Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog (3 page)

  'A little,' I admitted, trying to figure out how my habits, unsavoury or not, could possibly be relevant. Rather than giving them the third degree, I'd heard of other French hospitals offering expectant fathers a wine list. Where was the touchy-feely holistic approach I'd been led to expect?

  Sensing my disquiet, Lea's voice softened. 'It's for the baby – we like to get a picture of your home life.'

  Turning her attention back to Tanya, Lea paused, perplexed at the lack of explanation for the premature labour. 'Truffles, perhaps?'

  Provençal folklore was full of stories of the medicinal effects not only of lavender but truffles as well; to me, the idea seemed ridiculous.

  'Did you eat any truffle?' persisted Lea.

  Tanya shook her head. 'But I did sniff one.'

  'It's often enough,' said Lea. 'In England, it's hot curries; for us, it's truffles.'

  'The man outside,' I added in a flash of inspiration, 'who left for a cigarette – he was at the truffle fair too.'

  '
Beh voilà
, mystery solved,' said Lea with great satisfaction, changing her demeanour completely now it was clear we were gourmands and not the chain-smoking, raw-meat-eating, pastis-swilling infidels that she'd initially presumed.

  'You're in a stage we call pre-labour. Sometimes it can go on for days; for you, I'd say another three hours. Premature births can be a little complicated, particularly when they are truffle induced,' she went on, as if there were volumes of medical research on the subject. Her tone implied that as a father she expected me to be aware of the potential difficulties.

  Just minutes ago time had been our enemy, as we fought shock and raced to the hospital; now, the clock on the wall ticked slowly by and Lea's pen scratched repetitively as she filled in form after form. My ignorance quickly bred a gathering paranoia. I imagined a library shelf full of learned discourses on pregnancy and truffles – perhaps a seminal book on the correct use of forceps in a truffle-induced birth, sitting side by side with the pioneering and definitive work:
The Father, the Truffle and Birth
.

  Lea's pen came to the end of a sentence and a look of concern crossed her face. 'I am so sorry,' she stuttered, 'it's been a busy day, otherwise I would have noticed sooner.'

  Glancing in the direction of her eyes, I saw that she was looking at the time – 12.15.

  'Now, the best place is just down the road, they do a fantastic menu – twelve euros including the wine. Really excellent.'

  Tanya shook her head in amazement. Was Lea really suggesting we leave, after all we'd been through to get here? 'But you said the birth could be complicated.' The sound of Tanya's voice was familiarly fragile. It was the tone she used when building towards one of our rare arguments.

  'Yes, but you still have plenty of time. Count the minutes between the contractions and if you get to a regular four, come back as soon as possible.'

  Over the preceding eight months I'd imagined plenty of questions that I might have to ask during the birth. My research had been meticulous, with lists of vocabulary learnt and relearnt: waters breaking, contractions, discharge, blood pressure, heart rate, epidural and umbilical cord – there was scarcely a situation I hadn't envisaged. However, never once, with all my first-time-father leave-no-stone-unturned gusto, had it occurred to me that the first serious medical problem to be overcome would be lunch.

  'Is there anything she can't eat?' I asked in a concerned husbandly way, giving Tanya time to collect herself.

  'She may not feel like much, but it's important to build up strength. Something light, perhaps a goat's cheese salad with a little toast, or they do an excellent
courgette farcie,'
confided Lea, looking sheepishly at the clock and clearly still angry at herself for forgetting such a basic need. Reluctantly, Tanya and I were ushered into the street.

On our return, after what I had to admit was an excellent lunch, we were led through a set of swing doors into the birthing area. I was instructed to put on the plastic shoe coverings and Tanya a hospital gown. Each of the four birthing suites had been named after local Provençal flowers and herbs – Lavande, Thym, Romarin and Mimosa – nice calming names which unfortunately did little to rein in my gathering anxiety. Historically births in my family were far from simple. One of my sisters-in-law nearly gave birth in the corridor in St George's, Tooting, due to a lack of available rooms; the other sister-in-law staggered over her front doorstep to give birth, having being wrongly sent home from Sevenoaks Hospital. The omens were not good.

  
'Ça va?'
Lea asked, directing us through the door of Lavande, a spacious light room painted in a gentle purple.

  
'Oui, ça va,'
winced Tanya, easing herself up onto the birthing chair.

  Lea nodded and then moved on to more important matters.

  'What did you have?'

  Both of us looked quizzically back at her.

  'For lunch,' chastised Lea.

  'A little salad,' replied a bemused Tanya.

  'Steak tartare, and a
pichet
of Côtes du Rhône,' I added.

  
'Oh là là, c'est bon ça.'
Lea was momentarily carried away to her favourite little cafe, the upturned egg on top of the raw steak, and side helpings of finely chopped onions, capers and herbs. The waiters in their burgundy aprons, the white tablecloths and the rich blackberry smell of the house red. At any other time it was a restaurant worth daydreaming about.

  I coughed politely to refocus everyone's attention.

  Putting a hand across Tanya's stomach, Lea felt the strength of the next contraction. 'Good, not long now.

  Remember the various birthing positions, and if the pain becomes too much I'll call for the anaesthetist.'

  Unfortunately there was little time to dwell on our discovery. Lea wired Tanya up to a machine that would measure the strength of her contractions and I was busy text messaging our parents when a pain shot across my stomach.

  My muscles ripped taut, and then relaxed just like a contraction. I bent over and instinctively took the slow breaths I had learnt in the prenatal classes.

  'Aaagh.' The pain came again, this time more severe. I collapsed to the floor, knees hunched into my chest. After twenty seconds I was able to sit up. Sweat poured from my brow and I was shaking.

  Lea pressed a glass of water into my hands and I took small sips, fighting the next wave which I felt approaching. What was happening to me? I'd heard of animals having phantom pregnancies, could I be in sympathy labour, sharing the whole experience of childbirth with my wife?

  'It's all my fault.' Lea held a wet cloth to my head.

  'Truffles again,' I gasped, trying to maintain my sense of humour.

  'No – food poisoning from the steak tartare.'

  If there is one thing I have learnt about the French health service, they never do things by halves. All the taxpayers' money has to be spent somehow and the moment a possible illness is identified endless tests and medicines are prescribed. The patient is happy, the doctors are happy, and it's only the taxpayer who has cause to be upset. Lea picked up the phone and spoke to a doctor in another department and from that moment I was doomed. A bed on wheels arrived and I flashed through the hospital doubled up in pain, dizzy from staring at the strobe lighting on the ceiling.

  'Tanya… my baby,' I muttered deliriously as a drip was inserted, a painkilling suppository rammed up my bottom and various needles and thermometers poked into me.

  'One of the worst cases I've seen,' mumbled a doctor to a nurse.

  'Should be all right in a day or so.'

  From then on I drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of the incontinent farting patient who shared the room with me. In contrast to the maternity unit the room was scruffy and poorly kept. Paint flaked from the walls, the wooden window was warped and blasts of icy air periodically chilled my face. In rare lucid moments I remembered the hospital's wider reputation – 'It's good for births and deaths, but not much else.' People were admitted with minor problems and often developed serious complications. I had no idea where I was in the hospital, but it felt subterranean and claustrophobic. From the maternity unit there was a lovely view of the Luberon – a beautiful first sight for a newborn – but for me there was nothing but blank walls. The cycle of pain and painkillers was never-ending and time ceased to mean much. My condition worsened, the back of my throat was parched like a 5 a.m. hangover and the drip in my arm made it painful to move. The lights were turned off. Hospital orderlies paced the corridors doing their final rounds and my room-mate continued to fart.

  A bright artificial light stabbed my retinas. Rubbing my eyes I displaced the catheter and winced in pain. I felt some dribble running down my neck and a blunt object poked in my ribs. My nose was tickled by a wisp of hair and warm breath fluttered across my cheek. Opening my eyes I saw my daughter Elodie for the first time. She had her mum's pretty button nose, bright blue eyes and a wail that had pierced even my drug-induced sleep. The feeling of happiness was quite overwhelming and a stream of my tears flowed onto the sheets. Since the truffle market, life had taken on a fearsome velocity with events tumbling over each other as if driven by some uncontrollable power.

  'Welcome to the world, little one.' I took her tiny hand in mine. 'I've just one piece of advice: never eat steak tartare.'

  Tanya laughed. She looked pale and the skin on her face was tighter than normal, as if it had been stretched, but there was no mistaking the delight in her eyes. She picked Elodie up and held her close to her chest, sighing with contentment.

  'Quite a two days,' she said.

  'Has it really been that long?'

  Tanya nodded and a nurse gently ushered her from the room. The doctor had prescribed plenty of sleep for the three of us.

T
he hospital released us late in the afternoon and the shadows were already lengthening as our car crunched up the olive-tree-lined drive. A dog howled from somewhere in the pine-clad hill and a shutter swung loose, clapping time against the stone walls of the farmhouse. The basin in the courtyard had completely frozen over and jagged icicles collected on the underside of the Roman fountain. The North Star was visible in the half-light and within moments all the other constellations unveiled themselves. The idyll was tempered by a line of newly sprayed car parts hanging from a washing line. Our landlord, who occupied the front of the farmhouse, had been busy at his retouching business.

  Wrapped snugly in a blanket, Elodie slept. A hat was pulled down low over her eyes and apart from the occasional reassuring sigh she barely moved. According to Tanya the labour had been much easier than expected. After I'd been wheeled away she'd asked for an epidural and from then on the anaesthetist was able to carefully control her pain. In my absence the two of them sat discussing their love of France. He was on a temporary assignment in the south and owned a bed and breakfast near Dijon. Business cards were exchanged and promises to visit made; it was all so civilised that for a while Tanya forgot that she was having a baby.

  She remembered a long conversation about the excellent patisseries of Burgundy, a minor disagreement over the overpricing of Gevrey-Chambertin and a shared joke about English tourists who would insist on putting milk in Earl Grey tea. Only the last twenty minutes of the six-hour labour were at all traumatic, with Elodie arriving in a breach position and two doctors being called to turn her, one of whom insisted on starting up a conversation about
Star
Trek
, a subject far from dear to Tanya's heart.

  Elodie safely delivered, Tanya had remained in hospital for three nights. During the day she learnt how to take care of a newborn with lessons on the correct washing and feeding routine. In-between she rested and enjoyed massages and if Elodie woke in the middle of the night, one of the nurses was on hand, thereby making sure Tanya caught up on her sleep. It was altogether one of the most civilised birthing experiences imaginable and, we both agreed, a tribute to the French health service.

  Meanwhile, I'd endured an identical length of stay, in a draughty, dank room with a succession of unsavoury room-mates. Gradually my stomach returned to normal and the midwives judged I was strong enough to look after wife and child.

  It was therefore with great relief that I pushed open the door to our house to be greeted by the stale musty smell of absence. We'd left the underfloor heating on, and inside it felt like the height of summer. Two half-full mugs of coffee waited on the sideboard, a magazine lay open on the table and the cushions on the sofa were a disordered mess. In the corner of the room the Christmas tree had rained brittle brown needles onto the presents below and on my desk there was a pile of invoices I'd promised to settle.