A House in the Sunflowers by Ruth Silvestre Read Free Book Online Page B

concrete
fosse
on the front of his bulldozer. There it hung until later that day when he came back with two of his workmen who immediately began to dig like beavers. M. René sped off in his van and the boys watched in amazement as the two small workmen went ever deeper throwing up great great clods of earth as they gradually disappeared. Not until they were down about ten feet did they stop and call for the ladder to get them out. Alas, it was on the van which had gone with M. René.
    The boys searched the barn and dragged out the only ladder that they could find. It was completely worm-eaten and as we lowered it down we mimed that they must only tread on the outside edge of the few remaining rungs. Once the
fosse
was in situ M. René filled it with water. He told us that otherwise it would float up again if it rained hard. How much rain were they expecting we wondered?
    No one would let us pay them. It was very strange. They said they were all friends of M. Bertrand and it could wait. The last days sped past and the morning when we had to leave for England arrived all too soon. We took a last look round. We covered the mattresses in plastic sheets and wondered about damp and mice. We loaded the van, locked the door and walked round once more to look at the view. How could we bear to go? High in a cloudless sky a lark poured out its effortless coloratura. The japonica was in flower, irisesunder the window were just beginning to unwrap their white, scented petals and everywhere there were swellings of buds that I would not see unfold.
    We climbed into what seemed an incredibly spacious van, took a last look at our beloved house and drove very slowly down the track to the farm. There on the table, lined up for us to take, were a carton of eggs, a jar of prunes in
eau-de-vie
, bottled greengages and pears, bunches of onions and the wicker-covered
bonbonne
of wine. We stowed them all in the van and went in for a last cup of coffee. Grandma had made a tin of
gauffres
, a rolled-up crisp wafer biscuit, for the boys to eat on the journey. They all hoped the dreaded channel would not be too rough.
    As we climbed at last into the van Grandpa came to say goodbye clutching what looked like a bottle of mineral water. We guessed from the grin on his face that it was in fact his precious
eau-de-vie
. ‘I haven’t filled it to the top,’ he said. ‘That way it will look more like water for the journey. If they ask you can always say it’s from Lourdes.’
    ‘And if they taste it?’
    ‘Say it’s a miracle!’ he shouted throwing up his arms in delight. They all stood waving until we turned the corner and set our faces northwards.

C HAPTER F IVE
    Mike, who was then still lecturing at Goldsmiths’ college, had eight weeks’ summer vacation and I simply drew a line through the whole of Matthew’s school holidays and accepted no bookings. For the first time in my life I did not want to work, I just longed to get to France. Our other son Adam was, alas, off on yet another tour. Many friends, eager to see what we had bought, announced their intentions of coming to stay. In vain we described its near derelict state; the one, cold, outside tap, the distinct possibility of our lavatory in the pigsty not being finished; but it wasimpossible to dissuade them and I suppose that we did not try very hard. One of the many joys of Bel-Air has turned out to be the sharing of it with friends.
    We drove down as usual without an inch to spare. Matthew and the indomitable Durrell hung onto a secondhand fridge insecurely wedged between more beds, a chest of drawers, and boxes of those things which were, at that time, twice as expensive or unobtainable in France; tissues and toilet rolls, orange juice and butter, tea and Marmite. It is interesting that now prices are almost comparable except for cheese which I still find inexplicably more expensive in France, milk being much the same price.
    There were no clouds and a brilliant full moon rose to light