Maria Hoyle was 63 when she packed up her life in Auckland and moved to France to be with a man (a France-based Kiwi) she'd met on Tinder. In this extract from her book, A Very French Affair, she describes some of the tensions of living in rural France with a partner who sometimes feels like a stranger.
I’m not understanding a thing. Yes, language barriers are to be expected — especially since I’ve only been here a couple of weeks. But Alistair is speaking English.
‘Antoine rang and there’s a meeting with the mayor on Jacqueline’s lawn, and I need to find out about the bread dough, because last year I did the trestle tables . . .’
‘Uh?’ I look up from the tranche of baguette which I’ve been busy slathering in jam like a brickie with his trowel. ‘It’s nine a.m. on a Saturday and you’re telling me there’s some kind of committee meeting happening? And why do we — and by that, I mean I — have to go?’
Alistair says more words that make no sense, so I shrug and clatter up the windy wooden staircase to put on some clothes. I’m guessing turning up in your undies is a no-no for committee meetings, no matter how weekend, rustic or French they are.
The heat slides over us like melted butter as we make our way along the river bank to our neighbour Jacqueline’s house. The river is clear and conversational, spilling vivaciously over the rocks. A white crane, light as origami, skims the water. At least I think it’s a crane. I’m not good on nature. But since flora and fauna are my new neighbours, I’d better get to know them. I make a mental note to find out what a crane looks like, and what he calls himself in French.
In A Year in Provence, Peter Mayle writes, ‘Neighbours, we have found, take on an importance in the country that they don’t begin to have in cities.’ Acutely aware of this, and since this is my first encounter with the ‘voisins’, I’m bringing my best Maria forward. She’s ready — wide smile, nicely conjugated irreg¬ular verbs, eager and poised. Pale blue linen dress — crumpled to convey just the right level of insouciance — heels left at home in favour of easy- breezy white canvas flats, to show I’m as au fait with impromptu meetings on lawns as the next person.
Jacqueline lives next door but one, and her lawn slopes non¬chalantly down to the water. It’s shaded by willows, and the scene when we arrive is all very Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, except it’s Saturday and instead of the bustles and parasols in Seurat’s painting there are fifteen or so people in sandals and shorts sitting on randomly positioned dining chairs.
The person I take to be the mayor — solely by virtue of his impressive moustache and the fact he’s bent over some kind of ledger — is at a small card table. The rest of the gathering are simply chatting quietly, and some consider me with vague curiosity. I have no idea who or where Jacqueline is. I sit by a grey- haired lady and try to look relaxed, as if attending an al fresco council meeting in a different language on a topic I don’t understand is my usual and preferred way of spending a weekend morning.
I smile wanly at my chair neighbour. ‘Je suis Maria — je suis la, um, l’amie d’Alistair.’
A flicker of a frown. In strongly Scouse- accented French she replies, ‘Oh, where are you staying?’
Clearly the ‘amie’ bit didn’t quite convey the seriousness of our relationship.
‘Avec Alistair, dans le moulin!’
She nods but there it is again. And this time the frown comes with a soupçon of an eyebrow raise. She’s not the warmest of individuals to begin with, and this hint of disapproval boosts her chill factor by several degrees.
Over the next ten minutes, I have this same conversation with several people. Then it dawns on me. I don’t think Alistair has told anyone that I exist. I start to feel unsettled. After all, if a girl is going to skip hemispheres, leave her lovely low- cost rental near the beach, her full- time job, her family, her whippet, her entire life . . . is it too much to ask that the man she’s doing it for expresses some excitement to his friends and neighbours? That he offers a little fanfare?
I feel stung. Especially since Alistair used to come here with the aforementioned Sarah, who they all loved. She didn’t even speak French but they all embraced her nonetheless. I need to get a grip. This latest bout of insecurity won’t do at all.
And then the pinot arrives. Sounds harmless enough, does it not? It isn’t. Pinot, you see, isn’t your friendly pinot noir or pinot gris. This is a local brew of champagne and brandy that is both a delight and the enemy of reason.
So when Alistair gestures to me to join him — he’s standing in a straggly semicircle of men — I’m filled with indignation. Hurt at not being introduced widely with ‘This is the love of my life and she has come to live with me’, I ignore him and carry on talking to a lovely English chap next to me who, alarmingly since he’s lived here about ten years, speaks no French. I completely shun everyone else at the meeting, mainly because I suddenly feel my stay in France will be very brief.
Later at home, Alistair is clearly displeased with my antisocial behaviour and still simmering resentment. However, we deftly avoid the topic while he fills me in about the meeting. After a three-year hiatus because of Covid, the village fête is to be held in a few weeks’ time. It’s an all- hands- on- deck affair as there is a lot of organisation to do. Now the earlier remarks about dough make sense. The hamlet has a communal bread oven which — back in the day — people could schlepp along to with their gooey lumps of wannabe baguette or loaf. It’s no longer used except at festival time and, after heating up the oven for three days, the local baker will make bread for several hundred people — both to sell and for the grand communal lunch. Alistair is meant to be helping, but he’s not sure in what capacity.
After he’s explained all this, we address the events of the morning. Alistair cannot fathom my behaviour. He worries that this is how it is going to be; that he will have to tread on eggshells; he says he can’t have someone around who gives in to emotion like that. And then he mentions the D word.
I can’t believe that old chestnut, the accusation of ‘drama’, has arisen so early in our relationship. He had so beautifully sidestepped it during that earlier conversation on racetrack day. He had been sensitive to my sensitivity. But now here it is, and from bitter experience there’s usually a swift journey from D to B. Break-up.
Feeling rattled and wanting to make some sense of it all, I head to the river. As I slip into the cool water, I am soothed and forced to dwell in the moment. Wading back to the bank, however, my feet slip and slide on the mossy stones underfoot — as if to remind me I’m on shaky emotional ground. Shivering slightly, I sit on a rock — not yet ready to go inside.
Later, when we have both calmed down, we talk. And I realise something fairly pivotal. Forget French subjunctives and learning the names for the many types of baguette (seriously, the boulangerie is a minefield). We need to start with the basics, i.e., how to understand each other.
Alistair explains he hadn’t told people about me because he was worried I’d change my mind at the last minute. He didn’t want to compound the sadness of my no- show with feeling utterly foolish in front of the entire village. Which as I have mentioned isn’t that many, even including the animals. But still.
Also he was deeply apprehensive. The ‘wonderful Sarah’ you see — fit, vivacious, super- active and, like Alistair, full of joie de vivre — died of cancer about a year before I met him. She was in her late fifties. He loved her, and the French locals loved her and despite the passing of time and the fact it was perfectly okay for Alistair to meet someone new . . . it worried him. Would they judge him for moving on?
And this really lovely piece of vulnerability and honesty from the man I am just getting to know teaches me two important things: (a) the universe does not revolve around me; (b) never ever accept a glass of pinot before 10 a.m.
A Very French Affair, by Maria Hoyle (Allen & Unwin NZ) is out now.
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