Last Tango in Toulouse (29 page)

One morning he phones in great excitement. The goose who has been sitting on eggs for weeks has hatched out eight small greenish goslings. He's as proud as punch and takes on a very
protective role towards them. Not that he needs to. Geese are efficient parents and this is probably where they get their reputation for being aggressive. A group of five adults form a tight circle around the tiny birds and there's no risk of anything ever happening to them. David can't even get close to them. He refers to them as ‘my babies' and when, one day, Ethan lets them out by mistake and they get under the fence and into Russell's old farm, David is distraught. Perhaps he just doesn't have the right temperament to be a goose farmer – he's too passionate and emotional – but they are eventually rounded up and from that moment he watches them day and night. I wonder if I will ever be allowed to do what I set out to – that is, render them down for goose fat. I doubt it.

After the tour I have about ten days to recover before setting off for Canada. There's a lot to do, because we have decided to go ahead with a downstairs renovation in our little house. An English designer, Tony, who has lived and worked in the Middle East for two decades, has recently moved to this region with his wife Terry, and has drawn up a set of plans for a new kitchen and living area. It is a simple but imaginative use of the limited space and we have decided to proceed although David and I are both rather worried about the cost. Unlike some people with second houses in France, we don't have vast amounts of cash to throw around and, with all the costs involved in getting the farm up and running in Australia, the house in France must take second place. Our friend Bob, who lives up the road, will do the floor replacement, but we are still uncertain about finding a builder to instal the kitchen. Having renovations done in a foreign country is a minefield in every sense; anyone who has undertaken such a task will attest to that. Even if you are there in
person to supervise, things can go drastically wrong. So when you walk away and leave the whole project to trust in absentia the possibility of a disaster is greatly increased. We have heard so many horror stories of roofs that leaked, pipes that exploded and windows that were put in the wrong place. I shudder at the prospect but, because I have had detailed plans done, I feel confident that not
too
much can go awry. We know Bob very well and have shared many meals with him and his wife Carole, and they were both so kind to Ethan and Lynne during their stay in France that we are confident he will do a great job for us. Even before I leave, he tracks down some wide pine floorboards and we buy them immediately. It's difficult to get wide floorboards anywhere these days, and I am pleased that he has gone to the trouble of sourcing them for the project.

Jan and I take a trip by car to Toulouse with Margaret and their neighbour Sue to look at kitchens in, of all places, Ikea. It seems crazy on one level to buy a kit kitchen from Sweden when there are so many talented tradesmen in France and lots of interesting timbers to choose from, but there are far fewer carpenters around than there are projects to be built, so getting a good builder could mean waiting for months, or even years. I want this kitchen installed before David and I return next year, so I'd rather take the fast and easy option of choosing a kit. The Ikea store in Toulouse is about eight times the size of the one I have been to in Sydney and the range of kitchen styles and modules is mind-boggling. I have reached that stage of my life where I become impatient with too much choice – it overwhelms me and I become confused. So I select the style I like and throw the whole thing back at Tony the designer in the hope that he will pick the components that best suit the space.

Before I leave I am faced with the task of removing every object from the main room and carrying each one up two curved flights of stairs to the attic. There's the entire contents of the kitchen cupboards, the table and chairs, the cane furniture, the bookshelves, the rugs and all the bits and pieces that we have managed to accumulate in just over a year. In the midst of all this I am expecting a couple of Australian visitors, so I defer the operation, realising that if I don't, we won't be able to cook or sit in the living area or at the table to have meals. I am extremely fond of my friend but I don't know her new boyfriend very well and it's their first overseas trip, so I expect they will be tired and a little overwhelmed when they get to me.

This proves to be an understatement. They have just spent three weeks in the UK and then driven halfway across France to find me, getting lost along the way. They are exhausted and stressed and obviously, I quickly realise, having relationship problems. Now here I am, on the verge of an emotional time myself, going to meet my long-lost sister in Canada. I have survived a very rocky period in my marriage, finished an exhausting three-week stint leading the walking tour and am about to pack up my entire house and shift it up two flights of stairs. The very last thing I need is a couple of visitors intent on domestic rows right under my nose. But that's what happens.

There are tears and recriminations and their dispute spills out of the door onto the street and then around into the courtyard. It lasts for several hours and I am forced to keep a low profile by hiding in my bedroom. It's too ridiculous. I would have gone out and left them to it except that that very morning I had started the task of boiling up a huge vat of fig jam for Anthony, who has returned to England to sit some computer
exams. He picked the figs from his two productive trees and started the initial stage of soaking the fruit in sugar overnight, but then ran out of time for the cooking stage. So I volunteered to cook and bottle the jam. It needs to be stirred every twenty minutes or so, which means I can't disappear. In the end my ‘friends' resolve their differences but the jam has caught and turned black on the bottom of the pan. I bottle what I can save with slightly clenched teeth and look forward to them departing for the rest of their holiday and leaving me in peace.

I have heard many horror stories about ‘guests from hell' from my friends in villages nearby. When you have a house in a faraway or highly sought after location, all sorts of friends and relatives descend, and the experience can either be pleasurable or frightful. Margaret Barwick told me about one old friend who came to stay and the two-week visit almost completely destroyed their previously harmonious relationship. This woman, who had worked with Margaret years before, married late and had her only child even later. As a mother she lacked common sense. The child, now aged four, entirely ruled the family, and it was impossible for Margaret and her friend to have even a brief conversation if the child was in the room. He would grab his mother's face and turn it away from Margaret, directing her attention back towards himself. He was obnoxious from the moment he opened his eyes in the morning until he eventually collapsed and fell asleep at night – usually very late because his parents hadn't yet developed a strategy for getting him off to bed. The worst aspect of the visit, however, was the child's odd toileting behaviour. He simply refused to sit on a potty or go anywhere near a toilet, and when he needed to defecate, the procedure was to spread a towel on a bed, where he would lie
and perform his business with his legs in the air. All too bizarre for words.

Jock once had some visitors who brought along a single, middle-aged female friend who decided, after a few days, that Jock was marriageable material. He just needed a bit of tidying up and organising. This woman spent the entire three weeks of her visit clinging to Jock's side like a limpet, grinning gormlessly at him and winking lasciviously whenever she caught his eye. He felt extremely uncomfortable. Worse still, she decided to try to clean up his act. Every time he poured himself a glass of wine she would carp at him.

‘Jock, Jock, darling you
drink
too much. It's not good for you. Don't have any more. You've had enough.'

Of course, it had the effect of making him drink twice as much as he normally would. Which is quite a lot. She also tried to tidy up his appearance (an impossibility) and kept dropping heavy-handed hints about staying indefinitely, perhaps for ever.

When she left, Jock collapsed in a state of relief. It was a lucky escape. I also recall a friend who visited regularly from America when we were living in Leura. This man, although charming in many respects, had the irritating habit of helping himself to the contents of our fridge, especially if he came home late at night and wanted a snack before retiring to bed. Many times I went to prepare a meal only to discover that half the ingredients had been devoured by our guest.

One morning at breakfast he complained bitterly to me that the stew he had half-eaten the night before, long after David and I had gone to bed, was tasteless and in fact had a very odd and unpleasant flavour. I shrieked with delight. In those days Muriel was still around, and she routinely cooked up a large vat
of stew for the dog. It was a combination of kangaroo meat, brown rice and vegetables, usually the ones from the bottom of the vegetable bin, the ones that had gone a bit limp and bedraggled. It certainly contained no salt or anything to brighten up the flavour. The dog loved it just the way it was. I was delighted to inform my ill-mannered guest that he'd scoffed the dog's dinner. Sad to say, it didn't cure him of his irritating habit.

So there's a minefield of potential problems to be tackled when it comes to inviting friends to stay. Some guests are terrific. They arrive laden with goodies from the market and bottles of wine; they help with the cooking and do the washing up; they disappear for long periods to do their own thing without expecting to be ‘entertained'; they strip the beds when they leave, even put the washing through the machine and hang it on the line before they depart. But these guests are few and far between. I resolve to be more careful, knowing that my times here in France, when I am here alone or with David, are precious and not to be wasted coping with other people's problems.

I am aware that David's anxiety is largely due to his concern that during this short period of time between finishing the tour and flying to Canada I will somehow re-establish my relationship with the man from Toulouse. Although I think about him a lot, I have absolutely no intention of making contact. We have agreed that silence between us is the best way of dealing with the finality of the relationship.

It doesn't work. Knowing that I am back in France and alone, he phones me. All the old feelings come flooding back. I find it
difficult to breathe during our conversation and when he suggests I come to Toulouse for lunch I readily agree. Having been convinced in my heart that we had reached a mutual conclusion to the relationship I now feel we are back to square one.

I am torn about how to handle the situation. Part of me thinks that if David doesn't know it will be better for all concerned, but the other part of me knows I cannot lie to him now. Our marriage would be doomed.

So I tell David what I am doing and I go to Toulouse, just once. It's the final farewell, which I even jokingly refer to as the Last Tango in Toulouse. The reunion is bittersweet. We talk through all the good aspects of our brief relationship but also discuss the downside. I tell him in detail about David's reaction when I returned to Australia and about the pain it has caused my family. We agree that it simply isn't worth it and we agree that, once and for all, this should be the last time we see each other. This time I don't feel the same sensation of loss or grief. I have moved on and, although I feel a deep attachment to this man because what passed between us was so tender, I know that my heart is with David and our family.

I get back to the house in Frayssinet late in the evening and as I walk in the door the phone rings. It's David, and he sounds terrible. He's phoning from hospital in Bathurst where he has been admitted through the emergency department with an acute infection in his upper jaw. He had a tooth extracted several days before, and despite taking antibiotics his face has blown up and the infection has become serious. He was told by the admitting doctor that if he hadn't come in for urgent treatment the infection could have been fatal.

Despite his incredible physical pain he has only one question to ask: ‘Is it over?'

‘Yes, it's finished,' I reply.

‘Are you sure?'

‘I've never been more certain about anything in my life.'

When he starts to cry, I am overwhelmed, for the first time, with terrible feelings of guilt. While I realise that the infection is the direct result of a physical problem, I also acknowledge that he probably succumbed because of the intense stress he was experiencing, knowing that I was in Toulouse for the day, meeting my lover. I can do little but reassure him that the affair has finally been laid to rest and ask him to believe me. He has suffered enough.

It's still dark when Jan and Philippe arrive to drive me to Gourdon to catch the early train to Paris for my journey to Canada. The house echoes strangely because of the emptiness left after removing everything from the main ground level, and I feel almost bereft leaving it looking so bare and vulnerable. It will be totally transformed by the time I return.