Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog (32 page)

T
he following week, out of curiosity, out of habit, perhaps even out of desperation, I was back by our oak trees. As I'd learnt, it was best not to feed Snuffle before going hunting. That way, he would be as eager as possible to earn treats.

  Buoyed by his recent success Snuffle set off at a pace, sniffing and scratching, bouncing from tree to tree at such velocity that I struggled to keep up. The weather was much warmer and yet according to Franck there was always a chance of the odd later growth. Mid hunt, Snuffle skidded to an abrupt halt, digging all four legs into the ground, and sending up a cloud of leaves. Reaching for my tools I hurried to the spot.

  There was no time for me to excavate the earth. Such was the intensity of Snuffle's digging that a small chasm had already been opened up – a rift into which his nose was firmly planted. I tugged, Snuffle resisted and eventually I pulled him away from his prize. A small brown dusty ball was firmly wedged between his teeth. I held his jaws tight to prevent him swallowing it. He regarded me angrily. A piece of saucisson finally broke the impasse. I reached down to collect what I thought was my first ever black diamond from our trees. All the effort, the hard work, had been worth it – I'd finally managed to train Snuffle. I brushed the mud away and small particles dusted my fingertips. Out of curiosity, out of instinct, I raised a hand to my mouth. The taste was dry and slightly bitter, reminiscent of a familiar flavour – cocoa.

  Stepping back, I looked into the hole in the ground. There was a small pile of truffles, perhaps ten. I'd never heard of them growing so close together. No wonder Snuffle had been keen. Truffles, apparently, were like buses, you wait all winter and then... At precisely this point I realised someone, that someone doubtless being Franck, had played a joke on me. My first truffles were in fact chocolate ones.

Back at home, verdant new growth plumed from the vines, yet the relationship with our landlord was far from spring-like. From outside the apartment I could see Manu's enormous frame looming over my wife. As usual with the Provençaux, there was a great deal of exaggerated arm waving.

  It was now only two months until the baby was due and a week later we were moving house. The timing was far from ideal, but we couldn't govern nature. As a result of our impending
déménagement
(try saying that after a few glasses of wine) Manu's mind had been increasingly turning to getting new tenants and a visit, ostensibly to mend the front door, had turned into a full inspection.

  Admittedly the house had fallen into a dreadful state of repair. The window frames were warped and buckled, and ugly black trails left by the daily incursions of water streaked down the paint work. In the shower room mould was growing on the ceiling. There wasn't a room without its personal colony of flies. Living in the place had become unpleasant, but with our new house nearing completion what choice did we have but to see it out?

  'You see the problems,' I gestured at the walls.

  'Your damage, yes.' Manu folded his arms and set his feet, apparently irritated that I had returned.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Well, look at all the water stains. It's going to cost thousands to repaint. The walls need to be stripped. A special damp-proof coating applied.'

  'Hold on, what's that got to do with us?'

  'You'll have to pay.'

  Outside the window a lush field of poppies had sprung up and a family of frogs croaked deeply and repetitively. The air was fresh and fragrant and we'd opened all the windows to let as much as possible into the house. I swatted a fly away.

  'I told you there was a serious problem. We've lived in terrible conditions for our health. Our child has suffered, we've suffered. All you could say was that it was normal,
"C'est la Provence."
You've made it almost unbearable to live here with the renovation next door. We should have asked for a reduction in the rent. And now, now you want me to pay for something that isn't my fault. No.'

  Manu didn't respond at first. The frogs outside counted the seconds. Tanya pulled up a chair to rest her legs. Elodie wobbled into the room to see what was going on.

  
'Bien,'
said Manu. He unfolded his arms and turned and left.

  'What does that mean?' asked Tanya.

  'I have no idea.'

  We didn't have long to wait to find out. The following morning Manu was back. He appeared in conciliatory mood, explaining that when he let the house he'd taken out insurance and somebody would be coming around to look at the damage. We'd probably receive a letter telling us the date and time, but we really didn't need to worry about being there. He'd be taking care of things.

  The atmosphere in the farmhouse returned to normal. Manu banged on his cars, and sprayed his olive trees with insecticide. The weather was warm and so Elodie spent a lot of the day outside picking small white snails from the blades of grass and feeding them to the chickens. A stream from the winter rainfall still trickled along the nearby gully and swathes of wild flowers lined the banks. Perhaps feeling a little guilty for his behaviour, Manu took Elodie up onto his tractor and gave her a tour of the field.

  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.

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.