rotating roster, which often obliged him to spend the night within the Fondation Pompidou’s walled residence, guarding vigilantly over its young inhabitants. I was accustomed to this routine and had never felt the slightest bit uncomfortable at home alone. Of course, during the warmer months I was rarely on my own, as there was always a guest or two in the house. This particular night was different.

  It was late in the season and the house was empty; just my faithful, wrinkly companion and I. Guangzhou was a great guard dog and I always felt completely at ease and safe under his watch.

  It was well after midnight when I was awakened by an ‘odd sensation’. Jean always laughs himself silly when I try to explain the events of that fateful evening. He assures me that he never snuck back into our bedroom that night so had nothing to do with me feeling a sensation of any description. I know it all sounds odd but how do you explain the presence of an invisible force without sounding like a complete lunatic?

  For some inexplicable reason I was awakened from my deep slumber. My eyes took several moments to grow accustomed to the complete darkness and I instantly froze as I witnessed my bedroom door handle turn in a downward motion. I was shaking like a leaf. Panicked, I leapt from my bed, grabbing the handle and leaning with all my might against the door itself. There was a definite pressure behind the door and I yelled at the unknown person to ‘Get out! Leave me alone’.

  The pressure continued for several moments and I turned the key so as to lock myself in.

  All this time, my brave watchdog never made a murmur. He curiously slept throughout the entire episode, much to my chagrin. When the mysterious pressure eventually ceased, I returned to bed, where I sat upright for several hours. At one point, I leant nervously from the open windowsill and called out into the village square, hoping I would either scare the intruder or wake someone up. Anything would have helped.

  Eventually I telephoned our friend Thibault, who in turn called the gendarmes. I avoided calling Jean in fear of waking the Foundation’s sleeping population. Of course, the gendarmes found no intruder or any physical sign of a burglary. Everything was intact, except for my ego, by this stage.

  The poor sleep-deprived gendarmes expressed their shared sympathy at my lonesome state and explained that often, we fragile females allow our minds to play tricks on us when left to our own devices. I nodded my head in loathsome agreement, even though I knew that every fibre of my being was sure that someone or something had visited me that evening.

  For weeks, Jean took endless pleasure in teasing me about my ‘handsome French ghost’. ‘The one who gave you strange sensations during the night,’ he mocked. Thankfully his taunting petered out and the incident was soon forgotten.

  Busy days returned at our little B & B and I was soon far too occupied with guests of the human variety, to worry about ‘imaginary’ ones.

  A young villager, who had become one of our regular acquaintances at Lacoste’s Café, was to marry at the end of the month and we were generously invited to attend the official ceremony and celebratory drinks in the village square. He had also reserved one of our guest rooms for the weekend, on behalf of a visiting relative from Amsterdam. He thought his cousin would enjoy our eclectic style and explained that as he also spoke fluent English; he was bound to take pleasure in our company.

  The weekend of the wedding arrived and the tiny village was abuzz with jubilant friends and relatives. It was to be a rather large celebration and the café terraces were full to brimming with thirsty visitors.

  Our ‘Dutch’ guest, as we referred to him, arrived late on the Friday evening, not allowing us much time for conversation, as we escorted him to his room. He was an extremely pleasant man and seemed instantly enchanted with our home and his sleeping quarters. I told him we would have a better opportunity to catch up over breakfast the following day and he smiled in agreement. That night the ‘bachelor boys’ were to hit the town so to speak and he was pressed for time still needing to shower and change before he sampled the delights of Treignac’s nightlife with the other wedding revellers.

  We never heard him return that night and surprisingly, he surfaced at a highly civilised hour the following morning, joining our other guests for a hearty, communal breakfast. An empty place remained to his right and as I leaned to pour his coffee, he patted the chair beside him, begging me to join him for a chat. I happily obliged, impatient to find out a little more about our new boarder.

  ‘What is your line of work in Amsterdam?’ I enquired.

  ‘I’m a parapsychologist,’ he replied. ‘Do you know what that is Madame Raoul?’

  ‘Well … not really, though I can imagine, by its name that it has something to do with the paranormal.’

  ‘Yes. You’re right Madame Raoul,’ he answered eagerly. ‘Parapsychology is the study of mental phenomena that are inexplicable by orthodox scientific psychology. At present, I am employed in a large hospital where I work amongst aids sufferers and my findings are extraordinary.’

  ‘How interesting. Though I can hardly begin to understand what parapsychology has to do with the aids virus.’

  ‘Yes, they must seem an odd pair but I assure you I have great success in easing my patient’s suffering.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. How rewarding for you and your patients.’

  He smiled softly, nodding his head and taking a long drink from his coffee cup.

  ‘Madame Raoul … or may I call you Marisa? I must tell you something in the strictest confidence. It is about your father,’ he said gravely.

  ‘My father,’ I replied in shock, ‘What could you possibly know about my father?’ I asked.

  ‘I feel that you have an unresolved issue with your father that you must fix as soon as you can. You mustn’t let your differences separate you,’ he replied.

  I was aghast. This stranger’s intimate knowledge of my family life both shocked and intrigued me.

  ‘You must promise me Marisa…can you?’

  ‘Yes … yes of course. I know exactly what needs to be done and I promise you I’ll get onto it as soon as I can.’

  ‘Good … bien. Now may I ask you a favour?’

  ‘Of course. Perhaps you’d like some more coffee?’

  ‘Non Merci, but I’d love to visit… how do you say, votre cave à vins (wine cellar), if I may? Would you mind?’

  ‘My wine cellar … no, I don’t mind at all. But I don’t understand.’

  ‘Well, if you will allow
me this visit, I will then be able to explain many things to you, I’m sure.’

  ‘Right then,’ I answered, instantly intrigued and leaping to my feet. ‘Let’s go.’

  Jean had remarked on our intense conversation and jerked to attention.

  ‘Where are you off to, Marisa?’

  ‘Oh … well … we need to visit the cellar, Chérie. We won’t be long. I’ll explain later. Please, would you like to follow me, Monsieur?’ I said, gesturing towards the front entrance.

  ‘I’m right behind you, Marisa.’

  I pushed open the heavily-bolted oak doors of the ground floor garages, flooding the area with soft, morning, light. My newly acquired ‘Dutch’ friend entered quickly, as if pressed for time. He strode about the dimly lit interiors, silently studying the stone walls with uncommon interest. ‘May I?’ he asked, as he approached the glass door leading to the walled courtyard garden.

  ‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Make yourself at home,’ I added, impatient with excitement.

  He opened the door, entering the perfumed garden in silent composure. I watched him, curious of this man who seemed to be entering some mysterious new world. His every unhurried step and measured gesture both intrigued and annoyed me. My keenness to know what he was considering or feeling was palpable and I bit my tongue so as not to interrupt his investigation.

  Finally, he returned from the garden and paced slowly toward the cellar’s carved entrance. He ventured down the flagstone steps and into the subterranean depths of this architectural 13th century wonder, with its beautifully arched, keystone ceilings and large, stone salting trough.

  I allowed him the courtesy of some solitary time in the cellar, knowing my presence would only be an uncalled distraction. Although restless, I leant against the oak doors of the garage, my face warmed by the late morning sun. He emerged several minutes later and without hesitation, began to recount his other worldly ‘findings’.

  ‘This house possesses a friendly presence within its ancient walls. You mustn’t fear this presence, Marisa, as it means you no harm. It wants you to feel safe and protected and will never do anything to frighten you again.’ He halted, as I gasped in amazement. ‘There is more,’ he continued. This house was dearly loved by one who has passed over, and when I was in the garden, I encountered the image of a small child. A little girl, in fact, who tended her burgeoning potager and herb garden, in the company of her beloved grand-père. I now see this same, little girl crying for her loss and in much pain. She must be allowed to return to the garden as she feels such a strong affinity to it. Does any of this mean anything to you, Marisa?’

  I stared into space, astonished by his words.

  ‘It does … it all makes sense to me.’

  ‘Go on, please,’ he insisted.

  ‘Well, as far as the little girl … we purchased our home from a kind family of women. All had lost their husbands, generation after generation. The little girl is a great-great daughter and her name is Samantha. She told me the story of her precious Pappy (Grandpa) and how they would spend countless, happy hours growing flowers and vegetables from seed. It was, as she put it, their jardin secret (secret garden). When her Pappy passed away she was distraught and would visit the garden in an attempt to feel his presence. She spent hours alone crying over her great loss. She asked Jean and I if we minded her returning from time to time, so she could talk to her Pappy in their special place. Of course, we obliged gladly.’

  ‘What a lovely story. I feel her sadness and I’m sure she feels great relief knowing that she is still welcome to visit. Now what about the other part of my story Marisa?’

  ‘You mean the part about the friendly presence?’

  ‘Yes, you know exactly what I mean, don’t you?’ he asked knowingly.

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose I do … now. I experienced something not so long ago. One evening, when I was home alone. I was petrified. The dog never even barked.’

  ‘I see. Go on.’

  ‘Well it’s embarrassing actually. Everyone made so much fun of me. I thought I was going slightly mad,’ I laughed.

  ‘Let me assure you, you’re perfectly sane. You say you were frightened. Did this feeling last very long?’

  ‘A few hours, I suppose. I eventually calmed down but what I found strange was the force I felt seemed to diminish once I screamed out.’

  ‘You see, it never meant to frighten you at all. As soon as it understood your distress, it left you alone. Am I right?’

  ‘I suppose so and it definitely hasn’t happened since.’

  ‘And I can assure it will never happen again, not unless you want it to. You have no reason to feel anything other than perfect peace. Your home is your haven, rest assured. There is nothing malevolent within these walls.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how pleased and relieved I am. Thank you so much. I can hardly wait to tell Jean that I haven’t lost my mind. Well not quite yet!’ I grinned.

  ‘Now what about another coffee? Will you shout at me?’ he asked smiling.

  ‘Never. I laughed, but I will “shout you” a coffee.’

  ‘Très bien,’ he grinned. ‘Shout me, shout me.’

  We returned to the breakfast room, both smiling widely. I winked at Jean as I mouthed a message to him above the heads of the morning assembly.

  ‘I’m not mad and I’ll tell you why later.’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘I can’t wait for this one,’ he replied smirking.

  CHAPTER 7

  Cosy Winters à la Corrèzienne

  Alleluia and praise the Lord, the bitter winds of winter have arrived.

  Glacial winters, deep in the low mountains of south-western France, are unlike anything I have experienced elsewhere. You hear of seasonal peaks and troughs in the accommodation business, but I’ve never heard them mention the death of a season. A day arrives late in autumn, when you know that for at least the next five months, the doorbell will cease to ring. The phone will go dead and you can store the freshly pressed bed linen in mothballs.

  I loved that day with a passion. To me, winter in France meant freedom. A time for decadent indulgences and selfish occupations. To do, what I pleased when I pleased. To go, wherever I wanted. To catch up with newly made friends and drink endless cups of café au lait. To wake to my own biorhythms, instead of the appalling shriek of my bedside alarm clock. To walk naked, from room to room if I fancied, without the risk of bumping into some petrified stranger.

  I spent countless hours in the kitchen, experimenting with new, deliciously unctuous, winter recipes, much to Jean’s delight. Slow cooked, wine laden pots of fatted duck, became my particular speciality and I adored the heavy aroma that lingered through the house, as the cast iron pot sat simmering atop the wood-fire stove.

  One day, late in February, I spent nine solid hours preparing a Birthday feast for Jean and a few chosen friends.

  The chestnut-stuffed poultry was moist and tender and the Birthday tarts and cakes, which I had purchased from ‘Besse’, the finest Pâtisserie in Treignac, were, as always, divinely naughty.

  It was a classically romantic dinner accompanied by copious flutes of Champagne and bottles of perfectly aged Bordeaux wines.

  Our new ‘best friends’ were highly impressed by my recently acquired, culinary skills and begged for return invitations in the near future. Who would have thought? The French asking me to cook for them.

  Two new additions to my list of skills were knitting and needlepoint, which I attacked zealously during my first winter, much to my own amazement. Well I couldn’t cook and eat my way through winter. That’s if I didn’t want to add an extra twenty kilos to my pre-spring figure.

  I’d always seen handcrafts as hobbies for the elderly or infirmed, but soon realised they were wonderful hibernation pastimes, where hours could be spent sipping on steaming hot chocolates, whilst gently hypnotised by the soporific embers of the emblazoned hearth.

  My neighbour Charlotte had introduced me to these very feminine occ
upations. She was an elegant, perfectly coiffed Parisian woman, slightly younger than myself, who had recently moved to her husband’s rather gorgeous Manor house. He had inherited this rather sprawling residence and had decided to move his young family of five here in search of a better, country life. A French ‘tree-changer’. Charlotte was, in my opinion, the epitome of catholic Bourgeoisie, and yet, I sensed a naughtiness and zest for life, that perhaps few others saw. We made our newly adopted hobbies the perfect excuse for afternoon teas and regular gossip sessions. Despite her reserved façade, this woman was fun with a capital F, when unleashed from her daily humdrum of sick children, overenergetic children and incessantly hungry children, in that order. Not to mention her obsession for housework and well-pressed linen.

  She never ceased to amaze me, arriving cheerfully on my doorstep, often totally impromptu, for a mushroom or chestnut hunt, dressed in cashmere twin sets, herringbone skirts, baroque pearl necklaces teamed with khaki gumboots. As they say in France, she was the original ‘BCBG’ or Bon chic, bon genre. My definition; elegantly clad, Bourgeois yuppie. Dress codes and proper catholic upbringing aside, there is a deep- seated ‘joie de vivre’ bred into most French men and women that religion and class casts swiftly to one side. Thank God for that.

  I sensed that winters, despite the weather conditions would be highly fulfilling. No more ‘Oui Madame…Non Monsieur’ for at least four months. Paradise!

  My darling Jean and I have oddly never conversed in French. Strange as it may seem, we met in English and so we live in English. Even here, in the deep heart of ‘Parlez-vous Français?’ It’s an invaluable blessing, because it allows us to live in our exclusive English-speaking cocoon. It separates us from the general population in the very best of ways. We can be naughty or nasty, without the bitchy, grocery store owner ever suspecting a thing. I presume, she has never liked me, and I don’t suppose I’m ever likely to be fond of her. That’s no loss. There are an abundance of warm, affable locals and we’ve been fortunate to create burgeoning friendships with many of them.