Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog (33 page)

  The room is dominated by a large yellow cot. The bars are made of iron rather than the customary wood and there's a pump to adjust the height. The place is odourless, antiseptic. I remember the moment we arrived.

  A female doctor saw us; grey hair, glasses, studious, about fifty. Her manner was reassuringly professional. She parted Elodie's hair and examined the back of her head.

  'When did you notice the bump?'

  'At the paediatrician's this afternoon.'

  'Not before?'

  'No.'

  'Has there been anything unusual about her behaviour – eating well, sleeping well, not tired, playing normally?'

  'She's been fine,' I confirmed.

  Lights were shone into eyes and ears, there was more prodding and poking and Elodie had begun to cry. The X-ray had been mercifully quick, an arm of a machine had hovered over my baby and 'click', it was done.

  I look again at my daughter. She's been asleep for a couple of hours and it seems the night will be undisturbed. I close my eyes and try to rest but doctors keep coming in and out. Some of them check on Elodie, others ask me the same questions over and over. When did we first notice the bump? Did anything happen before then? A fall, perhaps? Did we leave Elodie in other people's care? Had they reported anything untoward? Only the identity of the doctor changes. Presumably it is routine; as people come on and off shift, they have to get to know the patients.

  Staring at the blank wall in the dim light I suddenly remember we have the meeting at our apartment scheduled for the following morning. Tanya is in no state to deal with Manu. I phone. Tanya's voice is quavering.

  'No, no more news. She still appears fine. She's sleeping now. One other thing; Manu's man's coming tomorrow, can you leave him a note from me?'

  I dictate, leaving Tanya to do the translation later: 'In November I informed our landlord that there was a serious problem with his house. I told him he should call the builder who carried out the renovation. He refused, blaming the problem on the cold weather. Every couple of weeks during the winter I advised our landlord that the problem was continuing and getting worse. He did nothing. In the circumstances we take no responsibility for the damage.'

  I care what happens, but I also don't care. It's a problem for another day.

  'Give the letter to the expert and don't worry about it, try to get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow. I love you.'

  Elodie shifts in her sleep and I rise and brush the hair from her eyes. I wonder how she got the bump. There have been countless falls followed by short stretches of crying, but never the vomiting or the loss of consciousness the doctors keep asking me about.

  I long to be speaking in English to understand the subtleties of language that might provide comfort at a time like this, the significant choice of word with which the doctor implies, although he or she can't say it, that everything is going to be all right. The French are very clinical, they are doing everything by the rule book, performing the required tests, keeping us in overnight, and I am grateful, but they are also providing no information. Despite the hours in the hospital I have no idea what the consequences of this mysterious bump might be; perhaps we are being saved the worry, because any negative outcome is too dreadful to contemplate. I just don't know.

  Lights come on. Medicine is administered. Lights go off. I drift in and out of sleep. In the middle of the night Elodie is conscious. She starts to cry. I lift her up and pace the corridors of the hospital until day begins to creep into the ward, highlighting the thin layer of dust that covers the photos of smiling sick children on the walls.

  The first doctor of the morning arrives. She is Indian, young, pretty even, but serious, carrying a file of papers. She takes out the X-rays and shows me the cracks they have detected in Elodie's skull. There is not one but two fractures. One historic, one recent, and we rehearse the same questions about falls and vomiting and loss of consciousness.

  It occurs to me that this is a little like an interrogation. People are broken down like this, by incessant repetition of questions, until fissures appear in the story which can be widened and challenged at a later date. This young doctor opposite me is doing exactly that, noting down the answers, comparing them with the ones I gave yesterday. The morning passes. Elodie sleeps and I speak to Tanya on the phone. We talk about the meeting with Manu, she describes what happened:

  'He was so happy when I told him you weren't going to be here. Beaming. Started going on how it wasn't really necessary anyway. Then the guy arrives. Educated, in a suit, young, smart, driving a nice car, I never know what makes they are, but something like a BMW.

  'Him and Manu immediately disliked each other and I handed over your letter.

  'You should have seen Manu's face. The expert took it and read it, and asked Manu whether the contents were true. Manu said yes, but then started ranting on about us drying the washing inside. He pointed at all the walls, and jabbered on. They traipsed around the house. I couldn't be bothered to follow but then I got worried about what Manu was saying and so I eavesdropped.

  'The expert was lecturing Manu, telling him his behaviour was unacceptable, it's his responsibility as a landlord to ensure the property is habitable. He'd had warnings, he hadn't acted on them.

  'The expert then took me aside and explained we've no responsibility for the cost of repainting the apartment. The damage is not our fault. He was so nice and kind. Once he knew that you were in hospital with Elodie, he couldn't have been gentler.

  'Manu left without saying goodbye.'

  I hear Tanya's sister Claire arriving in the background. She lives in Nîmes and has driven over with her three children to help out. They arrange to come to the hospital later. It looks like we may have to spend another night. Elodie is happy. She's discovered an outside playground and is clambering over the toys. The other parents describe her as
'cascadeuse'
and they are right – she's hanging off the slide like a monkey, banging her legs and arms. At least if she falls she's in the right place.

  There are more conversations with doctors. Older, greyer, more senior people, who ask the same questions about the origins of the fractures. Still nobody will tell me what the consequences are for Elodie's health. We wait and I worry. How long are they going to keep us here?

  I turn on the television and discover a football match between African countries, former French colonies. Distractedly I watch the images; the ball pings across the turf, somebody hits the post, moments later somebody scores. My mind is elsewhere.

  I am tired. The images on the TV screen glaze over. I try to sleep, but bleak thoughts tumble through my mind. Had Elodie hurt herself on the building site? All the concrete, the rough, hard, tough surfaces, the unexpected stairs, planks and bricks. She'd certainly tumbled a number of times. Was it my own hubris that had brought us to this hospital?

  Building a house is such an arrogant thing to do. Most people look for somewhere they would like to live and then compromise because inevitably the money doesn't quite stretch. However, faced by this eternal problem we'd decided to build, seduced into thinking that professional property developing was an easy trade.

  There's a cheer as one team scores. It reminds me of the current French political scandal: tall black athletic boys from the former colonies are allegedly being denied places in France's elite training camps. The purported reasoning? They are believed not to care enough about their adoptive country and when matches are close it's suspected they lack the requisite pride in the blue jersey.

  Tanya, Claire and Claire's children arrive and I turn the television off. Claire's kids – Rosie, Tristan, Freya – rush to hug me. They smile, they laugh, they skip, their curls blot out the light. They charge over to Elodie, but the sight of the playground distracts them and they head outside. I kiss Claire and Tanya. The ordeal continues but for a few hours I have some support. I turn and see that the Indian doctor has been watching us. Standing in the centre of the corridor, arms folded against her chest, making a judgement. Minutes later she comes to our room. Claire looks after the children. Tanya and I sit on the edge of my bed and listen. The verdict is simple, clinical.

  'Your daughter has two fractures on her head. There is fluid trapped between the bone and the skin. This will gradually disappear. There's no haemorrhaging, she's just fine in herself, there will be no long-term damage.'

  Somehow I know all this already. Tanya sighs with relief and squeezes my hand in triumph. Claire and the children come bumbling into the room, full of descriptions of how marvellous the playground is.

  The Indian doctor smiles at all the children. Her decision is made.

  
'Allez.'
She hands me the file of X-rays and leaves.

I
n May Provence was at its majestic best. Trees dripped with cherries, vines were covered in verdant new growth, village streets flowed with a pleasant trickle of tourists, and the produce in the markets hovered between seasons: asparagus from Pertuis and strawberries from Rognes, but not yet the melons and peaches of high summer.

  We longed to be in our new house, opening the windows every morning to the vibrant countryside, noting the first drifting smell of lavender as the plant bloomed a cautious brittle purple, and admiring the riotous violet of the sage plants that always erupted with the heat.

  On the
chantier
everything appeared ready. The floor was in, the lights were working and the rooms seemingly only awaited furniture and people to live in them. However, the construction company had a myriad of jobs to do before the house could be handed over. Among other tasks the pipes had to be checked for leaks and the modern-day plumbing of telephone and Internet lines had to be installed. Then in the final stages the floors needed to be cleaned and treated with a special protective chemical. This process was scheduled for the last week in May. After that we had to wait fourteen days while the chemicals dispersed and then the house was officially ours – exactly four days after Tanya's due date!

  Most evenings we sat outside on the terrace behind our farmhouse apartment discussing the details of the move: where we would put specific items of furniture, which paints would work well on which walls and what colour we should spray the shutters. For the first time since we'd committed to the project, we were able to relax. The money had not run out, the work had not stalled and our dream house had become a reality. There was a certain satisfaction to be derived from just looking at the solid walls, and knowing that we had created them. The closer we came to completion, the more the pain and hardship of the process of building began to fade. Neither Tanya or I would ever build a house again, of that we were sure, but we also had no regrets. We'd learnt a lot about human nature.

  I'd come to appreciate that truth was not the inviolate, immovable set of facts I'd previously assumed it to be. Everybody had their own truths, and when cultures collided these could be distressingly different. More than ever I believed in the influence of the climate. The savage summers and brutally cold winters of Provence bred a certain type of person – hard, frugal and fearful of outsiders but, like Franck, kind and generous when they accepted you into their circle.

  In the end we'd been lucky. Take just a quick look at the landscape of Provence, and amid the lavender, olives and vines, it's easy to spot abandoned, half-finished projects, where the money has run out and the dream finished in acrimony and legal fees. We'd persevered and in the end it had been worth it.

  One evening towards the end of May a car horn hooted at the end of the long drive that led up through the olive grove and around the back of Manu's farmhouse. Just a few days ago an American man had phoned and asked to meet us. He'd bought a second home near the village – in fact, it was more of a castle – and was about to start the renovation. Everything was lined up and in place, including the team of tradesmen to do the work. Today was his last day in Provence before he flew home, but an unpleasant rumour had brought him to our door. Despite the difficult timing, we'd agreed to meet.

  The expensive car became stranded halfway up the dirt track. The man got out. He wore a beige suit and white shirt, and clutched a bottle of champagne in one hand. A woman followed. Wisely she took off her high heels and linked the straps with her handbag. The sequins on her light dress shimmered in the sunlight as she stumbled towards us. Together the pair looked perfect for a night out in a smart restaurant on the Côte d'Azur – quite what they were doing in rural Provence I had no idea. They came closer. The man was short and balding, with a pronounced paunch and an unfortunate sweat problem. The woman was thin, equine almost, with a hooked nose and the visible bones of someone who didn't eat enough. From the phone conversation we already knew his name was Dwight. The woman was an unexpected guest.