Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog

by Jamie Ivey

  At the beginning of the following week the promised letter duly arrived. It wasn't at all what Manu had described. Our names had been set out at the top. We'd been allocated a case number and were required to be present at our rental property on Wednesday 24 April at 9 a.m. Far from a casual meeting with an insurance official, what Manu had in fact instigated was the beginning of a judicial procedure. And by telling us not to worry about turning up, he was attempting to win by default.

  I sought Manu out in the fields the following day. He was bent double in a row of vines. A pair of wire cutters lay on the floor next to him. His hands were sore and bleeding.

  'We'll be there on Wednesday.'

  He shrugged as if it was of no consequence to him whether we attended or not. Reaching for his cutters he snipped another length of wire, bending it to the required shape with an expert twist of his fingers. The evenings we'd spent drinking moonshine, made from these very vines, meant nothing. Hours whiled away on the terrace dissecting the French political system had been redundant, wasted time. Like a pair of children we were now not talking.

  I tried again. 'What's the format?'

  'We present the facts of the case,' grunted Manu. 'The expert listens and then decides who is responsible.'

  Manu turned back to his vines. As I walked back to the apartment I worked out exactly where the relationship had gone wrong. The moment he'd seen our construction site, something had changed. Rather than tenants, we were landowners. We suddenly had money. The flies, the damp, the mould – nothing was as unpleasant as the realisation that all the conviviality over the previous years had meant so little.

  The afternoon before the expert's visit, we took Elodie for a regular check-up at the paediatrician's. She was nearly two and a half, a bright, vivacious, happy girl. A comic and a mimic, she delighted in repeating complicated words. Once she'd even managed to say 'rhododendron'. Thanks to crèche she'd started to speak a little French and occasionally, when she was particularly pleased with a toy, would exclaim 'Voilà!' Over-proud parents that we were, we gushingly proclaimed that she was bilingual. Apart from her slightly hurried birth, we'd been fortunate – Elodie had had no major health problems in her life. Thus, all we were expecting at the doctor's was her final inoculation, a quick once-over and as a parting gift the usual prescription full of state-funded, totally unnecessary medicine. Instead we received a shock.

  The paediatrician's office was large and welcoming. There was a Wendy house, a train track and miscellaneous other toys to occupy the children. Above the examination table was a mobile. It was home-made and consisted of a garden cane running the length of the table, decorated with the art of her patients. Each time we visited a new distraction had been added. Elodie loved it.

  Dr Sami had been on duty the day after Elodie was born. Her relationship with Tanya had begun badly. Over-emotional, worried about me, charged with hormones, Tanya had decided that it was a good idea to check out. She'd been convinced that Elodie would be better off at home. Dr Sami had heard the rumour from the nurses and burst into Tanya's room, delivering – if we are polite – an old-fashioned telling-off, or – if we are impolite – a bollocking. The priority was Elodie and Elodie's health. She was premature and wouldn't be leaving the hospital until Dr Sami said so. Tanya cried, but once she'd gathered herself she discovered a great respect for the doctor.

  These days, visiting the paediatrician felt like going to see a friend.

  'Et alors, the house – is it finished?' Dr Sami offered me one of the chocolate biscuits she kept for the children.

  'Another month or so.'

  'About when the baby's due?'

  We nodded.

  'Have you got someone to look after Elodie?'

  'My sister,' confirmed Tanya.

  Dr Sami crossed to the examination table. A stethoscope covered in a fluffy giraffe toy swung invitingly from her neck. Her dark eyes smiled over the top of her half-moon glasses. 'Elodie, viens ici.'

  Any doctor who can persuade a child that a medical examination is fun, is a rare doctor, yet somehow Dr Sami had achieved this with Elodie. The train set was immediately abandoned, and Elodie began pulling at her clothes, anxious to get them off.

  Dr Sami performed the usual checks – height, weight, eyes, everything was normal. She then rocked Elodie's head back to shine a light into her ears. She stopped. Her hands probed through Elodie's blonde hair.

  'Have you noticed this?' Dr Sami parted Elodie's hair for us to look, revealing a bump about the size of half a squash ball.

  'Any idea how it happened?'

  We shook our heads. Children occasionally had bumps on their heads.

  'Ce n'est pas normal.'

  We gathered closer. First Tanya, then I, ran one finger gently over the bump, which was located towards the back of her head. There was no visible discolouration but it was slightly soft to touch, as if there was fluid trapped underneath the skin.

  'It needs to be investigated.'

  I nodded. The French health service was about to kick into action. No doubt we would be sent to a specialist, prescribed even more medicines, and eventually the problem would cure itself.

  'First, an X-ray.'

  This was slightly more perturbing, but even so I wasn't too worried. Elodie was happily playing with a toy train. She'd slept well, and been on excellent form all morning.

  'I'll write a note for the doctors.'

  The paediatrician sat at her desk and methodically wrote a letter describing what she had found. The giraffe stethoscope lay abandoned on the examination table. The chocolate biscuits were back in the drawer. I looked at Tanya and shrugged. Another case of French hypochondria – we'd go for the X-ray, and all would be fine. Elodie was leaping around with such vigour in the Wendy house that it appeared about to capsize. It was a wonder she didn't have anymore bumps.

  'When shall we make the appointment?'

  'I am afraid you must go now.'

  'Now?'

  'To the children's accident and emergency ward at Aix. It may be nothing, but it's better to investigate.' The paediatrician's voice was calm and reassuring. She wanted us to understand that she was being ultra-cautious and that there was probably nothing wrong. Yet we had to go now, not in a couple of hours, not tomorrow or next week. Now. The only possible reason for such urgency was that there was an immediate danger to Elodie's well-being. Usually, Tanya would be asking the paediatrician lots of questions. Her mother was a nurse and some of the medical knowledge had rubbed off on her. Instead she was quiet, sitting still, in shock, her face already a shade whiter. I reminded myself we knew nothing yet and that there was no need to panic. My mind was already plotting the possible outcome: half an hour to drive to Aix, then, given the efficiency of the French health service, an hour to see the doctors – with any luck we could be home for bath time, and the whole experience wouldn't be too tiring or stressful for Tanya.

  Unusually, Dr Sami accompanied us to the car. She held the bags as we strapped Elodie into her seat. As we turned onto the main road I resolved to find my inner French driver. The journey from Pertuis to Aix would be covered in record time.

  Chapter 28

  I look at the face of my sleeping daughter. Everything is so young and fresh. Her eyelashes are dark and elongated, her cheeks rounded with health, her skin so soft and precious. She will never remember any of this. Sleep and forget. Tanya has gone home. I insisted. We will be here for the night. The results will be ready in the morning.

  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.<
br />
  The Indian doctor smiles at all the children. Her decision is made.

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

  Chapter 29

  In 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!