doesn’t purr,” Marie-Hélène observed.
“She may not know how,” I offered. “Her owners ignore her.”
As the summer passed, the kitten learned how to visit at night. She climbed the trellis giving access to the roof. We were in the habit of leaving the balcony door to the second-floor bedroom open for fresh air. One night we felt the slight thud of a weight landing on our bed, followed by a faint ”Che-r-r-up?” Then the kitten walked up to the head of the bed and pawed at the covers. One of us lifted the sheets. She crawled under, then pushed her way to the foot of the bed where she slept for the rest of the night. Marie-Hélène, a born animal lover, was won over.
Tabitha continued her visits over the summer and into the fall, coming and going at her pleasure. Then, late one cold fall night, Marie-Hélène woke up, saying she heard a noise. “I heard thumping sounds on the roof and then a cat crying.” We opened the balcony door and the cries grew louder. The balcony and the railing were coated with hoarfrost. In the eavestrough several feet below was Tabitha. She couldn’t seem to move, and her cries became desperate when she saw us.
“She’s hurt and we can’t reach her down there!”
Marie-Hélène looked around and saw an area rug on the floor. She picked it up and draped it over the railing until it reached the cat. Tabitha dug her front claws into the rug and tried to climb it, but without success. We slowly pulled the rug up until I could take hold of her and lift her over the railing.
“She must have slid down the frost on the shingles and landed in the eavestrough.”
I carried her into the bedroom and put her down on the floor. Her rear legs collapsed. “Look—she can’t walk.” I exclaimed.
She attempted to stand up, but her hind legs wouldn’t support her. I lifted her onto the bed. Marie-Hélène got some cat treats and the kitten avidly ate them and soon began to purr loudly. One leg was scraped almost to the bone. She just lay on the bed, eating and purring.
At the vet’s office the next morning we were informed she had a broken hip. The bones were so small surgery was out of the question. The prognosis for recovery was “fifty-fifty.”
Tabitha needed a place to rest and recover, so we folded a blanket on the floor next to our bed and set out bowls of food and water as well as a makeshift litter box. For days she stayed there, moving only when necessary.
Once up and around, Tabitha again spent her time between our house and the neighbours. The hip had healed so well it was difficult to tell she had been injured. Then one day moving vans arrived and the house next door was emptied. She was left behind.
Chapter 2
Connecting with our French tradesmen
Spring brought a fresh quality to the air and we had arrived in time to enjoy it. The fields were still grey and leafless—green had not yet begun to transform the hillsides—but the buds were swelling and the days growing longer. The cicadas, or cigales as they are known in Provence, were months away from their raucous song. When the cats were apart a certain calm took over.
In the house the long campaign to remove wallpaper marched on. The last room on the ground floor would only give up its paper in inch-sized bits after tedious labour.
Within a couple of days we had settled into our routine, and it felt like we had never left. At the end of each day we celebrated our efforts with a glass of wine on the balcony. On particularly still nights we could hear the church bell in the village ringing out. It rang twice, in case someone didn’t hear it the first time. The cock down the hill crowed at dawn and whatever other time he felt like doing so.
We had telephoned several tradesmen and sooner or later they would appear to change the rhythm of our peaceful days. The farmers would bring out their equipment and drive up and down the hills preparing the vineyards and orchards for the growing season, and life would return after the winter interlude.
By the third day our jet lag had receded and the trades had begun to turn up at the front door—not always at the agreed-upon time or the right day, but at least we had the pleasure of knowing they were thinking of us.
The road winding past our house provided a means for getting to know the people who lived in the area. A small red Renault swung out of a driveway just up the hill and sped down the road in my direction. Out of normal courtesy I waved. The driver braked to a sudden stop in the middle of the road and jumped out of the car.
“Bonjour, bonjour! Vous êtes arrivés pour l’été?”
It was Faustin Buisson, an elderly man who in the past had waved at me but never stopped. So these few words were the first to pass between us. He had a small and wiry build topped with a balding head of sparse grey hair. He grinned broadly, exposing a gold canine in a row of crooked teeth and looked me straight in the eye while shaking my hand.
“Oui, nous sommes ici pour six mois maintenant,” I replied.
“Ça c’est bien,” he said enthusiastically, and then finished with, “À bientôt.”
As quickly as he had arrived, he jumped back in his car and sped away. I had seen Faustin coming and going the previous year. I knew nothing about him and I assumed he lived alone, as his manner was that of a solitary person. There was always a sense of scurrying in his movements. Each morning he drove to the village and then returned a little while later.
One day later that spring I met him at the village square and said hello to him, but he showed little interest. This confused me at first, then I thought that possibly I had received his one welcome for the summer.
In many of the villages in Provence the farmers, butchers, fishmongers, cheese makers and other merchants arrive at dawn to set up stands and sell their products in the weekly outdoor markets. The village squares, streets and narrow lanes turn into crowded shopping areas filled with noise and activity. This is also a social event where neighbours and acquaintances can greet each other and have a word or two.
Thursday is the day for the marché in Nyons and, as this was our first Thursday since returning, we started off early to take advantage of the best selection. Even though the village is within walking distance, we drove in order to avoid the uphill walk home carrying our heavy paniers stuffed with food.
Parking was difficult at any time, however with the market stalls occupying the square, vehicles were pressed off onto the narrow side streets and along the riverbank. Paniers in hand, we strolled into the square. Each week as the season progressed the fresh produce changed. Sometimes the plan for dinner would suddenly be altered as the produce we wanted was no longer in season or something new had arrived.
It was a joy to be back and take in the market for the first time again. The stalls and the people milling about create a kaleidoscope of colour and activity. We divided the morning into shopping together for the core ingredients and then separating to buy other things. Each square and street has its own smells: fresh fish in one aisle with water running constantly from the thawing ice on the fish, roasting chicken on spits in the next aisle. Leather goods, spices and incense all offered their own aromas.
I headed for the stall where a man was making paella, a saffron-flavoured dish of Spanish origin containing vegetables, rice, meat and seafood, while the shoppers waited and watched. Marie-Hélène went off to another square where fresh vegetables are sold and her favourite
