A House in the Sunflowers Read Online Free Page A

lichen on the corner wall showed where the rain had trickled in over the years. My heart sank. The specification hadindeed said ‘
INTERIEUR A RESTORER
’ but…
    Another two doors led off to the right, the first into a corridor about nine feet wide. There were ominous holes in the beaten earth floor which was strewn with broken rabbit hutches, wire cages, dozens of empty bottles, and everywhere cobwebs on the cobwebs, layered with dust like thick muslin. Matthew, always ahead, had already found a mouldering, uneven staircase at the far end lit by a very small window. Above this was another, even older window with no frame or glass, just a hand-carved stone opening, closed by a crude, heavy oak shutter which, when we opened it inwards, showered us with dust but revealed wonderful old nails with which it was studded. There was enough light for us to gingerly ascend into the attic or
grenier
which ran the whole length of the house. It was not in as bad a state as we had expected and was full of old farm implements, piles of corn husks, old boxes and even what looked like another ancient sideboard in the far corner.
    Downstairs once more in the main room we opened the second door on the right and found a small room with an unusually low, tongued and grooved pine ceiling and a glass door which led outside. M. Bertrand explained that this room was the newest addition. It had been built inside the main structure for the old lady who had lived there with her son, because it was south facing and so warmer in the winter.
    ‘How old was she?’ I asked.
    ‘Ninety-two when she died,’ he answered, ‘and her son almost seventy.’
    The last area M. Bertrand showed us was the huge outhouse or
chai
which was, he told us, a store for wine, north facing but not like a
cave
, which is below ground. We went in through a wide oak door at one side of the porch. About eighteen feet high nearest to the house, it sloped steeply down to barely five feet at the far end. ‘Brilliant!’ breathed Matthew as we stepped inside. Not only dust and cobwebs here but also an eleven years’ old collection of dead leaves from the two overhanging ash trees. Along the lowest wall, raised on two heavy beams were a dozen large oak barrels and several smaller ones, there was a pair of ancient scales with weights; a weird, wooden, wheelbarrow-like machine which was, we learned, for winnowing the wheat and another for stripping the corn from the cob; benches, baskets, lanterns, boxes, besoms and yet more bottles.
    We wanted to talk about the house. Mike explained to M. Bertrand that we had a picnic with us in our camping van. Might we eat it there by the house? We were sure that he too might like to finish his own meal. We were very interested. (Very interested? I was besotted!) We would stay there until he returned.
    His reaction surprised us. His face fell. He pushed his straw hat back off his brown forehead to showthe white strip beneath. He shrugged and blushed, shifting his brown feet in the dust. What could be the problem? Eventually he explained that the previous summer he had done precisely that with another group of people. On his return they had already left, taking with them the old brass lamp which had hung above the table. What could we say? We suggested he lock the house but he suddenly smiled, shook our hands and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
    Once more the silence descended as we gazed at the neglected house. Many of the ancient tiles had slipped and staggered down the steep slope of the roof giving it a drunken look. The plaster on the thick walls was stained and crumbling, the shutters falling to pieces and holes in the ceiling – but how I wanted it.
    I handed out the bread, cheese and fruit and Mike uncorked the wine. Too excited to sit down, we circled the house again, picnic in hand. Matthew discovered two small outhouses that looked as though they might have been pigsties and another with a curiously high, narrow double door and a