Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog (15 page)

  Once the acclamation died down, I sat and waited and Snuffle pottered around indulging in the unattractive habit of sniffing the bottoms of other dogs. Pinned to a noticeboard were cards from numerous dog-related businesses: training schools, hairdressers, clothing and collar makers, even a
traiteur
(caterer) offering a five-course festive dog menu. To pass the time I made conversation with the old couple sitting next to me. The man wore a threadbare tracksuit, the lady a thin flowery dress covered by a dirty overcoat. Unlike the rest of the clientele they'd shown little interest in Snuffle; instead, they sat holding each other's hands and glancing anxiously at the clock on the wall. Unusually, they didn't seem to have a pet with them.

  'Where's your dog?' I asked. Immediately I felt the question had been a mistake.

  'In the other room.' The man motioned to the swing doors.

  'What's wrong with him?' I blundered on.

  'Old age – he was eighteen last week.' The woman wiped a tear from her eye and the realisation dawned on me that their pet was being put down.

  'I'm sorry,' I said and the room returned to silence.

  The mood in the room lightened with the arrival of a mother, daughter and cage containing a writhing, hopping bundle of rabbits. It was hard to estimate but there could easily have been twenty of these babies. I eavesdropped as the mother talked to the receptionist.

  'We need to have them sexed.'

  'They look a little young,' said the receptionist, pulling one from the cage. 'What's the rush?'

  'A month ago, we had two male rabbits – now look!'

  'Ah, it's always difficult to tell the sex.'

  'Well, Zing is now Zingella, and we're anxious to divide this lot. Otherwise we'll soon have a hundred rabbits.'

  'Still, it's too soon.' The receptionist paused and examined the rabbits again. 'There is another option. They're the right breed. You could keep them together and set up an
élevage
. I know butchers are always looking for good suppliers.'

  At this point I expected the rest of the clientele to show some discretion. The girl, who could only have been seven, was looking anxiously at her mother. They'd come to the vet's for help, not to be told to sharpen their carving knives. However, the empty bellies all around me were rumbling.

  'They're delicious roasted with a little rosemary.'

  'Always dust the skin with sea salt first.'

  'Try a champagne and cream sauce.'

  
'Magnifique.'

  'Mr Ivey?' One of the vets, Matilde, a woman in her mid forties, called me through. This was our third appointment and gradually Matilde had correctly formed the view that I didn't have a clue what I was doing. The failed house-training, the fact that Snuffle still insisted on play-biting, his skittishness and excitability were all blamed on me. I closed the door behind me, just catching a final recipe:

  'Stewed with olives, tomatoes and Provençal herbs.' The prospective chef, quite unbelievably, was the mother of the little girl.

  The vet's room smelt of chemicals and strong detergent. Clean, reflective surfaces amplified the over-bright lighting. Posters warning of the effects of worms and ticks lined the wall. A credit card machine and invoice book sat expectantly on the desk. Snuffle whined, twisting in my arms. He was panting heavily.

  Matilde expertly took Snuffle from me and placed him on the brushed metal examination table. Forcing her hands into his mouth, she examined his teeth, then she picked up each paw and pressed for tenderness. Running her hands through his fur she encountered several of the burs which Snuffle collected with such regularity that I swear they were breeding in his coat.

  'He's not in bad shape; teeth need a clean, paws could do with some wet-weather wax, the coat needs more grooming, but overall healthy.' The verdict was delivered in an emotionless tone which made me feel incredibly guilty.

  'Have you bought the rectal thermometer yet?'

  I shook my head. Taking Elodie's temperature was one thing, but sticking a thermometer up my dog's bottom was just too unappealing. Snuffle had yet to be prescribed any suppositories but given the French proclivity for administering medicine in this way, the day was surely coming.

  'Right, hold him tight, I'll do the injections – rabies and microchip, you said.' I watched as Matilde took the first syringe. Snuffle began to shiver with fear. He'd been to the vet's enough to know what was coming. As instructed by Matilde I held him steady, trapping him with my forearm and bracing him for the injection.

  'Here we go – number one.' Snuffle whimpered as the needle pierced his skin.

  'And number two,' Matilde announced, unmoved by my ongoing struggle to hold Snuffle. His legs kicked vigorously against my chest and I grappled with my other arm to quieten him. The needle approached and Snuffle's eyes rolled to the ceiling and his whole body bucked in anger. There was a whimper and then I felt a sharp prick on my forefinger.

  'Ouch!' I let go of Snuffle and shook my hand. 'You caught me.'

  'It's not possible,' said Matilde, ignoring my claim until I held my finger under her eyes. There was a small glistening red pinprick of blood.

  
'Merde!'
Matilde was flustered. She crossed to her cabinet, knocking some bandages to the floor as she went. She needn't have been so worried, it was barely a scratch, and I could joke with my friends about having a dog microchip in my finger. Matilde emptied copious quantities of a brown antiseptic onto a sterile wipe and pressed it to my finger.

  'Are you feeling all right?' She looked genuinely concerned, as if she feared I might swoon and faint. Until this point I hadn't realised what lily-livered, pathetic patients most of the French were: a drop of blood and it was like they'd had a limb blown off.

  'Perhaps we should get you to the hospital for a check-up.' Matilde reached for the phone and I laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. Jingoistic World War Two humour was dated, but sometimes too relevant to blot from the mind. No wonder they needed our help to beat the Germans. Only the Italians, with their fastidious love of shiny-buttoned uniforms, could compete on squeamishness.

  As these thoughts passed through my head, logic took over from humour. Something was wrong. What if Matilde had injected the microchip first? That would mean the second jab was rabies. Millions were spent keeping England free of rabies. A whole pet passport scheme had been instigated to prevent the spread of a disease which, as I understood it, could be fatal. I pictured myself on a hospital bed, foam bubbling viscously from my mouth, saying a final farewell to my family. And all because we'd got a dog.

  'What was it?' I blurted out, suddenly concerned.

'I thought you knew.' Matilde looked surprised. Her grimace seemed to confirm the worst.

  'What's going to happen to me?'

  'Maybe nothing at all,' said Matilde. 'Maybe you'll bleep at the airport.'

N
ew Year's Day dawned bright and crisp. The fields were covered by a frost that crunched underfoot and wisps of mist still slept under the overhanging branches of trees. As the sun climbed so did my feeling of well-being. A trip to the village
boulangerie
reinforced my new sense of purpose, as I was stopped and kissed in the street by nearly a dozen different people. The conversation was always identical.

  
'Bonne année, bonne santé, plein de bonnes choses, mais le plus important c'est la santé. Bisous aux filles.'

  Translated this meant: 'Happy New Year, I hope it's filled with loads and loads of wonderful things but most of all I hope you are healthy. Kisses to the girls.'

  In the
boulangerie
I bought a slice of
gâteau des rois,
a marzipan-based cake, symbolic of the gifts the wise men gave to Jesus. It tasted rather like a deluxe
croissant aux amandes
, and I ordered myself a strong black coffee in the cafe as an accompaniment. On the second bite my teeth hit something solid and I pulled a little plastic figurine of a king from my mouth. Each cake had one such figure baked into it, and the person who found it in their slice was guaranteed good luck for the entire year.

  It was warm enough to sit outside. I placed the figure on the table and relaxed back into my chair. Snuffle panted happily at my feet and the occasional villager hurried by on their way to buy bread. Absent-mindedly I studied the faded flaking paint on the shutters, and the sun-bleached writing above the shops, proclaiming the names of the proprietors and their trades. Many of them were alien occupations which had long since died out in England, for example
'Menuiserie'
(repairing all the wooden windows which had
'descendu'
), or
'Ébénisterie'
(custom making furniture).

  A sign in a nearby window advertised the services of a
'Nounou'
– a kind of impromptu nursery, set up by a mother looking to make some extra cash. Another handwritten sign offered jams for sale. On a daily basis my eyes filtered out these little fragments of Provençal life. A knock on a door, and within moments I could be feasting on plum jam. I could even see the branches of the tree arching over the garden wall. I finished the final sip of my bitter black coffee, dark, viscous and heady. Another resolution for the coming year would be to appreciate, as if for the first time, the place in which I lived.

  Back at home my new resolve was tested almost immediately. There are many pleasant ways to spend the morning of New Year's Day: a long leisurely lie-in, breakfast with the paper, perhaps a conversation with a loved one full of gentle reflections on the year that has just passed and hopes for the one to come. Alternatively, one can just treat it as any other morning. Manu, our landlord, favoured the latter option, and the banging began soon after ten. For a couple of hours there was the usual amount of noise. Then at midday, suddenly silence.

  Manu appeared at our door, coated in a layer of white dust, looking like an actor who'd overdone the zombie make-up.

  'Didn't realise there would be so much dust,' he beamed, clearly happy that work on the conversion of the rest of the farmhouse was beginning. 'You're going to lose water for a couple of hours.'

  
'Bonne année, bonne santé, plein de bonnes choses, mais le plus important c'est la santé,'
chimed Tanya and I in unison, managing to behave as if Manu's appearance was an everyday occurrence.

  
'Bonne année, bonne santé, plein de bonnes choses,'
echoed Manu, although how a man who was about to turn off our water supply could wish us a new year full of good things was beyond me.

  'It'll be the electricity next week; always be back on by dusk.'

  For the rest of the day we were treated to a master class in how to get work done in Provence. A lorry load of labourers arrived and the men cut, hacked and pulled away at everything in their path. Manu strode through the billowing dust, cajoling and persuading the workers, heaving bricks, stones, boilers, bathtubs and cookers from the back of the truck. Quite where he got all the parts and the workers from on a public holiday was beyond me.

All this activity only served to highlight our own lack of progress. When the engineer's report had finally arrived just before Christmas I thought the final excuse not to price our job had disappeared. I was wrong. All that had happened was that the explanations for the missing quotes became more colourful, with the Provençal D-roads suddenly sounding as dangerous as the trunk route out of Basra.

  'Someone drove into my van.'

  'I hit a wild boar.'

  'I was clamped.'

  The last excuse made me spit out my morning coffee in disbelief. Provençal parking is an art form, a piece of theatre, a concerto of crimes. A street corner, a raised curb, backwards, sideways, practically upside down – no matter how small the space the Provençaux will manage to ram their car into it. Once I'd even seen a 4x4 with its rear wheels hanging off the side of a bridge. Encouraging this creative approach were the police, who considered that they had far more important things to do than hand out parking tickets, like wearing reflector shades and looking intimidating.

  Imagine the time and effort that went into affixing a clamp, all that heaving of metal and wrangling with chains, and for what purpose? Simply to take it off again. The Provençaux might be tight with their money but they were even more parsimonious with their work. Hence, clamping has never and will never exist here; in fact, I was surprised that the artisan in question had even heard of the practice, let alone ventured to offer it as an excuse.

  Late on New Year's Day, when the drilling had finally stopped, Tanya and I tried to reason our way through the web of half-truths we were being offered. On the one hand we had to trust these people. We'd selected them to build our house, we'd dined and laughed with them. They all seemed good, honest, hardworking men. They had families like us, and they knew how important it was to get our house built. Equally, we'd understood when we took on the project that Provence was a notoriously difficult place for a foreigner to get work done.