The Healing Knife

by S. L. Russell

  I went downstairs and through the kitchen to the back, where there was a house-wide paved patio. To the left, before the kitchen garden, a small outbuilding stood, clearly once a bread oven. The oven part of it had long since crumbled and been roughly bricked up, but the roof, covered with heavy orange tiles, was still good. I ducked under the low wooden lintel and saw that this little place was stacked floor-to-ceiling with logs for the woodburner. Did Michael and Jasper come here during the winter? I supposed they must. Thinking about them made me remember that I had promised to text Michael when I arrived. I leaned on the warm wall of the bread oven and took my phone out of my pocket. “Arrived. No adventures. Didn’t see Gaston or Guillaume. This place is amazing, even if it needs a duster and a mower. Talk later. R.”

  I sent the text and pocketed the phone, and then I noticed someone leaning in over the stile: a large, florid, white-haired man with a massive moustache, and beside him, her paws on the stile, a panting, prick-eared black and white dog. Gérard Boutin waved a meaty hand, and I walked over the tussocky grass towards him. Michael had warned me to expect a welcome effusive by British standards: “Gérard may be restrained when he first meets you, and shake your hand. After that expect kisses on both cheeks. Three – maybe even four. Marie-Claude will dispense with the handshake.”

  “Monsieur Boutin,” I said carefully as I came up. I extended my hand, and he shook it vigorously. “Enchantée de faire…” I had no chance to finish my rehearsed greeting.

  “Non, non, Gérard, s’il vous plait!” he boomed. Then, still gripping my hand, he turned his head and yelled something totally incomprehensible over his shoulder, presumably to his wife, who after a moment or two came trotting over, wiping her hands down her apron. Of their subsequent talk I understood not a word. Finally he turned back to me, ruddy face split into a grin which revealed several blackened and missing teeth. “You are vairy welcome, Madame.”

  “Rachel,” I said politely, then pronounced it the French way: “Rachelle.”

  “Bien sur,” he said, still beaming. “Ma femme, ah, my wife and me we hope you will, mm, come and have some dinner with us. Tonight, yes?”

  My French wasn’t up to excuses so I gave in – gracefully, I hoped. “Merci, Gérard. Merci, Madame. Tres gentil.”

  He shrugged expansively. “Er, vers vingt heures, oui? Eight of clock?”

  I nodded and smiled, and at last he let my hand go. “Oui, merci beaucoup. A bientot. Come, Dulcie.”

  “D’accord. A bientot, Rachelle.” Still nodding and beaming, the pair of them watched me walk Dulcie indoors.

  It was an extraordinary evening. How we managed to communicate remains a marvel. Gérard plied me with aperitifs and wine in vast quantities, a different wine with every course, and as my French deteriorated so did his English. It didn’t seem to matter; they were hospitable, the atmosphere convivial, and all three of us were more than a little tipsy. Marie-Claude served up numerous courses: tiny hors d’oeuvres, squares of bread with eggs and anchovies and olives, then grilled pork and beef with a huge bowl of potatoes, followed by a palate-cleansing dish of simple dressed leaves, grown in their garden. Out of the window, between courses, I noted their immaculate lawn and kitchen garden, the chicken coop, the rose bushes, the clipped hedges. Then a platter of several cheeses with bread, and a fruity dessert with cream, and coffee and liqueurs. I hoped they didn’t eat like this every night, but both of them were well built and rotund, so maybe they did. However little we understood the finer details of each other’s conversation, we managed to laugh immoderately.

  At last I made my excuses. I didn’t have to feign weariness – a huge meal with such a river of alcohol, plus a long drive on a warm day, had left me with a headache and wobbly knees. Dulcie had come with me to the Boutins’ – they looked surprised when I’d left her indoors and insisted I fetch her – and apart from gobbling up titbits that accidentally or otherwise fell from the table had spent most of the evening curled up in front of their fireplace. As I departed Marie-Claude gave me a carrier-bag stuffed with salad and eggs. “De nos propres poules,” she said proudly. “Un peu sale, mais bon.” I thanked her with a smile – I had no problem with slightly dirty home-laid eggs.

  I had had little time before dinner to do anything except feed Dulcie, throw a ball for her in the garden, find some sheets for my bed, and send Michael a second text: “Dining with neighbours. Talk tomorrow.” Now home, I drank a long draught of cool water, washed my face, and cleaned my teeth. I knew nothing that night of hunting owl or marauding wildlife, nor did any dreams haunt me.

  The sun woke me the next morning: I had forgotten to pull down the blind, and light poured through the angled window onto my disordered bed. I heaved myself up and put my feet on the floor, holding my aching head tenderly in both hands. I stumbled downstairs, feeling wavery and half-dead, but a cafetière of strong coffee did its work. I sat on the back patio on a rickety canvas chair and drank several cups. Dulcie, hearing me stagger about, had met me at the top of the first flight of stairs, and now lay beside me in the sunshine, her nose on her paws, her eyes on my face. I threw a ball feebly for her a few times. “Sorry, pal,” I mumbled. “I need to take a shower. Then I might feel a bit more human.” Unfortunately I had forgotten to switch on the water heater the night before, so my shower was bracingly cool. I made myself eat some of Marie-Claude’s eggs, and started to feel better. It was still early – no more than eight thirty – but I heard the Boutins’ car start up and roll away down their drive onto the road. We were alone, the dog and I. For a moment I felt myself wobble and sway inwardly, but then I told myself sternly that I had a list, and it must be followed. I was on holiday, wasn’t I? People on holiday didn’t think about work, and neither would I. I would do the things other people did on holiday – seek out new things, read, relax, sleep. I decided that today I would start Dulcie’s training in earnest, and then when I had worn her out both physically and mentally I would go to the supermarket.

  By the time I got into the garden with Dulcie the heat was already building. For ten minutes or so I threw a ball for the dog to take the edge off her energy; then it was time for work. I clipped on her lead, and she looked at me with an eager, enquiring look. “Nope, we aren’t going for a walk,” I told her. “It’s lesson time.”

  For half an hour we practised walking to heel. Every time she strained at the lead I pulled her back, and when she walked as I wanted I slackened off the lead and praised her. Praise made her delirious and undid some of the training as she frolicked and jumped about and got the lead hopelessly tangled. I thought I probably needed some healthy dog treats and would look for them when I went shopping. It occurred to me that I knew nothing of what a provincial supermarket might stock. We persevered, and after a while she began to get it. I loosened the lead, told her firmly to “Watch me!” and walked quite slowly the length of the garden, saying nothing to her until we came to the trees on the border. “Now sit,” I said. She sat. I unclipped the lead and looked her in the eyes. “You did very well,” I told her, my voice soft and flat. “Good girl. Now off you go.” She continued to sit, looking at me uncertainly. I raised my voice. “Well done, Dulcie!” I threw the ball, and she leapt after it, tail high. It was clear to me that this dog had the brain and the will to learn fast.

  I threw the ball for her till she was panting and hot. The sun was well up, and I too was beginning to roast. “Right, in we go, Dulcie,” I said. “More lessons and more play time later, but now you need a drink and some breakfast, and I need to wash and get to the shops.” As we went towards the house I took a closer look at Michael’s vegetable patch, which the day before I had dismissed as nothing but a weedy overgrown eyesore. Now, on closer inspection, I saw that he had planted things. There were a couple of sprawling courgette plants, with small fruits forming – one green, one yellow. There were half a dozen tomato plants, badly in need of staking and watering. There were two rows of leeks, about as fat as a man’s thumb, and a patch of strawberri
es with reddening fruit. But the buttercups and dandelions had got a hold, and the whole area needed urgent attention. Perhaps I could do something about it, clear the weeds, give the plants a chance. If I could find the mower, I might even cut the grass. It was, it seemed to me, the least I could do, and it would be nice for Michael and Jasper to arrive and find they had some flourishing fresh vegetables.

  I left Dulcie snoozing in her basket in the dining room, then locked up and got the car out. A night parked in the shade of the garage had left it pleasantly cool. I’d found some shopping bags in a cupboard in the scullery, and I put them in the boot. With the dog firmly shut indoors, I closed the inner gate for safety but left the outer one open for my return.

  The journey to the town took all of five minutes, and I found the supermarket with no trouble. The first thing that struck me as I entered the shop was the smell – one so overpoweringly pungent I stopped for a moment to take it in. Clearly the whole area was immaculate. The floors had been mopped, the lights were bright, piped music twittered in the background. Then it dawned on me. What else could it be but cheese? With an inward smile I made my way to the cheese counter. The array of choice was vast. I picked some that were familiar – a soft wedge of Brie, a Tomme de Savoie. Then I paused and branched out: a bright orange Mimolette and a whole mini-cheese with a picture of a monk on the wrapping, called Pere Matthieu.

  I was a long time in the shop, not only because I had no idea where everything was, but because it was fascinating. I’d never loved shopping – it was a necessary chore, to be got over with as quickly as possible. But this was different. Around me people were choosing their goods, and if they caught my eye, they smiled and said “Bonjour, Madame.” It was a far cry from shopping in England where people rarely spoke. And the shop seemed to stock an enormous variety of things – books, garden tools, children’s toys, clothes for all ages, wellington boots, fishing tackle, watches and jewellery, as well as having a large wine section, fresh produce, a fish counter, a butcher’s, and a bakery. I bought bread and croissants, butter, yogurt, milk, a big bag of tomatoes, apples, wine, and in a moment of rashness a huge steak which I thought would last at least two meals. I passed a delicatessen counter and bought a selection of fat, oozy olives. Then I backtracked to the fruit and vegetables and bought avocados, an aubergine, onions, peppers, and garlic. I can make ratatouille. A big pot to last several meals, perhaps even some for the freezer. With a small shock I realized how unusual this was: that I was not only thinking about food with anticipation, but also planning to cook, even if it was something simple. I shrugged. Isn’t this too what people do on holiday? I glanced at my watch; it was almost noon. I hunted around in the pet department and found some treats for Dulcie, as well as a stock of canned dog food. It was time to go to the checkout. I was a little apprehensive, but Michael had assured me that all I needed to do was smile, say “Bonjour” and “Merci”, and present my credit card. On the way I passed through the women’s clothing, and it struck me that I had no swimming costume with me. Jasper had said he hoped to swim while they were in France. Should I be prepared to go too? I used to swim, once, though almost certainly not to the level that the Wells men did – but should this deter me? I looked at the selection of swimming costumes with a jaundiced eye. The sizing was different from that of the UK, but I found one eventually that had both British and European sizes listed, in a not too horrible shade of red. I held it up against me, wondering if it would stretch if necessary. An elderly man in a flat cap passed me, raised a bushy eyebrow, and winked. “Très jolie,” I heard him murmur, and felt my face heat up.

  I passed through the checkout without a problem and felt that I had somehow triumphed. With my purchases stowed in the boot, I drove back to the house. It was hot, and I rolled the windows down, enjoying the breeze ruffling my hair and the smells: dusty tarmac, floral scents on the air, hay and hot grass.

  With the gates secured and the car back in the garage, I unloaded my shopping and let Dulcie out. I packed everything away and made myself some lunch: Marie-Claude’s leaves, olives and tomatoes, bread and cheese. I opened a bottle of wine, put it all on a tray and took it onto the patio. It was far too hot for exertion. Dulcie followed me and flopped down on the paving with a sigh. There was a lean-to at the back of the scullery, and I found a garden umbrella there which I set up to shade my lunch table.

  The red wine I had opened was almost warm and slithered smoothly down my gullet. The bread was fresh and crusty with a feathery middle, the butter cool, inviting me to slather it on far too thickly, and I tasted every one of the cheeses and found them excellent. Tomato juice ran down my chin – but who was watching? I couldn’t remember a meal, however elegant, I had enjoyed so much as this simple one, with the sun beating down, the smells of the countryside wafting in on the tiny breeze, the sleepy chattering of birds, and bees rumbling in the blue-flowering rosemary that grew in a pot at the edge of the lawn. I munched on an apple, stretched out my legs, and closed my eyes.

  After a while I realized that if I nodded off the sun would move round and scorch me. I heaved myself up, gathered the remains of my lunch, and went indoors, struck by how pleasantly cool it was, defended by thick stone walls. I put the food away and stacked the dishes by the sink. I called Dulcie in. “It’s too hot,” I said. “We’ll go out again later, when the sun starts to go down.” She seemed quite happy to lie on the floor and stretch out, closing her eyes and giving a throaty sigh.

  My new swimming costume lay on the dining-room table where I’d thrown it as I came in. There was a full-length mirror by the front door, presumably there to check if you were presentable before going out. I peeled off my T-shirt, shorts, and underwear, knowing that no one could see me from the road. Standing in front of the mirror, I saw where the sun had caught me: my face and neck, arms and legs were a pinkish-brown, but my torso was deadly white. I picked up the swimming costume with a pang of doubt. I am not at all a standard size and shape: tall, and people say I am thin, but I am not so much thin as narrow, especially my shoulders, chest, and hips. I admit to having thin arms, with long-fingered hands, but my legs are well muscled and strong from all the running. Oddly, despite the narrowness of my ribcage, I am not flat-chested – I have soft, squashy breasts which refuse to fit into clothes with any elegance or neatness. Physically, I am a bit of an oddity, I suppose. As well as in other ways.

  I struggled into the swimming costume and after some adjustment of straps was pleasantly surprised: it moulded its fabric to my shape, even somehow giving an illusion of curves. Now I needed to even up my skin tone – the contrast between tanned and white was hideously stark. I peeled the swimming costume off my hot body, and seeing myself in the mirror a thought struck me: my hair – dark, wiry, unruly – was too long, especially for this weather. Perhaps Marie-Claude could recommend a hairdresser in town. I smiled wryly. How bold I was becoming!

  I climbed the stairs – hot, weary, a little fuddled from afternoon drinking – pulled down the window-blind, and collapsed onto my little bed. For a moment I felt a sweet surge of memory, of stretching out just like this with Rob, excited, then sated, mindless, relaxed. No chance of any of that, I told myself, and slipped down into sleep.

  I awoke confused: the room was dark. Was it so late? I groped on the bedside table and looked at my watch – ten to five; it shouldn’t be dark. I shivered – it seemed chilly as well. I got up, raised the blind, and looked out. Dark thunder-clouds were massed above the trees at the end of the garden, and as I looked there came a soft grumble of thunder. I heard Dulcie whine downstairs. Was she afraid of storms? I didn’t know; the subject hadn’t arisen. I pulled on my dressing gown and padded downstairs.

  “You OK, girl?” I said to Dulcie as she greeted me, and bent to stroke her. “Scared of thunder and lightning? Don’t worry. I’ll keep you company.”

  It turned out that Dulcie was more or less OK with storms if someone was with her, except for the flashes of lightning, which made her jump and yelp.
I liked watching storms but for the dog I closed curtains and blinds. Still in my dressing-gown, I made a pot of coffee and set to preparing the vegetables for the ratatouille. Beyond the kitchen window the rain fell in noisy cascades and the rising wind whipped the trees into a frenzy. It seemed impossible that the branches should remain attached to their trunks, but somehow they did, despite their wild dance in the roaring wind.

  My phone rang as I piled the vegetables into a large pan and set it on the hob to simmer. I added a spoonful of oil, licked my fingers, and answered it.

  It was Michael, his deep voice a distant comfort against the background of lashing rain and thunder.

  “Don’t pass out with amazement,” I said after explaining about the storm, “but I am actually cooking. Just some ratatouille – to be eaten later with half of an enormous steak. And wine too, of course.”

  I heard him chuckle. “You’ve been gone a day and a half and you’re turning into a French person.” He paused. “Too bad I’m not there to eat it with you; I hope you’re not too lonely?”

  I laughed. “You’re forgetting I’ve lived on my own for a long time. And anyway, I’ve already met the neighbours; they invited me to dinner. It was absolutely vast, not to mention the quantities of alcohol we put away. And I got sent home with eggs and salad. They were very kind.”

  “Did you manage to talk to each other?”

  “Kind of. I wanted to pop over today to thank them, but they went out in the car very early.”

  “It’s Tuesday; they’ve probably gone to visit Pascale, their daughter. She doesn’t live locally – it’s about a 150-mile round trip for them.” He paused. “Pascale is a bit, I don’t know, vulnerable.”

  “How do you mean?”

  He seemed to hesitate. “I don’t know the details, but she has a husband, or partner, who’s not at all what Gérard and Marie-Claude would want for their daughter. Apparently he gambles, hardly ever has work, drinks, possibly even knocks Pascale about. They’ve tried to persuade her to come home with them, but she refuses. There’s a child too – a little boy about three years old, I think.”