The Healing Knife

by S. L. Russell

  These thoughts raced through my mind as we sang: some of the hymns were familiar, others far more modern and unknown to me, but they were sung with such conviction and joy that I could ignore the slowing and the wavering pitch. There was no organist; a keyboard stood in a corner, draped in a green cloth, so perhaps they had one sometimes, but today it was all unaccompanied and perhaps predictably only just the right side of chaotic, despite the efforts of a tall black woman I took to be the choir mistress, who tried to keep in order a small group of singers to one side of the altar. It didn’t seem to matter. Joy and delight were clearly the keynote here.

  Afterwards I stopped for a cup of coffee in a small hall on the other side of the car park. I was instantly mobbed by Letty Wetherly, who bombarded me with questions. Her mother kept a watchful eye on her from where she chatted to another group, and she must have heard Letty ask, “What’s that scar on your face?” because she came over and scolded her daughter. “That’s personal, Colette,” she said severely. “And aren’t you rather monopolizing Ms Keyte?”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “And please call me Rachel.”

  Now Mrs Wetherly shook my hand. “I’m Janet. I’m afraid Letty likes to know everything about everyone, especially if they are new to us. Are you here for long?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “A few weeks, probably.”

  “Oh, good! So will you be coming back next Sunday with Michael and Jasper?”

  “I think I probably will. They seem to be very well known here at St Luke’s.”

  “Oh yes, dear! They are. Jasper plays keyboard for the service when they’re here. It’s so much better than tapes, or unaccompanied. Do you play?”

  I shook my head. “I used to, but not any more.”

  A tall, burly man in a brown corduroy jacket joined us and introduced himself. “Colin Wetherly, churchwarden.” He had a gruff voice, the voice of a smoker, I suspected. “So you’re staying with Michael. How are you enjoying it, here in France? On holiday, perhaps?”

  “Yes, in a way,” I said. “And I like it a lot.” I told them the story of my foray into the local church last Sunday and they roared with laughter. “That sounds typical!” Colin Wetherly said. “Hemmed in by determined local ladies. Marvellous.”

  I looked at my watch. “I must get back,” I said. “Lots to do. I’m hoping to give the house a good clean before Michael and Jasper arrive.”

  “You will come back next Sunday, won’t you?” Letty said. “It’ll be tons better with Jasper playing. I really like Jasper – he’s kind.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  Janet Wetherly laid her hand on my arm. “Yes, do come again,” she said. “If it’s any temptation, there’s a barbecue at the Bowmans’ after the service.”

  “And we must introduce you to a few more of our little fellowship,” her husband said. “Completely mad, all of them.”

  I smiled. “I’ll look forward to that. Nice to have met you.” And I meant it.

  Something, I barely knew what, was knitting itself together in the dark recesses of my mind. Things I had read, and only vaguely remembered; things people had said to me, things I had overheard, snippets on the radio. Things my father had said, long ago. I didn’t worry; I felt sure that they would float to the surface at some point. For now, driving back to Roqueville under the July sun, the road peeling away before me like a shiny black ribbon, devoid of traffic, sometimes bowered over by trees in full leaf, I was unreservedly happy. I was healthy, well fed, well rested. I had been with good people, and would be again. My wounds were healing; the prospect of getting back to work, though dim, was a real possibility; and Michael and Jasper would come tomorrow. Once I might have been unwilling to admit it, but I could recognize I had begun to feel lonely.

  I had my usual lunch under the sunshade outside: bread and ham, tomatoes and fruit. I left Dulcie scratching about happily in the borders and set to work on the house, sweeping, polishing, scrubbing. By four o’clock I was done, and the old place gleamed. I’d gone at the work with great vim and was now hot and sweaty, so I stood under a tepid shower for a few minutes, then put on fresh clothes. It was time for Dulcie’s afternoon training session, and her dinner.

  Dulcie was nowhere in the garden. I called her, but she didn’t appear; even rattling a box of dog biscuits elicited no response. I thought she may have got bored and slipped next door to the Boutins’; no one would hear me calling, because they usually had their TV on at full blast. I hopped over the stile, crossed their immaculate lawn, and knocked on the back door, which was open.

  “Entrez, entrez, Rachelle!” Gérard’s voice boomed from the front room. I could hear something noisy on his TV – motor racing, I thought. Marie-Claude appeared from the kitchen, flour up to her elbows.

  “Bonjour, Gérard; bonjour Marie-Claude. Ça va?”

  “Oui, oui, tout va bien, merci. Et vous aussi?”

  “Oui, merci. Je cherche Dulcie. Est-elle avec vous?” Though I could see she wasn’t.

  Gérard frowned. No, Dulcie wasn’t there. She’d come over earlier – perhaps about two o’clock, because they were still eating their lunch. But then she’d disappeared, and naturally they thought she’d just gone back home. I began to feel nauseated, but I thrust anxiety aside. She would be close, wouldn’t she? Michael had said both gardens were secure. With the Boutins in my wake I went out again into their garden and called. And called. We went all around the perimeter, calling. When we got to the end of their garden Marie-Claude let out a little shriek. Hidden by two enormous hydrangeas was a break in the fence. Four or five lengths of timber had loosened and fallen forwards from the panel, probably as a result of the storm the previous week. It wouldn’t have been possible to see from the house because of the shrubs thick with greenery, but it was easily wide enough for a lithe collie to follow her nose. We looked at each other in horror.

  “We must go and look,” Gérard said. He handed his newspaper to Marie-Claude, who said something to him rapidly. He nodded. “My wife, she says look again in your house. She may be there – sleeping.”

  I shook my head. I told him I had been indoors, cleaning. I’d been in every room. And Dulcie’s hearing was acute: she’d never be sleeping if I’d been calling her for so long, especially as her stomach would be telling her it was close to dinnertime.

  From the euphoria of a few hours ago, this was a shocking plummet into a cold bath of dread. Swallowing hard, I tried to be calm while I told Gérard of my particular fears: that Dulcie would find her way onto a road and be run over; or worse, that she’d find her way into a sheep field and be shot. Somehow I managed to make him understand, though by then I was almost faint with the effort. Gérard barked a string of orders to Marie-Claude, who flew into the house, her eyes full of tears. Then he turned to me and spoke gently. “My wife, she telephone our friends. Voisins, neighbours. Bertrand. Other farmers. They watch out for Dulcie. Now we go and look. Maybe she, ah, somewhere, hurt. Can’t get home.” He patted my arm clumsily. “We find her.”

  But we didn’t find her. We searched every field, every copse, every ditch within a mile or so, calling till we were hoarse. Could she have gone further? I didn’t know what else to do. All I knew at that terrible moment was that I had lost Michael’s beloved dog. She was my responsibility, and I had failed. How could I tell him – and Jasper? I couldn’t. I wanted to howl.

  The light began to fade. In an hour it would be dusk, and then dark. The summer evenings were long, but night would come. Gérard must have been thinking the same. “I will go back, get, um, torch,” he said. “You look.” I nodded, watching him lumber away.

  He was gone almost an hour, and for some of that time I guess he’d been looking for me. He told me that Marie-Claude had alerted everyone she could think of in Roqueville and its outskirts. We went on looking until the shadows lengthened, but we heard and saw nothing. There was no other course but to turn for home; in the dark, even with a torch, we could trip or turn an ankle, and I worried about
Gérard – he looked exhausted, his normally ruddy face grey. “My fault,” he muttered. “My fence broke.”

  “No, not your fault; you didn’t know,” I said hollowly. “I should have kept a more watchful eye on her. We all know she can be a bit of an escape artist.” He looked puzzled. “Elle aime s’échapper.”

  He nodded. I thought there might be tears in his eyes.

  When we got back to their bungalow Marie-Claude was standing on the patio, light streaming from the room behind her. She shook her head, put her arms round her husband’s ample waist, and ushered him indoors. I declined their invitation to go in, and went back next door.

  I could not remember a time when I had felt so wretched: fearful, guilty, appalled. Maybe it was only then that I realized how I had grown to love that amiable creature who had been my companion for two weeks. The phone was ringing; I let it ring. It would be Michael, or Jasper, and I couldn’t face telling them I had lost their dog.

  A thought slipped unobtrusively into my head. I remembered being fourteen, my impassioned prayers for my father: Please, don’t let him die. Let him get better. At one level I’d known he wouldn’t, but I’d felt utterly helpless. As now. Would the God I had sidelined and ignored for so long listen to me now – on behalf of a dog? Did dogs matter, in his great scheme? Of course they did. I closed my eyes, and tears dribbled down to my chin. I gritted my teeth. I felt that I might be sick.

  God, if you are there, please don’t think about what a complete failure I have been. Not just losing Dulcie, but in so many other ways. Please, bring Dulcie home. Let her be alive. Not for me, not for my conscience; for her own sake, and for Michael and Jasper. And Gérard and Marie-Claude. They feel bad, and Gérard looked sick. Please, let no harm have come to her. She’s just a dog, but we all love her. I ran dry. I had no more words, only tears, and I sobbed.

  I couldn’t go indoors, not to the endlessly ringing phone. What must Michael and Jasper be thinking? They’d be worried about me, I guessed. I stayed on the patio, in the canvas chair, as the darkness deepened and the stars came out.

  It must have been after ten o’clock when I came to from a doze and thought I heard something. I frowned, listening, just registering that I was cold. I heard it again – from next door: the whine of a dog. It was the sweetest sound I had heard in a long time. I jumped up, sending the chair crashing to the ground, raced barefoot across the lawn, and leapt across the stile in one bound. “Dulcie!”

  In the light of the Boutins’ back room, dimmed by their curtains, a shadow lay on their patio. I reached her. I could see that she was damaged: one of her front paws was held at an odd angle, and her face looked sticky, but it was hard to be sure because of her black fur. She was filthy with mud and vegetation, but she was alive, and she was back. I knelt down and gently stroked her head. I didn’t want to hurt her. “Oh, Dulcie, thank God. Am I glad to see you!”

  I hammered on the Boutins’ back door, and after an age heard Gérard’s lumbering tread. He pulled the door open. “It’s Dulcie; she’s back.” To say Gérard bellowed would not have done it justice. He called Marie-Claude and a long incomprehensible conversation followed – almost an altercation, except that I knew that was just the way they talked to each other. Marie-Claude gave me a hug, dabbing at her eyes, then trotted indoors. Gérard stooped, grunting, and very carefully lifted Dulcie up in his arms, as if she weighed nothing. She whined, but her tail was slowly wagging. He carried her indoors, and I followed. He laid her on the kitchen table, and she licked his hand. Now I could see that one side of her face was bloody.

  Marie-Claude came in and spoke to Gérard, who nodded and said nothing. He turned to me. His colour was back to ruddy, I was glad to see. “We take my car in town – the, ah, vétérinaire will meet us there.” He spoke again to his wife, who went out and came back with a blanket. Between us we wrapped Dulcie up. I carried her, and Gérard went to get his car. Once it was in the drive we laid her on the back seat, and Marie-Claude got in beside her. Gérard went to lock his house, and that reminded me to do the same. It was bad enough that we had let his dog get hurt; I didn’t want Michael to arrive and find his house burgled as well because I had left all the doors open.

  The vet’s surgery was in a side street just off the market square, on the opposite side to Nathalie the hairdresser. At this time of night there was no one about; even the bars were in darkness. The only light came from the square where a take-away pizza restaurant remained open. We sat and waited until the lights came on in the surgery, and then saw the vet appear in the doorway and beckon us inside. Gérard turned to me with a wry smile. “We OK now. Vet speaks English good.”

  The vet was a small woman, her light brown hair tied up in a ponytail. She ushered us into her surgery. I thought she looked tired, but she smiled at us encouragingly. Gérard carried Dulcie and laid her on the table. We unwound the blanket. The vet examined her in silence, sometimes muttering under her breath.

  “OK,” she said, raising her head. “Do you know what happened?”

  I shook my head and explained how she went missing and reappeared at the Boutins’ house.

  The vet’s eyes narrowed. “This is Mr Wells’ dog, isn’t it?” I noticed she couldn’t pronounce W, as many French people can’t. It came out as “Ouells”.

  “Yes, but Mr Wells isn’t here yet. He’s coming tomorrow, with his son. I was looking after Dulcie.”

  “OK. Well, she’s been in a fight, probably with another dog.”

  “Oh! Poor Dulcie! She’s no fighter.”

  “The other dog has bitten her – see? Here.” She indicated Dulcie’s blood-matted cheek. “But also she has broken at least one bone in her foot – probably trying to get away. Maybe she caught it in a root or a hole.”

  “Will she be all right?”

  The vet nodded. ‘I will give her a tetanus shot now. When my nurse gets here I’ll do the surgery – sew up her face and set the foot-bone. One of us will stay with her tonight. She’ll have an anaesthetic so she won’t know anything for hours. You don’t need to stay. I will ring you in the morning.”

  My relief was beyond description. Michael’s dog was back, alive and likely to recover. Thank you, God.

  The vet said as we left, each of us giving Dulcie a soothing pat, “This is expensive treatment. I need to warn you.”

  “It’s not a problem,” I said, “Thank you for seeing us so late. I’ll bring my credit card when I collect her, if that’s OK.” At that moment I would cheerfully have sold my flat and emptied my bank account to cover the cost of Dulcie’s recovery.

  We drove home in sober and exhausted silence. As Gérard parked Marie-Claude leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder. “J’ai beaucoup prié,” she said, putting her hands together in case I hadn’t understood. But I had. “Merci, Marie-Claude. Moi aussi.”

  I let myself into the darkened house. As I switched on the light the phone rang again, and this time I picked up the receiver.

  “Rachel! Are you all right?” It was Michael, and he sounded worried. “Where have you been? We’ve been calling you since six.”

  “I know. Michael, I’m sorry; I couldn’t speak to you earlier.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Slowly, brokenly, I explained what had happened. He didn’t interrupt, but I could hear exclamations. “I’m so sorry – I should have kept a better watch on her. These have been among the longest hours of my life, I think.”

  “How long did you say you and Gérard were out looking for her?”

  “Oh, I don’t know – four hours maybe.”

  “You must be exhausted.”

  “Yes, but please don’t be too kind! Between us, we lost her, and she came home hurt.”

  “For goodness’ sake.” Michael’s voice was a growl. “These things happen. Dulcie likes to wander. It’s not your fault, or Gérard’s. You need to get to bed. You probably haven’t eaten, have you? Have something, however little. Then sleep. We’ll see you some time tomorrow afterno
on. You can fill me in with all the details then.”

  I slept like a corpse and awoke with the light to loud birdsong. My head was thumping and I was sweating. I threw off the covers which had wound themselves into a tangle, trapping my legs and feet. I stumbled downstairs to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. It was oddly quiet; no canine yawns and morning greetings. I realized what good company Dulcie had been; perhaps it was because her conversation was limited. She was just a friendly, uncomplaining presence. Again, remembering, I felt a wash of warm relief. I took my coffee onto the patio and slumped in what was becoming my favourite perch.

  Just after nine the vet rang. “Dulcie is awake,” she said. “You can come and get her when you like.”

  “I’ll come now.”

  I put on some jeans, shoes and a T-shirt, got the car out, and drove into town. People were already about their business; Roqueville had an air of quiet purpose. I parked outside the vet’s and went in. A young woman with fair hair and glasses looked up from behind the desk.

  “Bonjour. Je viens chercher Dulcie,” I said.

  She smiled – obviously Dulcie was no stranger. “Bien. Attendez un moment, s’il vous plait.”

  A moment later the vet herself appeared, with Dulcie attached to a long red and white lead. Her paw was encased in plaster, giving her a comical gait. The side of her face had been shaved, cleaned, and stitched, so that she looked lopsided. Someone had combed out the mud and burrs from her coat; the ragged wreck of the night before was gone. She greeted me with sleepy enthusiasm, licking my hands as I tried to take the lead from the vet.

  “I’ll put her in the car and come back to settle up,” I said.

  The vet nodded. “Ariane will see to you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “for being there for Dulcie so quickly. For all you’ve done. I’m very grateful.”