We have nothing in common but Miriam makes life worth living

AREADER asked me: How would you cope without Miriam? There was only one answer – God knows. If we’re lucky, there are times I’ve discovered over the years, the most unlikely angels appear in one’s life. Miriam is one although she’d bof and shrug at such a fanciful thought.

She and I have nothing in common. No common teenage memories; no similar backgrounds or experiences, and often no similar language. She speaks the fastest French I’ve ever heard, a completely different French to my formal, precise own.

Without the nuances and said/ unsaid of my own language, my conversation is carried on in broad brush strokes with few of the subtleties I enjoy. Often, I just end up in baffled laughter waving my hands.

That suits Miriam actually. She does not waste time in abstract thoughts. One is born, lives as best as one can and dies. There is no point fretting about the things that can’t be changed; no point fearing or worrying about what may or may not be to come and no point trying to change that which cannot be changed. She is, as she often says, a fatalist.

All this implies a rather one-dimensional character. Oh, dear me, no. Miriam has many hidden depths and swirling currents in her which I occasionally glimpse but will never fully see. I suspect she has trained herself to be, on the surface, this passive contented creature for many, many reasons it is not my place to know.

Born in Nice, early photographs she has shown me present a sexy, sultry temptress in short shorts; obligatory toy dog under arm, leaning provocatively against the railings of the famous Promenade.

Married twice, widowed and estranged from her only son, she has had other partners before Pierrot and admits she always needs a man in her life, a relationship, a partnership.

She loves to nurture, to cook, to make a man happy and comfortable, leaving him free to do the manly things in the house and grounds. Never would she tell him to make his own lunch or wash and iron his clothes.

She darns and repairs his hunting gear and then spends many hours and days alone as he follows his hobbies with no thought for her lonely days. He returns for his meals, which are always ready at the fixed French times and follow a pattern of his favourite foods.

She collects complicated recipes she never makes, for Pierrot limits his tastes to a handful of meat and vegetable dishes and is suspicious of anything new. She sublimates her creativity in front of cable TV’s buying channels, sending for all manner of kitchen equipment that spills over into the barn.

There are the preserves, sauces, frozen blanched vegetables and foie gras she works at hour after hour from the garden stock. Occasionally she cooks Sunday lunches of many courses for Pierrot’s ex, his daughters and their husbands.

Then she is in her element showcasing her classic skills but, having been a guest, I know they eat silently, never praise and head home after the last mouthful.

I will never understand her acceptance of her lot and she will never understand my fierce need for independence even at the cost of a life alone with all its flaws.

Well, a faux independence that wouldn’t have worked these last difficult years without Miriam – the ultimate irony.

From shy gifts of huge bunches of mimosa, vegetables grown in the potager, fruit plucked from her trees, tempting plates of food, over the years delicately aware of never intruding, she made a place in my life and my heart.

As I became more accident prone, she did my shopping, got my prescriptions, brought oils and unguents, visited me in many rehabs, baking cakes for the staff and removing my clothes to handwash and iron, returning them in plastic pouches.

She bought me a mini exercise pedalo to keep under my table to work my legs and I have learned not to say I really like something or she returns with it, be it a rice pudding or said exercise bike.

My cupboards groan with her conserves and rich tomato sauce base and my fridge and freezer with her latest sous-vide concoctions.

If she has a fault it is her protective ferocity in acting for me – berating medical receptionists, pharmacists for not giving medications in advance. This week it was a bank teller who wouldn’t give her more cash than the weekly allowance.

She has control of my bank cards as she trusts no-one else to use them, except Alistair the IT man gardener.

None of my femmes de ménage has come up to scratch but so far my cleaner Emilie has proved a match and will not be ousted.

And all I can do is take from this generous soul using Christmas as an excuse to buy Miriam cashmere and smart English country jackets. Fine restaurants are wasted for her tastes are specific and anyway she says her food is always better.

Oh, I almost forgot her latest talent – smuggling. In lockdown all goods brought to me are 24-hour quarantined and may be opened so she hides my e-cigs in sweets and medication, carefully retaping as I’ve mentioned before.

“You’d be amazed the things I can do,” she says darkly.

Ah, she has secrets I’ll never penetrate but thank God indeed for Miriam.