Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog (35 page)

  'No contractions?'

  'None, I'm fine. Will you stop worrying.'

  'It's hard not to.'

  There was another juddering, wracking, splintering noise and I turned. It sounded like the whole lorry had collapsed in a wheezing heap to the forest floor. Franck reappeared, a grin spreading across his face.

  'I've raised the whole suspension, should be a little smoother on the way down. Shall we get going?'

  The suspension might well have been higher, but the problem on the way down was that the brakes didn't work. Trees hurtled by like slalom posts, bumps became jumps, and the fact that we only lost one chair overboard was a minor miracle. Somehow we clung on, emerging into the field of truffles trees above our newly constructed house. The last vertiginous descent pitched Tanya and I forward against the dirty cabin window, and then rocked us backwards as the wheels found level ground. We'd arrived, and in what style.

  Our new house lay before us, doors open wide, welcoming us in. The shutters were painted a delicate grey blue, the walls the colour of local sand. The roof was covered in aged tiles through which a small chimney protruded. The building was immaculate, clean, finished.

Later the same day, with the sun gently melting from the sky, Tanya and I sat on the terrace looking down at the village. It was a beautiful time of year. The lavender was blooming, sunflowers were at their radiant best, and the remnants of the spring streams still fed the fields, keeping them verdant if only for another few weeks. Inside the house, an afternoon of work had achieved a surprising amount. Our bed was made, Elodie's cot erected in her new room, tables, chairs, the basics of living were all in place. From now on our belongings could expand to fill the house, we could gather possessions as we lived, building a home from our experiences and the places we visited. It was a feeling of overwhelming satisfaction. The effort, the heartache, the rows, the disappointments and the disillusionment, all seemed worth it for the peace we had found. Elodie was sitting in a distant corner of the field, where some grass had survived the ravages of construction machinery. Snuffle was lying in the shade next to her.

  On the table was the present Madame Roland, the owner of the construction company, had given us: a miniature wooden house with hooks inside for all the keys. In return I'd handed over the final cheque for the house. It was an unequal exchange, leaving Madame Roland grinning and me worrying whether I should have withheld the money. What would happen if things went wrong now? Would her company, as promised, intervene on request to deal with all the snagging? Tanya and I had decided to trust her. At times building the house had deprived us of faith in human nature. Yet in the end, we'd resolved that living a life where we suspected everyone and believed they were dishonest until they proved otherwise was no way to live. Far better to trust than be forever constrained by pessimism.

  To do otherwise would turn us into Miriam, our telescope gazing neighbour. At the last count she'd identified eight potentially house threatening cracks in the walls and apparently she'd already spoken to her lawyer about representing us. To date I had declined the offer. The cracks had all been repaired and Madame Roland had explained that a little movement always occurred with new houses. Give it a year and things should settle down. Was I being naive in accepting this explanation? Only time would tell.

  Snuffle came careering across the field, closely followed by Elodie. The two of them were inseparable. The dark shaggy dog and bronzed blonde two year old made an unlikely pairing, but wherever one went the other followed. They were so close that we'd caught Elodie sleeping in Snuffle's dog house. As Snuffle and Elodie approached I noticed they were both covered in dirt. Leaves had entwined themselves in Elodie's hair and a twig poked out of the toe of her sandal.

  'What have you been doing?' asked Tanya.

  Elodie grinned and Snuffle barked.

  Tanya and I didn't need an answer. We both knew that Elodie's favourite new imaginary game was truffle hunting. Perhaps the onlookers at the Uzès dog trials had been right after all, perhaps she did have a special talent. Only the winter would tell; for now, we had to be content with a pile of muddy stones, and a filthy dog and toddler.

T
he car crunches up the drive. Inside are two French government officials, one male, one female. They are wearing heavy overcoats and carry intimidating, large briefcases. The woman checks her watch and they head towards our front door. This is it, then.

  Elodie is at crèche and Tanya is sitting opposite Delphine, chatting away while feeding our new baby daughter, Sienna, who is the spitting image of her sister. Wide eyes, long lashes, chubby cheeks. In their passport photos the two sisters are impossible to tell apart. They couldn't have arrived in more different fashions, though. Rather than a truffle-induced dash to the maternity unit, Sienna bided her time, getting used to her new house, before emerging nearly two weeks late into the world. Lea, the same midwife who had delivered Elodie, was finally, after a prolonged labour, able to hand me my new daughter. Thankfully the time was eleven in the morning – another half-hour and Lea would have been looking at her watch and suggesting I pop out to the local cafe for a spot of lunch. Once more, steak tartare had been on the menu. I'd checked.

  The government officials are nearly at the door. Sienna is giggling as her eyes follow a food-laden spoon. Fifi sits at her feet, also hungrily following the trajectory of the spoon. Sienna rocks back in her chair and cackles with laughter. The food misses her mouth and forms a trail down her bib. Fifi whimpers with dejection.

  I kiss Tanya.

  'You sure you'll be all right?'

  'Sure.'

  'OK.'

  'You look like you've eaten a wasp,' says Delphine. 'Don't worry, I know how to deal with their type.'

  I find Snuffle's lead and head out the back door, just as the officials knock on the front. The path is a familiar one. An embankment climbs away on one side, on the other there's a muddy field of arable land. We head into the mottled shade of an avenue of pines, and the path turns to our right at a steep gradient, making us scramble. The wood thins and we emerge into the prairie. Cold December air tickles my nose and a flurry of snow induces a sneeze. I zip up my jumper, enjoying the sensation of temporary warmth. Snuffle shakes his fur in disgust. The cycle of the moon is perfect and the truffle oaks await.

  
'Allez, cherche, c'est où? C'est là? Cherche!'

  Snuffle starts working his way between the trees. I follow distractedly. My mind is on our house. The officials are from the planning office of the
préfecture
in Avignon. For six months after a new house is built they have the right to come and inspect the work to check it complies with the permit. Such visits are rare. This being France, everybody cheats a little and the government tends to turn a blind eye. Only if you are exceptionally unlucky, or if someone has a grudge against you, do you get inspected.

  My heart had lurched when I read the letter. Life had been going so well. A new daughter, a new house, even sales in my wine business were on the up. Our future in Provence had seemed secure. However, just a few terse legally worded lines had changed all that. Somebody, somewhere had spotted our extra height wall and was going to make us pay. And, if the worst came to the worst, we'd have to sell the house because we simply did not have the money to carry out the remedial works.

  For the last few weeks Tanya had held our family together, calmly going about the business of raising our two children. Meanwhile, I'd panicked. Every waking moment had been spent trying to conjure a way out of the mess we found ourselves in. My demeanour was nervy, guilty, embarrassed, and in the end we'd decided it was better I was absent when the officials came. Tanya would act the innocent and call their bluff. To the untrained eye, everything appeared to conform with the permit.

  Of course, the man and the woman currently sizing up our house were far from untrained.

  
'Allez, cherche, c'est où? C'est là? Cherche!'

  Snuffle rushes between the trees more in hope than expectation. Early signs are that this will be another barren season.

  We're deep into the grove now, moving onto the last half of the trees. A scattering of flies spirals into the air, their wings shimmering with the snow.

  
'Allez, cherche, c'est où? C'est là? Cherche!'

  Snuffle stops on a spot about 5 metres from the final tree and begins pawing the ground. There have been too many false dawns for me to get excited. I squat to the ground and take out my tools, scraping away at the hard earth. I make a hole the size of my hand and grab a fistful of earth, pushing it to my nostrils. I smell nothing at first, but then very faintly I detect the odour of truffles. I wish Franck were here to confirm my find, because the scent is fleeting and disappears with a wisp of breeze.

  I dig further to the right. Nothing. I dig further to the left. Nothing again. I dig deeper. The hole is soon halfway up to my elbow. I grab another fistful of soil and inhale deeply. Once, twice, three times to be certain. Another final scratch of the soil and then gently, gradually, with trembling hands, I prise the truffle from the earth. Snuffle wags his tail enthusiastically and I reward him with a large slice of saucisson. He barks gratefully. Scraping away the mud, I examine the marbling of the outer coating. I inhale. The aroma is pungent, fierce, and in the clean cold winter air, even beautiful. I am holding in my hand a
vrai Tuber melanosporum
, a black diamond. It's big, the size of a golf ball. Enough for a good risotto and several omelettes.

  I turn for home. As I walk an idea begins to develop and a spring enters my stride. By the time we're back down the hill I am almost running. Snuffle is barking enthusiastically at my side.

  Fate is on my side.

  I have ten trees and a truffle dog and doubtless, being Provençaux, the officials are gourmands.

Many thanks to my agent Annette Greene for spotting the potential of the book and to Jennifer Barclay at Summersdale for her editorial guidance and belief in the project. Little did she know that her job would have been made a lot easier, but for the untimely death of my uncle, Alan Izzard, who has so kindly proofread my previous books. I have missed our discussions about the Latin stems of words and the correct use of the passive tense.

  Thanks to Tanya, Elodie and Sienna and our parents.

  Having a three-year-old bouncing on my lap as I type has been truly inspirational.

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