The Healing Knife

by S. L. Russell

  “The retired policeman with the splendid moustache.”

  Michael smiled. “He sometimes tries to persuade me to grow one.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think it would suit you. And think of the upkeep!”

  “Perhaps I should give it a go. I can always shave it off at the end of the summer.” He caught my frown and chuckled.

  “Not that it’s anything to do with me,” I said stiffly. “You can grow your hair down to your knees if you like, I suppose.”

  “Dulcie will probably go visiting,” Michael went on. “Don’t worry – the Boutins love her and their garden is secure as well. There are only the two houses on that stretch of road: beyond mine there are just fields, owned by our French neighbour Bertrand. I’ll ring him before you leave and he’ll take his sheep away.”

  “Would Dulcie worry them?” I asked.

  “I hope not; but I’d rather not find out. I’ve tried quite hard to be on good terms with the neighbours.”

  “So is it just sheep?”

  “No, the fields to my side, to the front on the other side of the road, and at the back are growing maize – winter feed for the animals. On the other side of Gérard and Marie-Claude is a stretch of fields with not much growing at the moment. I’m not sure who they belong to. Sometimes there are a couple of horses grazing there. Then you get to the edge of Roqueville itself. So we’re not cut off, but we’re very quiet. Two tractors and a car make a traffic jam.” He smiled.

  “What’s the house like?”

  “Old, maybe about three hundred years. Stone with a slate roof, typical of the region. It was a farmhouse at one time, but the Boutins have a modern bungalow. I guess at some point whoever owned the farm sold off some of the land for building. I’m not sure who had Gérard and Marie-Claude’s before them – they’ve been there for about fifteen years, I think. They’re very good neighbours, and you’ll probably find a box of eggs on the doorstep when you arrive – maybe even some vegetables from their kitchen garden.”

  “Do they speak any English?” I wanted to know. “I’m getting on OK with the French course, but I am far from fluent.”

  “Marie-Claude doesn’t, but Gérard can get by. Between you you’ll be all right, I expect.”

  “That’s no problem,” I said sarcastically. “I’ll just ring you for advice when you’re in the middle of a tricky bit of surgery.”

  He refilled my coffee cup. “No you won’t.”

  A thought struck me. “Who do they think I am? What have you told them?”

  He shrugged. “All I said was that you were a colleague, recovering from an operation – which is true.”

  “Do you think they believed you?”

  He frowned. “Why should they not?”

  “I don’t know. People can put… constructions on things.”

  “There’s nothing you or I can do about that, is there?”

  “I suppose not.” I squirmed in my chair. “I’d better get home. It must be late.”

  He looked at his watch. “It’s eleven thirty. Drink your coffee and I’ll walk you back.”

  I frowned. “There’s no need. It’s only a quarter of a mile.”

  “Dulcie would appreciate a stroll. And that’s another thing – it might be a good idea, before you go, to take her out for a few walks, so she gets used to you being in charge.”

  I got up. “I was going to suggest that myself. Not,” I added, “that Dulcie admits to anyone being in charge, I reckon.”

  This made him laugh. “But you’re going to set that right, aren’t you?”

  He dropped me off at my front door. “There’s more you need to know,” he said. “Where the sheets are, where the washing machine is, how to turn the water and electricity on – things like that.”

  “Oh, not a well, then, or candles for lighting?”

  “Mm, no. We are more or less in the twenty-first century. Except for manners – there we are proud to be old-fashioned.”

  I remembered mine. “Thank you for a delicious meal,” I said. “I am impressed. My cookery skills are not up to much, I’m afraid.” I thought for a moment. “Are you free tomorrow? Why don’t you come by for coffee – I can manage that. Then you can tell me all the other stuff. Maybe I’ll be sober and receptive by then.”

  “Not tomorrow – I’m in theatre. Make it Wednesday.”

  When he had gone I thought about his house – not the French one, which of course I had never seen, but the one I had just left. I’d not been there until this evening, and I remembered thinking how big it was, far too big for one man and a dog. I’d only seen a bit of it: the downstairs loo, the kitchen, and the dining room, where the French doors gave a view of lawns sloping down to the river; but there were doors all over, and a staircase. Obviously at one time this had been a family home, with a wife and son in residence, and perhaps then all of the rooms had been used. I wondered why Michael had never downsized. But it was none of my business, after all. Maybe he kept it as it was for Jasper; maybe it was simply convenient for work.

  The weeks that followed were filled with useful distractions: walking Dulcie, and in a small way starting her training, was one. She was puzzled for a while, but very soon caught on, and being the clever creature she was she delighted in getting things right. The weather continued fair, I was out for much of the day, and my pallid skin began to catch a singe of the sun; I looked almost healthy. I practised my French; I wrote down Michael’s many instructions and pieces of advice, quietly keeping my own counsel. I began to pack a few things. And then it was the weekend before my departure, and I surprised myself by the febrile mixture of elation and fear that I felt. It was as if something other than my own will was behind me, driving me on without a hint of mercy.

  The journey to the port took about two hours, maybe a little more. The boat was due to leave at nine forty-five, and I started early. “You want to take the drive down nice and easy,” Michael said. “But you don’t want to arrive at the house in the dark.” On the ferry I parked the car in a row of other vehicles, said a temporary goodbye to the dog, who was curled up in the boot on her favourite rug, and tramped up the stairs to the seating area. I found the cafeteria and bought coffee and a croissant. It was chewy, and I hoped the French ones were better.

  The ferry was busy. Although most of the schools hadn’t yet broken up, there were families with younger children on board, and a school party of excited teenagers crowding the shop and milling around the public areas while their teachers clustered at tables in the bar, clearly in holiday mood. I found a small space with my back to a wall and sipped my coffee.

  Not so long ago, on the rare occasions that I found myself more or less idle in a gathering – at a work party, for instance – I would have been observing the people and looking for signs of heart disease. I would imagine that I saw symptoms, and saved myself from small talk and boredom by imagining incipient cardiac issues beneath well-ironed shirts and dresses. Now I watched my fellow-travellers. About half an hour into the crossing I realized with a small shock that I had not once thought about illness. Was it because I hadn’t worked for almost two months? Or was there some other reason I couldn’t fathom? I found myself observing parents and small children, noticing their chatter and laughter, the manner of their interaction, their unthinking care for one another. There were several elderly couples within my range, and I thought they were probably seasoned travellers; perhaps they had caravans or campers, and were getting on the road before the school holidays. It came to me that these people seemed well, and relatively happy. Was this how ordinary people acted? I had not known, shut away in my own rarefied world. Covertly, I listened to conversations while pretending to read, and I marvelled at the sheer banality of people’s talk, the apparent lack of consequence, the breezy trotting out of clichés, the snatches of chat about the weather, and camp sites, and the price of petrol. Foolish as it was, it seemed a revelation to me, and I wondered if my life as a surgeon, dedicated so completely to work that ever
y other aspect of my existence fed into my obsession, had somehow made me less than human. It was an uncomfortable thought. It was true that I had minimized everything that had no bearing on my chief focus. I ran, but that was to keep fit and deal with inevitable stress. My friends were few, my hobbies non-existent. Yes, I had let myself go a bit with Rob; but somehow now it all seemed a bit flimsy, just a careless fling and I saw with the benefit of distance that it would never have worked, and that I would probably, in the end, have treated Rob with the same cavalier casualness as I had Howard, my one-time fiancé. I shivered, wondering if – secretly – people thought of me as a bit of a monster.

  My mind tracked back to something Michael had said. He’d decided to deliver Dulcie to me just before I left for the port, and at half past six that luminous summer morning he arrived, walking at a leisurely pace, as Dulcie scampered behind and in front, pausing only to sniff in the verges. When she saw me beside my tightly packed car, waiting, she came racing up and did several circuits round my feet, tongue lolling, bright-eyed. I poured some water from a plastic bottle into a bowl and she lapped it.

  “Good thinking,” Michael said with a smile. My boot was open. “Up you go, old girl.” Dulcie leapt in. He bent and stroked her silky ears. “You be good, dog,” he murmured. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.” He dropped a kiss on her smooth head, and closed the boot lid. I’d opened the window at the back to keep the car cool.

  He looked at the ground, scuffing the gravel with his smart black shoe. He was already dressed for work: dark trousers, white shirt. He cleared his throat, and looked up at me. “All set? Nothing forgotten?”

  “If I’ve left something vital, you can bring it.” I squinted at the strengthening sun. “Any last words of advice?”

  He smiled wryly. “I suspect you’d ignore it. No, not really. Except… well, I’m not really into fanciful things, but I’m hoping you’ll find something – I don’t know, something like peace and healing at Roqueville. I’ve found being there very calming to the soul, especially when things have been difficult, and other people have said the same.”

  I wondered if he was referring to the time his wife had left, taking Jasper with her. “You think my soul needs healing?”

  “Doesn’t everybody’s, at one time or another? I don’t know, there’s something about the atmosphere of a country town in rural France, something of a lost age, of neighbourliness and civility, a relaxed pace, the rhythm of the seasons in an agricultural area… it’s something we tend to forget in a big noisy city, with high-pressure jobs like ours. Anyway, I hope it does you good, whatever you need.”

  “Thank you. Well, I’d better be off. Don’t worry about Dulcie, will you? I’ll take good care of her.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll speak to you this evening.”

  “Yes.”

  I hesitated. Was there something else I should say or do? He too seemed awkward. “Right, then. Bye, Michael. See you in two weeks.” I got into the car and started the engine. As I rolled down the drive he still stood there, watching. I saw him wave, then I turned onto the road and he was lost to sight.

  Michael’s description of the house at Roqueville, and the one or two photos on his phone, had not really prepared me for the real thing. The only testing part of the journey came when I left the motorway and had to take several crucial turnings, but Michael’s directions were explicit, and I rolled into town at a leisurely speed at about six o’clock that evening. Dulcie, asleep in the back until I slowed down, suddenly became alert, looking out of the rear window and giving the occasional soft whine.

  “Nearly there,” I called back to her. “You’ll be free soon.”

  The church, dedicated to St Nicolas, was a huge grey barn of a place with a tower, topped by a shallow spire. I turned left as instructed, passed the town cemetery with its ornate funerary monuments, and was soon in open country. Fields stretched away into the distance, many of them green with closely planted maize at head height. Trees in summer foliage stood along the borders, marking boundaries. The land rose and fell gently, until I saw a higher range of hills on the horizon, with more trees on their tops, and incongruously a line of pylons marching away into the distance. The evening sun bathed everything in gold, low enough to dazzle my eyes. Then I came upon two houses on the right, and recognized the Boutins’ bungalow from Michael’s description, set back some distance from the road. Beyond it stood a weathered stone house, low and four-square, with glimpses of outbuildings. I indicated, left the engine running, and climbed out of the car, a bit stiff from sitting. There was no one else on the road. I stretched my arms, legs and back, and undid the padlock which secured the galvanized farm gate leading to Michael’s drive. I drove in, stopped again and shut the gate, then rolled slowly forward to the second, a stout wooden one this time. A few moments later I parked on a gravelled courtyard, with both gates secured behind me. I lifted the boot lid up and Dulcie bounded out, sniffed, wagged her tail and was off, racing round the house and back again, clearly a happy dog.

  While she checked out her domain, smelling everything of note and marking it with her proprietary scent, I stood and looked, turning in all directions. I took in the orchard of cider apple trees, in full leaf with small fruit visible, in neat rows running from the courtyard back towards the road. The grass under the trees had been neatly cropped by Bertrand’s sheep. Beyond the orchard a thick hedge ran the length of the boundary, disappearing behind the house. Another hedge divided the property from that of the Boutins. For some minutes I took in the sun-washed building in front of me. What Michael had not said – perhaps because it was so familiar to him – was how beautiful it was: the soft irregular grey stone, the sun glancing off the roof-slates, the heavy weathered front door, the windows covered with wooden shutters. It looked as if it belonged in the landscape with all its subtle tones of green and grey and brown.

  Dulcie had disappeared round the back, and I followed her. Here there was a big garden laid to lawn, if lawn was the right word for a rough area of grass in need of cutting. There were some leafy shrubs and a few desiccated pots and planters, and over to the left, against the hedge, a weedy tilled area which had been a kitchen garden at one time but was now overgrown. At the end of the garden was a row of tall trees, and beyond them a stout fence. The hedge began again at the border with the Boutins and I saw the stile that Michael had mentioned. There was no sign of Dulcie, and I was glad he’d told me she was likely to visit the neighbours so that I didn’t have to worry she’d escaped.

  I came back to the front and opened the main door, leaving it ajar while I took things out of the car. Once it was empty and my stuff piled up inside, I moved the car to a ramshackle building to the right of the house which served as an open garage with room for two cars, and parked it in some welcome shade. Then I went indoors, weaving a path between my various bags. It was dark and dusty, and smelled unlived-in. I undid the shutters in the room I was in, and went outside again to fasten them. Now light poured in, catching the dust in sparkling streams. I stood in a large open area, clearly serving as a dining room, because there was a long wooden table and eight chairs, currently covered in plastic sheeting. To one side was a vast fireplace, big enough to sit in, with a cast-iron wood-burner at its centre. At the back of this room another door led to a well-appointed kitchen, modern but in keeping, with a wide window overlooking the back garden, and next to it, sharing a back door, a scullery, with a deep porcelain sink and a flagged floor: probably left as it had been when it was a working farmhouse. A small and rather grimy window gave the same view as the kitchen. I doubled back, past the fireplace and through another door to a high, wide lounge area with a window to the front and double doors to the back. I opened the shutters here too, disturbing a scuttling spider. The furniture was shrouded in sheeting, and I took it off and folded it up, revealing a sofa and two easy chairs as well as several small tables. As I took the dustsheet off a flat object in one corner I exclaimed quietly: there stood a l
arge electronic keyboard, black and dusty, its lead lying on the floor next to a socket. Neither Michael not Jasper had mentioned they played, but it came to me that perhaps I might tinker with it, since I was going to be alone for two weeks with no one to hear my fumblings. If nothing else it would be exercise for my hands. There was a small cupboard next to it, and in it I saw piled up books of piano music. Thinking about playing again gave a tight twinge to my chest as I remembered my father encouraging me in my childish efforts, applauding even when not only my notes but also my rhythms completely obscured the sense of the piece. I sighed deeply, wishing that these memories would just sink down somewhere and keep out of the way.

  Between the fireplace and the door to the kitchen a wooden stair zigzagged up to the first floor. The space at the top was a cross between a landing and a mezzanine, with a tall old-fashioned wardrobe. The stairs continued up to the main upper floor, with two good-sized bedrooms and a spacious bathroom. One of the bedrooms overlooked the back; the other had double aspect windows, with one at the side over the garage roof. The bathroom faced the front. The staircase now narrowed and climbed again. Set into the roofspace was another small bedroom, again with a view of the back garden, and a tiny en-suite bathroom under the eaves. This was to be my private lair. There was room for a single bed, a chest of drawers, and a clothes-rail. The wooden floor had been sanded and left bare, except for a small cotton rug beside the bed, colourful once but faded with use.

  I hauled my things into this little room and piled them up on the floor. The window sloped backwards; I tilted it open, and at once the smell of the country blew in, sweet and fresh with more than a hint of manure. If I craned my neck sideways I could see the fields stretching away beyond the hedge. In the distance, shimmering in the heat, a small herd of brown and white cows munched and shambled. I looked in the other bedrooms, their furniture covered in dustsheets, and noticed flyscreens at all the windows: necessary, I supposed, with farm animals all about.