I drive to Agen to collect David from the train. Ever since we have owned the house David has caught the train to Toulouse after the Cannes Film Festival and then connected with a train to Cahors so I can pick him up. But it’s a bit of a logistical nightmare because David always carries far too much luggage and there is less than fifteen minutes between the connecting trains. He has to wrestle his bags down steep stairs from one train, find a departure board to locate the platform for the Cahors train, then make a dash for it. Both previous times he has only managed to catch the train by a whisker and has arrived in a state of nervous exhaustion.
So I make some investigations and discover that there is a through train from Cannes to Agen, which is a slightly longer drive for me but far less of a hassle for him. I have only ever driven to Agen once, so I relish the thought of exploring the different countryside again. Agen is famous for its prunes, which are used in so many ways: prune tarts, prune liqueurs, prune sauces, rabbit and quails sautéed with prunes, and prunes soaked in eau de vie which is a regional delicacy.
It’s a beautiful day and the scenery is outstanding. Vast fields of sunflowers just coming to a head, patches planted with maize, and endless vineyards with small stone villages punctuating the countryside. The architecture changes as I drive south and the region appears to be more prosperous than the Lot, where I live. I am trying to feel happy at the prospect of having David and then Miriam arrive, but somehow I fear it isn’t going to be an easy time for us. David is still incredibly fragile about the man from Toulouse and I fear it will sit like a cloud over our family holiday.
I have taken time with my clothes and make-up and I am hoping we can manage a happy reunion. Throughout our marriage we have spent long periods apart, mostly because of the nature of David’s work. The best part has always been getting back together again. The reunion. I haven’t seen David since that stressful afternoon at Sydney airport with the ABC film crew in our faces, and although I know he will be tired from the long hours that are a part of the Festival, I am hoping he will be in a slightly more positive frame of mind.
He falls out of the train with his usual quota of oversized bags, plus numerous smaller carry bags stuffed with scripts and magazines and Cannes paraphernalia. He is being assisted by a tall man who carries several of the bags. As I walk towards him, anticipating an embrace, he just nods at me and continues an animated conversation with the man. I stand waiting and eventually the man moves off. David looks frazzled and gives me a cursory hug.
‘Who was that?’ I ask, imagining that it must be someone he knows, perhaps also from the Festival.
‘Just a man from the train. He spoke English and offered to help me get off.’
I feel somewhat deflated. The moment has been lost. We just haven’t made an emotional connection and it’s as though, from the very start of our holiday, the tension has set in. Driving through the glorious countryside I make attempts to point out landmarks, but that does nothing to lighten the atmosphere. Eventually I challenge him: ‘What’s your problem?’
And his anger pours out. He doesn’t really want to be here. He never wanted to return to the village. He’s only coming because of Miriam. Under sufferance. Nothing I can say will make any difference.
It’s obvious that we are in for a difficult summer.
Even when we arrive at the little house his mood is leaden. Resentful. I have filled it with flowers and the courtyard looks pretty in the dappled evening light. But he just wants to collapse and drink gin. He’s carrying tobacco and rolls himself cigarette after cigarette. He hasn’t smoked – except perhaps two cigars a year – for thirty years, and I can see that he’s using these as a crutch. A coping mechanism. But in reality the alcohol and tobacco make him even more wound-up and stressed.
We make love in a desultory fashion. He’s tired and I’m annoyed at his negative attitude. I’m now wishing he hadn’t come after all. That he had just left the film festival and gone to England, which was an alternative he had proposed during one of his unhappy phone calls from Cannes.
The following morning we drive to Toulouse to pick up Miriam, who will have endured the gruelling 34-hour trek from Bathurst via Paris. I wish we could have had a few days to resolve our differences before her arrival, but the plan has always been for her to be here on her thirtieth birthday – which is in two days’ time. We arrive before her plane is due to land and are astonished to see Miriam already standing at the entrance to the airport looking anxious. She is overwhelmed with relief to see us, because the journey has been a nightmare. In Paris there was a baggage handlers’ strike and her luggage was lost at the terminal. The connecting plane to Toulouse was cancelled, so she was rushed by coach to another airport to pick up a Toulouse flight that actually arrived 40 minutes ahead of the one she was originally scheduled to take. She’s tired, frazzled and dirty and has no clothes, just a small Air France emergency pack that contains face cream, a toothbrush, disposable knickers, a tampon and a condom. They have promised to send her bags on by taxi.
David does the driving and I point out the various châteaux and churches nestled on the hillsides as we wind our way from Cahors to Frayssinet. Her spirits start to lift as she takes in the absolute beauty of the countryside, with the old stone houses that remind her so much of the one we rented in Grasse when she was a child. It’s after lunchtime and I immediately drag her across to the bar and start introducing her around to the locals. We order the largest beer we can get – more than a pint – and she gradually starts to calm down and look around her. Jock, Sandie and Gordon appear from nowhere, and within minutes we are laughing and talking thirteen to the dozen. Miriam looks around the square, at the church and the streetscape with its colourful bar awnings and tables and chairs spilling into the roadway.
‘Oh Mum, this is an amazing place,’ she says. ‘I can see why you love it here so much.’