Free A House in the Sunflowers by Ruth Silvestre Page B

massive beams which must surely run across above the worm-eaten pine. We looked at each other and, as with most jobs that we have done ourselves at Bel-Air, the decision was mutual and, once voiced, instantly begun.
    Down came the dusty slats. Leaves, cobwebs, mouse and bat droppings filled our hair and eyes but, as we had hoped, we uncovered the original boards and beams. Gleefully we worked all morning, carrying out the worm-eaten slats to form a welcome stack offirewood. The plaster on the exterior wall of the room was loose and crumbled away as we brushed against it. We realised that it was simply a crude earth mixture that would have to come down at some time and we were in a demolition mood. We had a ten minute break for food (how un-French!) and then began, gently at first, to knock away the earth.
    What excitement! The floor was soon covered with dry clods and through the choking dust we could see the wonderful stones emerging. They were far too handsome to be plastered. We could have them cleaned and leave this wall in
pierres apparentes
as it is called. The joins between the stones we would fill with a light-coloured cement and leave the stones proud. Once begun it was compulsive. All afternoon we worked, dragging the rickety ladder from the barn to supplement our small stepladder. There were far more urgent tasks waiting but we did not care. When the wall was almost finished we heard Raymond chugging up the track. He switched off the engine and wiping the sweat from his eyes climbed down from the tractor. ‘
Viens, viens!
’ we shouted. His face made me laugh aloud. His mouth dropped open as he gazed alternately up at the ceiling and down to the chaos on the floor.
    ‘
Mais…qu’est-ce que vous faites
?’ he cried, his dark eyes round as marbles. It was plain that he considered us quite mad but did not like to say as much.
    By now we had seen that the pattern of the stones continued on the other side of the newer, thin wall which divided this room from the bottom of the staircase, and would extend to the original window with the iron-studded door above it. We explained that we thought of moving the interior wall back to include this window with its hand-cut stone opening and transom. Raymond nodded gravely. ‘
Oui, la fenêtre est jolie. Elle est tellement ancienne
.’ He looked suddenly relieved. Perhaps these English were not entirely crazy.
    Needing something with which to clear the floor I looked up the word for wheelbarrow. I followed him to the barn where he unearthed for me the oldest wooden barrow I’d ever seen. He smiled as I tugged at the handles. ‘
C’etait avec celle-là que Anaïs faisait ses commissions au village
’, he said. It takes me fifteen minutes at least to walk to the village shop and it is downhill all the way. I imagined having to pull this barrow, loaded with shopping, back up the bumpy track and I was once more humbled by the hard life of my predecessor. I longed to know more about her.
    I felt her presence strongly, there were so many of her things still in the house. In the drawer of the sideboard which she had polished I found her rusted needles in a wooden case, dusty spools of thread, worn wooden spindles and dozens of rolled up strips of material torn from shirt tails. The boys, imaginingthey might contain treasures, unrolled a few but they were simply scraps for patching, a sign of her poverty and thrift.
    As she had promised, Grandma had brought me the photograph. Anaïs must have been in her early thirties when it was taken. A strong, handsome woman in a dark dress and white cap she stands protectively behind a sturdy boy of about twelve years, who is holding a hoop. Was this taken before he caught polio or was it just a thoughtlessly cruel photographer’s prop? They look confidently enough into the camera, unaware of the tragedies to befall them; a sad contrast with Raymond’s description of the last days of a frail and bed-ridden, ninety-two-year-old Anaïs and