A House in the Sunflowers by Ruth Silvestre Page A

had clearly served her for so many years. ‘
Mort de Justin
’ was the simple statement.
     
    The following week M. René, the
maçon
, came up to advise us on enlarging the small room with its bare stone wall and newly exposed beams. Yes, it was certainly possible to move the modern, interior wall, in fact he would recommend it as it was none too stable. He became quite excited at the thought of including the ancient window and suggested that we might also move the other wall back some three feet into the corridor, thus making a splendid main bedroom. The narrow space remaining beyond the window was now taken up solely by the crumbling staircase which would, in any case, need replacing. But did we really need a staircase? With three large bedrooms on the ground floor and the possibility, at some stage, of converting the
chai
, the attic would seem to be of more use as storage space. In that case a loft ladder would do and the staircase area could be used for a bathroom.
    A bathroom. What a wonderful thought. The pleasures of a long, hot soak after hours of back-breaking work came nearer when we discussed our plans with M. Albert. He also suggested that while he and M. René were at it, they might build an indoor lavatory in the space at the far end of the corridor. Two lavatories. Heaven. But we still prefer the one with the view, as does our first friend to arrive that summer, the poet, Anthony Saville White. A firm friend since student days, king of puns, word-spinner and enthusiast, he was moved to write a series of verses while gazing, seated, admiring the sweep of meadow up to the woods beyond.
    This, his first visit, was made on a giant motorbike. He picked the only wet night that summer and sodden and exhausted, having ridden all the way from Northumberland, could not find our track in the dark. About midnight, utterly lost, he finally arrived
chez Bertrand
and gallant Raymond got out of bed to bring him up to us. Since that first visit he has returned in a variety of ways; by car with his family, and once, unexpectedly, by air, as the only non-devout passenger on a pilgrimage to Lourdes. That night, since we were out, he rolled himself in a blanket to doze in a deck chair on the porch from which, on our return, he rose spectre-like in the moonlight, declaiming something or other – I forget what. On another occasion, in a Herculean effort, with Nancy his indefatigable wife,he came by bicycle. We now await his arrival by balloon.
    This first visit, after his wet arrival, coincided with a spell of spectacular weather. The sun shone all day, every day, in a cloudless heaven but we were refreshed by a gentle breeze from the North. ‘
Le grand beau temps est arrivé
,’ pronounced Grandpa when he trudged up, staff in hand, to check the fences. Day after day it continued and how we revelled in it. The air was heavy with the drone of insects, butterflies with pleated wings flitted through the poppies and blue chicory that lined the track, and lizards, immobile but for the pulse under their throat, lay on the hot stones. There was a great sense of peace and completeness.
    Mike, who tans in ten minutes’ sun and was dubbed by Tony ‘old teak face’, sat drawing the field of maize. It whispered and crackled in the heat shimmer and grew so fast that eventually Mike had to sit on the top of the stepladder to finish the drawing. Matthew asked if he might pick some sweetcorn to eat. Raymond looked horrified. ‘
Bien sûr
,’ he cried, ‘
mais, c’est pour les bêtes!
’ We did cook some and it was quite good but we could never persuade Raymond to try it. As far as he was concerned it was on a par with another English abomination, mint sauce.
    This holiday we had brought with us a large leg of English lamb. We knew that it would be a treat for
les Bertrand
, being firstly an animal that they did
not
rear and secondly, at that time, more than twice as expensive in France. We planned to invite the whole family for Sunday