It started during the bus journey from Glasgow to Edinburgh airport on the way home to Provence. Saying goodbye is always sad but there were other worries; earnings have been minimal for the past ten months and the new hot water tank was costing more than the balance of my bank account. People who assert that it’s no good throwing money at a problem have either never been poor or had an unhappy teenage daughter. In the old days when I had a bit of cash and one of the girls was especially miserable, a chat in the car and a wee spin round Topshop or Urban Outfitters generally did wonders. Those days are gone. I’ve been a financial basket case for years now.
Generally, in less stressful times, I’m organised and stroll through airport customs towards the car park, key and ticket in hand. As the bus from Glasgow to Edinburgh pulled away, I looked for the car key. After emptying my bag twice and some frantic messaging, the only hope was I’d thrown it in the carry-on case, which was now inaccessibly stowed. At the airport I found a quiet corner and searched. No sign. The plane was due to land at Nice at 9 p.m. but was delayed for two hours, and there was no one who could make the three-hour round trip from the remote hills of the Var to bring the spare key. Dejected and full of self-loathing, I accepted a friend’s kind offer to pay for a taxi to bring the basic spare key, promising to reimburse her as soon as I could.
The plane landed at 11 p.m. My residency permit was due to expire at midnight, adding to the drama. The queue for passport control was tediously long but good-natured, and at five past midnight I was waved through, found the waiting taxi woman and headed to the parking. But I’d forgotten to make a note of the space. Half an hour later I found the car, and saw that when I had parked three days before, all in a 7 a.m. flap, I’d left the car unlocked and the keys in the ignition. It was 2.30 a.m. by the time I got home and 4 a.m. before, helped by a large J&B whisky mac, I calmed down sufficiently to go to bed.
People who assert it’s no good throwing money at a problem have never had an unhappy teenager
I wasn’t the only person in this peaceful quartier having a rough time. A frail and tiny elderly lady arrived a year ago with her even frailer and tinier 17-year-old dog; a minuscule and trembling bag of bones. This pitiful creature was redeemed only by his tail, which, without ceasing, wagged slowly and deliberately; you almost wished it didn’t, fearing the energy expended would be too much.
The day before I got back, the lady took her dog on its lead for a morning walk. On the way she stopped at the rubbish bins. Just then the great arched wooden door across the road opened and the Doberman-cross we all hear often but see rarely, escaped and savaged the old dog, killing it instantly. It is possible I suppose that the Doberman committed an act of altruistic canine euthanasia, but everyone was shocked. A stoical thing, once she got over the horror, the old lady comforted herself with the fact that at least her dog’s suffering had been brief. No one’s seen the Doberman since, but on the way to the market this morning I heard barking exactly like it behind another heavy door.
It’s not all bad. The sun is shining, poppies are blooming and the cliff path is fragrant with lilac. The cafés and restaurants are open and the village is lively with visitors. Encouraged by friends, I made a decision to move into the cave apartment over the summer in the hope of renting out the main house, which is bigger, more comfortable and has spectacular views south to the Massif des Maures. And last week I received four new painting commissions. Like an old hack or perhaps ‘tart’ of the painting world, I say yes to (and enjoy) painting portraits, landscapes, still lifes and whatever your favourite flowers are. Anything really. I have to earn a living and most people want paintings of things they like and are not particularly interested in allegorical works. Although I did sell three out of the four of those on the subject of divorce some years ago, possibly on account of them depicting female nudes.
Another allegorical work, started in 2022 as a nod to Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’, war and the pandemic, ‘Hyacinth Girl’ is fully clad and yet to find a buyer. Once, during unnecessarily fraught divorce negotiations, I painted anemones in a pewter jug with a kindling axe in the background. A school friend doubled over in laughter when she saw it. ‘I know who the axe is for!’ I told her honestly that it wasn’t and that the axe happened to be beside the fire, as were the flowers. It was simply an interesting combination of objects: the axe (useful but dangerous) and the anemones (fresh, colourful and lovely). Looking up flower meanings just now for the first time, I discovered that the anemone symbolises hope, resilience and the cost of love.
For more information on Catriona’s Airbnb, go to www.spectator.com/cave-house
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