won us over with her affectionate ways and loud, demanding cries for food. She was a demonstrative thing. Acting at first like a lost waif, she later wouldn’t leave, and brought gifts in the form of mice and birds in the middle of the night. Unfortunately some were still alive, and they would turn up hiding behind furniture over the next few days.
It took nearly two months to establish where Myrtille had come from. A couple came walking by one day pushing a baby carriage and asked if we had seen a cat. After listening to their description of “une petite siamoise, beaucoup de miaow-miaow,” we produced Myrtille, who had at that moment been sleeping on our sofa. Apparently she had gone missing just days after their new baby came home from the hospital. Our house was on the hillside and her owners’ villa turned out to be just at the foot of the hill.
We would become friends with Yvette and Gilles and have apéritifs at each others’ homes from time to time. Gilles made a joke of the situation by saying that Myrtille would spend her vacances d’été, or summer vacation, at our place, then return home in the fall when we left for Canada.
The problems started when we arrived with Tabitha the following spring. Territorial warfare began occurring at all hours of the day and night. There were times we felt we were living in Lebanon. Rescuing either one or the other eventually seemed futile so we gave up and left them to sort it out—which didn’t happen.
I turned on the gas burner on the stove and began to boil water to make coffee.
“The house looks great,” I said, searching for a tablecloth and plates. “Let’s eat on the balcony.”
“In our pyjamas? This isn’t the Riviera, where nude bathing is okay. This is Provence, and they are plenty conservative here. All the drivers going by on the road below will stare at the open shutters.”
“Live dangerously,” I said.
“Thanks, I’ll change. They can laugh at you,” Marie-Hélène added drily.
I moved the iron patio table and chairs we had stored in the living room over the winter onto the balcony and set the table. A car drove by and I could see the driver looking up at me. Feeling self-conscious, I went inside to unpack a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.
Coming back, I looked over the open kitchen and living space we had created. A dividing wall had been removed between the rooms, so that the sun and fresh air streamed through the two sets of French doors that opened onto the balcony. Eating outdoors is one of the pleasures of living in Provence, and we took full advantage of it. The awning over the balcony was as much for protection from the harsh summer sun as for rainy weather. With it extended, the balcony was like another room, only outdoors.
The house and garden had been a work in progress since we purchased it from an old widower. He had built the house and raised his family here. He stayed a few years after his wife died, but lost interest in the day-to-day upkeep and gardening, so he put it on the market and moved to an apartment in the village.
When we first saw it, the house had been unoccupied for some time and needed a lot of attention. Marie-Hélène had thrown herself into the job that spring with amazing energy. Wallpaper covered every wall and even some of the ceilings. The bathroom was dark brown. We disliked wallpaper. It all had to be stripped off and the walls washed, sanded and then painted. She did this alone, or at times with the help of visiting friends. I returned to Vancouver to manage my law practice.
In the midst of the work, Marie-Hélène’s friend Jane arrived on her vacation. A natural decision maker, she saw the scale of the work ahead and put herself in charge. She started by walking through each room with a paper pad and pen and making long lists of the things that had to be purchased. She looked at the curved mouldings on the ceilings and said that stencilling would act as an attractive transition between the wall and the ceiling. Stencils were added to the lists.
Marie-Hélène had wanted to paint several pieces of old provençal furniture. Jane said no. When Marie-Hélène persisted, Jane carried the pieces outside, stripped away the aged varnish and then waxed the wood. Marie-Hélène was first taken aback, then delighted when she saw the inlaid wood details.
Jane had enormous energy and worked tirelessly. Once, after a week of ceaseless work, she saw that Marie-Hélène was exhausted, so she told her to put down whatever she was doing, because they were going out for the rest of the day to relax.
Between the two of them the work had moved along quickly and efficiently. The next summer Marie-Hélène had renovated the kitchen, and this year we had plans for a guest suite on the rez-de-jardin or garden level.
“After breakfast I should telephone the Drouins next door. They’ll have seen our car by now and know we’re home.”
“Okay, I’ll bring in the rest of the luggage.”
Breakfast on the balcony meant looking at the garden, so when we were finished eating we began the process of settling in by pouring more coffee and taking a walk outdoors in the morning sun.
We had dreams for the garden, including setting a stone bench in front of an old stone wall with rich-scented blue lavender planted at each end, and building dry stone walls to improve the paths. Everything required time and money, neither of which we had in great supply.
The long-neglected and overgrown garden had needed weeks of weeding, pruning and replanting when we arrived. We both loved gardening, though, and this one grew on us the more we tended it. We wanted a provençal garden that would attract bees and other insects, so we visited a pépiniere and bought lavender and valerian. We tore out the meagre and neglected patches of grass on the level areas beside the house and replaced them with several truckloads of crushed gravel, to create two patios. The rest of the property sloped down to the road and had grown wild for some time. The slope gave the house elevation, so that we overlooked the red tile roofs of the village of Nyons and the forested mountains that surround it. These mountains shelter the village from the harsh mistral wind in the Rhône Valley and hold the warmth of the sun in winter, giving Nyons a better climate than the surrounding area and the nickname Petit Nice.
We sipped our coffee while inspecting the condition of each tree and plant, first by the house and then down the slope on what remained of the old garden paths. Returning to the house too early meant getting down to the work that needed to be done, so we lingered, sitting on a wall and talking, pulling at a weed or two—having a time-out.
We learned in Provence how to create all sorts of time-outs. One was with a bottle of rosé wine, fresh from the fridge, that would be put on the table at lunch. We rarely drank it in Vancouver. However, it made a perfect fit in the dry climate of Provence. We bought various Tavel rosés, and then on long, warm afternoons sat in the garden sipping and offering personal opinions about how they compared. These wines are born of a hot climate and soils of limestone, clay and quartz stones. This permits the winemakers to fashion from a half-dozen varieties of grapes a wine with structure, solidity and density capable of power and mellowness, yet retaining intense floral aromas and touches of fruit. The exceptional freshness and vivacity of a Tavel was a delight on hot summer days.
A screeching sound emanated from near the house. Tabitha must have ventured into the garden and met Myrtille.
“I suppose unpacking is in order,” Marie-Hélène said somewhat wistfully, and we walked back indoors.
Tabitha was a veteran traveller who journeyed in her own bag that I placed under my plane seat. She had turned up the first time in our garden in Vancouver as a kitten visiting from the neighbour’s yard. Her appearances became more frequent, and one rainy day she arrived at our back door asking in. We fed her and
