agreed to bring Joe for an hour a day. Michael and I walked him to school the first day, and we handed him over. He burst into tears. Annie, who as well as being the principal was also the teacher in his class, waved us away. I sat on the edge of a chair at home for an hour, then went to retrieve him. He was still crying – he hadn’t stopped. We repeated the exercise that week and the next, two of the worst weeks of Michael’s and my life. By the end of the second week he wasn’t crying, but he wasn’t letting go of Annie, either. She was wonderfully patient. None of this ‘A little crying is good for him’ or ‘It will make him strong’ that one hears so much in France in reference to children and their painful ordeals. She held him, sang to him, took care of him, all the while conducting her class.
By month’s end, Joe was comfortable enough to play with the children, and we left him for two hours at a time, then three. By the end of three months he told us he had a friend, though he wasn’t sure of her name. One Sunday we went to a children’s program at the salle des fêtes – village hall – and his eyes lit up. ‘Mama, there she is, my friend,’ he said, pointing to a gorgeous little bright-eyed girl. I went to meet her and her parents, overcome with gratitude. They said they knew all about Joe. Annie had told me how their daughter, Lydia, though only three years old herself, had taken Joe under her wing and how they’d become fast friends. Thanks to Lydia, Joe looked forward to going to school, and after another three months he was speaking French like a native.
Once Joe was comfortable to stay the morning at school, we could pay attention to what he was actually doing there. It was remarkable – Annie had the kids doing craft projects, music, theatre, gymnastics. She welcomed songs in English, which she tried to teach to the other children. They went on field trips, and had circus performers come and teach them juggling and balancing. It was wonderful, and Joe ended up loving it. We regretted that first month that was so hard on him but it was such a relief to see him integrated. His night awakenings stopped, and he visibly relaxed.
Héloïse Tuyéras, a friend in her early seventies who once had a day care centre in her home and took care of Joe from time to time, lives in Le Vaudreuil, and her house is the depot for the local Catholic charity. This means that people with goods to give away simply drop them outside her front door, and she spends her time sorting, mending, cleaning and ironing everything that comes her way, then making sure they go where they are most needed.
When I stopped in to see her during our first week, she pointed out a stack of things she’d been collecting for us. I was surprised. ‘Héloïse, we’re not needy, we can get these things for ourselves,’ I said, imagining truly needy people going without.
‘Don’t be silly, Suzanne,’ she said. ‘I get so many things, you need so many things.’ She convinced me not to rest on my pride, and handed me a large bag of Lego for Joe, and an ironing board. That began a stream of goods which came our way from Heloise. One day, while we were still in the little house by the river, which Joe referred to as ‘France’, she called to see if Michael could pick up a four-burner stove that was almost like new. ‘You can have it if you want it,’ she said. ‘It belongs to a woman who wants to get rid of it, doesn’t want to sell it, doesn’t need the money.’ This was a gift from heaven. I was cooking on the two burners which were in the house when we moved in, managing, but I couldn’t do any real serious cooking or recipe-testing. We’d been putting off buying a stove, however, for even the simplest are very expensive. Michael returned that afternoon with the stove, which was a modern, dark-brown Rosières, a well-known brand. It had three gas burners and one electric, a curious but common quirk in French stoves. The electric burner was like an emergency burner should the gas be cut off, apparently created after the Second World War when this often happened. Michael made room for it on our little corner kitchen – with Florence’s blessing – and I was back in business. I could cook real meals again.
We now refer to Héloïse as our guardian angel for during that year she watched over us, continuing to supply us with things we needed, even before we realized we needed them. She lived just a few houses away and would stop by with toys, books and clothes for Joe, or to tell us about furniture that was available. One day she brought over a laundry rack, the next day a small chair for Joe, or a beautiful cotton sheet – small things that made life easier for us. She also invited us over for memorable meals which we shared together in her small house.
As the months progressed toward winter, rain and bone-chilling days set in. Michael set off early every morning for the house in Louviers while I got Joe off to school, then worked in my office. Michael would return at noon to pick up Joe, then he worked on plans for the house while Joe napped, and played with him while I worked. We’d been in the little house by the river for two months by then, about the amount of time we’d thought to stay there. But things on the house in Louviers were going slowly, and it was impossible for us to move in yet. Everything was taking much longer than we expected since it was all so different from anything Michael had ever worked on, from the electrical system to the plumbing. I checked in with Florence, who reassured us that her little house was ours for as long as we wanted it. We settled in even more.
The babysitter’s tenure was over so we saw her off one gray day. Life began to take on a rhythm. I needed to travel for work, so at least once a month I left on a Monday and would be gone most of the week, making sure to return in time for the weekend. Then we went to the Messy House, as Joe called the house in Louviers, which was paradise for him. He could build sand castles in the dining room, where Michael stored his pile of sand, or bang nails into boards while Michael and I worked alongside.
Our first weekend there together was magic. It was cold, so we were all bundled up as we worked. We hauled and scrubbed and organized as Joe ran around trying to help. Mid-morning Michael and I both had a longing for coffee, so we all went to the café across the street to take a break and warm up. The owner seemed to know who we were. ‘Next time if you’d like to take the coffee back to your house you may,’ she said in a friendly way. We accepted her offer. On days when we were all in the house, Joe and I would go to the café and I would order two grands crèmes and a chocolat chaud, which the owner would put on a tray. Holding Joe’s hand and the tray, I would navigate my way across the busy street feeling like a native. We would all sit in whatever room had a ray of sunshine coming into it or, if it was a particularly nice day, outside in the garden to sip our coffees and chocolate.
Once Michael got a good electrical line installed I was eager to make coffee in the house. I bought an electric coffee-maker and some coffee, brought cups from home, and went to our favourite local bakery, J. Gosselin, to buy sablés, Normandy’s traditional butter cookie. At morning break time I made coffee in the room upstairs where the owner had lived and where Michael had installed a plug. This coffee would be the first thing I had prepared in the house, and this was a momentous occasion. My hands trembled as I fit the paper filter into the machine and measured the coffee into it. I’ll never forget the eerie feeling I had smelling that first tempting, warm, human aroma in the house. Michael and I looked at each other. I could tell he felt the same way. How many people throughout the ages had made coffee, or the equivalent hot, comforting drink, in this house?
That was the first of many pots of coffee brewed in the upstairs room, where we often lunched on one-portion quiches, or small tomato pizzas, or baguette sandwiches stuffed with ham or cheese or hard-cooked eggs and vegetables from the bakery.
Progress on the house was steady, but slow. Every time Michael started on a room, expecting to be able to proceed easily from point A to point B, he’d find something that needed fixing first – a rotten beam that needed replacing, for instance. Before he could replace it, however, he’d have to move a wall, or shore up the floor, or go in some other direction before he could actually get back to point A. He desperately needed a helper, not just for the physical help but to assist him in interpreting the language and the system for buying materials, but that was out of the question. With the price of sheetrock (plaster-board) alone triple what it was in the US we needed
