I drive David to Toulouse to catch his plane back to Australia. He’s travelling on a cheap business class ticket, which means he has a four-day stopover in Hong Kong, something he’s really not looking forward to. He is subdued and melancholy. I am feeling totally drained by the last few weeks and quite honestly will be pleased when he’s gone, so I can have some time on my own to mentally process everything that has happened. If I was confused about my life before the last two months, I am now even more unsettled and uncertain.
We are both quite subdued on the journey south, talking more about the effects of the heatwave on the crops and woods in this region than about our ongoing marital problems. The fields that adjoin the motorway are filled with burnt and frizzled stems of maize and sunflowers. The vineyards don’t seem to have suffered as much damage, but the surrounding hillsides are very telling, dotted with dead and dying oak and chestnut trees all through the woods. A lot of the vegetation here, as in Australia, has grown naturally on very shallow, rocky ground. Over the summer the roots have remained dry for so long that the trees themselves have started to die. It’s the first time we have ever observed the northern hemisphere looking like Australia in the summer, faded and dry.
After his bags have been checked in, David turns to hug and kiss me good-bye. ‘I guess you’ll be glad to see the back of me,’ he says with a slight smile.
I deny it, of course, but he knows me well enough to know the truth. I need a break from him and from our deeply troubled relationship.
In the car driving back from the airport to Frayssinet, I put my foot flat to the boards. David always cautions me to drive the old Peugeot slowly. He believes it isn’t safely capable of more than 100 kmh. But it’s a lively little car and easily reaches 140 kmh on the motorway. I open the sunroof and inhale a sense of freedom and release. And relief.
This isn’t right. I should be feeling sad that David is leaving. But I feel elated that I don’t have to grapple with the difficulties any more. They haven’t disappeared, of course, they have just moved out of sight for a little while.
I throw myself back into the party scene and start getting organised for the walking tour. The book isn’t making much progress. I seem to be stuck mid-sentence. It’s symptomatic of my entire life. Going nowhere.
My lover is away visiting friends in southern France and this allows me some space to do a little clear thinking. I have had no conversation with him since the day he and David met and talked, and I am concerned that he must have found the entire episode gruelling. I hope we can now revert to our former relationship – that of just being friends. It would certainly take the pressure off us both.
I hear not a word from David for the four days he is in transit. Normally he would call from Hong Kong every day for a chat, but this time there is complete silence. On the fifth day, he phones to say he has arrived back at the farm to total catastrophe. It’s freezing cold at Yetholme. Snowing. A pipe linked to the hot water service in the attic has frozen and then burst, flooding the kitchen, bathroom, linen cupboard and one of the bedrooms. Fortunately our neighbour Robert Porter found the disaster within hours of it happening, but even so the water damage is extensive. Robert had been up to the house in the early morning checking the animals and at that stage everything seemed to be in order. For some reason he popped back in just before lunchtime, knowing that David would be arriving in the late afternoon. In the intervening period thousands of litres of water had cascaded into the house. He managed to turn off the water and mop up just before David came up the drive. It’s a deeply depressing, distressing homecoming.
To add to the gloom, David discovers that rats have made a nest in our bedroom and dressing room. There are rat droppings everywhere and a huge amount of damage to our clothing. His best suit has been gnawed at the shoulder. And my new hat. David is very careful with his clothes. He looks after them and they last for years and years. He is horrified at the extent of the damage.
I can just imagine how terrible he is feeling having to deal with all of this on his own, especially after having been through such an emotionally draining couple of months. Coming from the intense heat of that French summer to grey skies, minus five degrees and a house that has been flooded and invaded by vermin.
If I had half a heart I’d jump on the next plane home to help him. But I don’t.