Nine Summers Read online

  ‘Merci, merci beaucoup,’ I whispered.

  ‘Pas de problème.’

  The doctor worked quickly. He raised Felix from his slumped position, pulled equipment out of a plastic box and started a drip.

  The pilot switched off the autohelm, revved the engine, put it into gear and motored towards land. I didn’t know where he was taking us. Meanwhile, I moved like a zombie, my brain worked like an automaton. I collected Felix’s X-rays, medical reports, passports and all the money we had on board.

  In the cockpit Felix continued to vomit. The doctor held a bowl under his chin, and gave me a reassuring smile. ‘Will be OK, will be OK.’

  We approached the wharf. ‘Nous sommes où? Where are we?’ I asked. ‘La Grande Motte,’ the pilot replied.

  We approached the quay and made for the capitainerie. A silent crowd was watching. I threw them a line, someone caught it. A stretcher appeared and several men transferred Felix onto it, and took him to a waiting ambulance. He seemed conscious but paralysed on the right side. Suddenly, terror gripped me. They’re taking Felix away.

  ‘No, wait!’ I shouted and jumped off, rushed towards the ambulance just as the driver turned on the ignition, about to drive off.

  ‘Non, non, je veux aller avec mon mari! I want to go with my husband!’ I looked into the ambulance. Felix’s right arm hung limp. He was conscious, he could see me, but he couldn’t speak. The ambulance driver turned to me. ‘Je regrette…’ Two paramedics were with Felix, and there was no room for me. I moved back.

  ‘Quel hôpital allez-vous? Which hospital are you going to?’

  ‘Guy de Chauliac.’ I didn’t get it.

  ‘C’est ou? Where’s that?’

  He tore off a scrap of newspaper and wrote down the name of the hospital. I grabbed it and read ‘Montpellier’.

  ‘Merci.’

  I moved about like a robot. Two men from the capitainerie helped me tie up Galatea.

  ‘Merci beaucoup.’

  ‘No worries, everything will be OK,’ one of them assured me in English. ‘We’ll look after your boat till you come back.’

  I gave them the keys, thanked them again. They called a taxi, I jumped in.

  ‘C’est l’adresse.’ I gave him the scrap of newspaper.

  Now the enormity of what had happened dawned on me. I’d never dealt with our medical problems before. That had always been Felix’s department, his decisions. Now I had to face this alone.

  ‘Combien de temps à Montpellier? How long to Montpellier?’

  ‘Ah, 40 minutes.’

  I started to shake uncontrollably. My heart was ready to explode. Only an hour ago, only an hour ago we were celebrating. Was it only an hour ago? What should I do now? Fly Felix to London? I couldn’t think clearly. I closed my eyes to calm down, but instead I wept.

  Finally, we entered the grounds of a hospital set among palms, flowerbeds, gravel paths and wooden seats. The driver pulled up at the entrance. I read the sign:

  Hôpital Neurologique Guy de Chauliac

  ****

  I still had my safety harness on. I got out, took it off, paid the driver. He had a few words with a young woman waiting at the entrance. She was obviously expecting me. The taxi driver turned and looked at me. His expression was gentle. ‘Au revoir, madame, et bonne chance.’ He waved and drove off.

  ‘Merci,’ I whispered.

  I stood there, Felix’s medical papers in one hand, the safety harness in the other. In the pockets of my jeans were the passports and money. That was all.

  I turned to the young woman, grateful for her kind smile. She took me by the elbow and guided me like a helpless child to an office on the ground floor. Two middle-aged women were sitting at desks. A vase with bright yellow wild flowers relieved the sterility of the room. The women looked up at me as the young woman addressed one of them, but I didn’t understand what they were saying. Perhaps this was the local dialect.

  Then one of them got up and motioned for me to come with her. I followed her along a long corridor to a lift. Neither of us spoke, but from her dark eyes I sensed that she felt my distress.

  It was eerily quiet. The only sound was the monotonous clicking of the woman’s heels on the marble floor. My T-shirt was drenched; sweat poured from my forehead. A hot wind swept through windows and down the corridors. The yellow scent of summer drifted in with it.

  We entered a small room with a single bed. A nurse was holding Felix’s head with one hand, a bowl with the other. The room smelt of vomit. I fell to my knees and gripped his hand to let him know I was with him. ‘Honey, I’m here, I’m here…’ There was no response.

  The nurse looked at me and shook her head slowly. ‘Il ne comprends…’ she said. Did she mean that he didn’t understand, or did she shake her head because he was so sick?

  ‘Parlez-vous anglais? Do you speak English?’

  ‘Non, je regrette…’ she replied.

  Felix’s head lay slumped on the pillow, his eyes shut. He’d stopped vomiting, but he looked terrible. I tried again to speak to him. No reply.

  A young doctor with honey-coloured hair, china-blue eyes and a friendly smile walked in and extended her hand. ‘Je suis Docteur Arlette.’ We shook hands.

  She pulled back Felix’s sheet and tested his reflexes. She, also, didn’t speak English. I gave her Felix’s medical papers and struggled to tell her in French that Felix had a history of cancer, radiotherapy, chemotherapy; that all the information was in the notes. Then, without thinking, I asked in English, ‘Should I fly him to London? To the Marsden Hospital where he had his original treatment?’

  She was horrified. ‘Mais c’est pas necessaire.’ Then she added emphatically, ‘Absolutement pas necessaire.’

  ‘In that case I want him to be a private patient,’ I struggled in French.

  ‘Pas necessaire, pas necessaire. He will have excellent treatment here!’

  Confused and sick with worry, I covered my face. ‘Dear God, what shall I do?’

  Just then two orderlies wheeled a trolley into the room and transferred Felix onto it. The doctor read my face and put an arm round me. ‘On le prend pour analyses, radiographie, tout sera bien, we’re taking him for tests, all will be OK,’ she assured me.

  My legs caved in, I slumped onto a chair. When I’d mustered enough energy, I went down to the office and asked where I could phone my son. ‘Mon fils, il est docteur…he is a doctor in hospital in Sydney.’

  ‘Bien sûr, of course, ici, ici, here,’ the girl said. I gave her David’s home number and she dialled for me. David’s wife Anne answered. I told her what had happened.

  ‘I’ll phone David at the hospital and get him to phone you. Just give me the number.’ Some minutes later, David phoned. He was working in the stroke unit at Prince Alfred Hospital in Sydney.

  ‘…I wanted to take Dad to London but they assured me that it’s not necessary, that he’ll have very good treatment here.’

  ‘I’ll find out what people know about the Guy de Chauliac in Montpellier and phone you straight back.’ I didn’t have to wait long.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s a well known, highly reputable medical centre with excellent facilities. It’s perfectly OK to stay there.’ I breathed a sigh of relief.

  When I returned to the room, Felix still hadn’t returned. I looked out the window. On a bench under a palm tree, two people sat and gazed into the distance. It was so quiet. Beds of flowers, shrubs, trees, scent — so beautiful outside, so peaceful, not like my turmoil.

  I waited and waited. Why was it taking so long? Had something gone wrong? A nurse brought me a tray with coffee and a sandwich.

  ‘Merci beaucoup.’ But I couldn’t face food.

  The sun had set beyond the trees by the time they brought Felix back. His eyes were closed, but some colour had returned to his face. I spoke to him and squeezed his hand. He seemed to recognise my voice, but he couldn’t speak.

  The young doctor came back to test his reflexes again. ‘Do you k
now the results of the tests?’ I asked. ‘Non, le Professeur will probably come in the morning, he will see the results.’

  ‘Is there a hotel near here where I can stay?’

  ‘If you don’t mind sleeping on a stretcher, you can stay with your husband.’

  ‘Pardon?’ I thought I’d misunderstood. I’d been struggling with French all day. She repeated slowly what she’d said: ‘You can sleep on a stretcher next to your husband.’

  ‘Oh, bien sûr, oui, oui, merci beaucoup.’

  A nurse gave me a hospital gown to sleep in, some torn sheets and pillowcases to use as towels for the shower. ‘I am very sorry, but the hospital has no towels. Patients bring their own.’

  Relief and gratitude for this kindness overwhelmed me. When I returned from the shower, the stretcher and bedding were already in place. Felix was sound asleep. I kissed him good night and crawled into my bed.

  It seemed as if I’d just gone to sleep when the clanking of crockery on a trolley woke me. A cheerful plump woman in green walked in with a tray of croissants on serviettes and coffee in paper cups.

  ‘Bonjour, madame, bonjour, monsieur. Le petit déjeuner. Breakfast.’

  ‘Merci.’ I looked at Felix. He’d opened his eyes, but he looked bewildered and couldn’t speak. I reassured him. ‘We’re in a hospital in Montpellier, honey. I spoke to the kids, and they send their love. David asked about this hospital. It’s a big medical centre. There’s no need to take you to London. The people are wonderful. They let me sleep in the room with you.

  ‘They did tests and X-rays on you yesterday. The Professor may come today and he’ll look at them.’

  He nodded, then shut his eyes. I held his hand, dunked a piece of croissant in the coffee and fed him. I put the paper cup to his mouth and he swallowed a few sips. I stroked his brow, his cheeks. I didn’t dare leave him.

  Doctor Arlette came in several times to see him. I plucked up the courage to ask, ‘How is he?’

  ‘He is better, I think, but we will see what the Professor says. Unfortunately, he will not come today. He will come tomorrow, Monday,’ she replied.

  Every half hour or so nurses dropped in to make sure Felix was comfortable. At first they just smiled, but later they tried to make conversation. I was so grateful for this kindness, the distraction, the relief from tension, from loneliness.

  When Felix opened his eyes and I spoke to him, I felt he understood me but couldn’t answer. He ate the croissant I fed him and drank the coffee.

  The children phoned twice that day. ‘Don’t worry, Mum, it may take a while for him to start speaking,’ David tried to reassure me.

  That second night I tossed and turned on the stretcher, and couldn’t sleep. A faint morning breeze swept in through the window, relief from the previous day’s oppressive heat. I extricated myself from the hospital gown, which had wound itself round me like a straitjacket, and pulled up a chair to Felix’s bed. I took his right hand in mine and stroked his head.

  From the corridor, a shaft of light lit his face. It was frighteningly grey and furrowed with deep lines around his mouth. I’d never noticed how long and thin his face was, the nose more prominent than ever, the forehead so high. How ill he looked! Unrecognisable. I watched his chest and listened to him breathe.

  As I watched over Felix and held his hand, a scene flashed through my mind. How long ago was it — 44 years? Or was it 45?

  The school bus. Girls downstairs, boys upstairs. The boys overflowed onto the back platform. I was sitting by myself, behind Vilma and Wanda, two of a select group in my year, girls who attracted boys like bees to honey, who knew how to make even a brown school tunic look sexy. If I’d tried to tighten my belt and hitch up the skirt, I’d have been a laughing stock.

  They were sharing a box of Fantales, toffees in yellow wrappers with details of film stars printed all over them. Clark Gable, Tyrone Power, Hedy Lamarr, Katharine Hepburn. Suddenly Vilma turned to Wanda and whispered, ‘That’s the guy!’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘You know, the only one who didn’t take a girl to the Regatta Dinner.’

  Although this information was intended for Wanda, I was close enough to overhear. I was an outsider, and didn’t belong to that coterie who went out with boys.

  My swift response was to turn and look. He was standing with two others on the back platform. There was no mistaking him. I’d seen his photo in the paper, and knew he was one of the winning eight crew. He had a mop of fair curly hair, small blue eyes and a large nose. Not particularly good-looking. There was nonetheless something attractive about him. A gentleness, perhaps even shyness, not the overbearing bravado one expects of a celebrity member of a winning eight.

  He wasn’t talking to anyone. I looked at him closely and wondered why he hadn’t asked anyone to the school year’s most prestigious event, the Regatta Dinner. I liked his round face. He was not in uniform. Uniform was only compulsory for girls. He wore a brown jacket and pale green trousers. I couldn’t believe the trousers. Pale green! I hated green.

  Felix stirred and opened his eyes. I smiled and squeezed his hand, then bent over and kissed him. ‘How are you, sweetheart?’ He nodded with his eyes. There was a faint smile.

  ‘Do you know what I’ve been reminiscing about? The bus, that school special. Remember? Do you know how long ago that was? Was it 44 or 45 years? Remember those terrible green pants of yours? And how I never got over the fact that I could have gone to that Regatta Dinner if only we’d met two weeks earlier and you’d asked me?’

  He smiled. He wanted to say something but couldn’t. ‘Remember how we both got to the bus stop earlier and earlier each day? It took you three days to say “hello” and I felt myself go red from the neck up, like a rash. And then when you asked me to go dinghy sailing, I couldn’t very well tell you that I couldn’t swim more than 25 yards without drowning. I didn’t have a choice, did I? I was 15 and had never been out with a boy. And remember how I killed myself laughing when I found out that your nickname at the Scouts was “Puss” because of “Felix the Cat”, and that stayed with you forever?’

  Felix looked at me, his eyes moist. ‘And look at us now,’ I said sniffing. ‘My one and only boyfriend, and we’re on a boat in France. Just temporarily in hospital.’

  My spirits rose when I saw Felix that morning. He had more colour, he hadn’t vomited for almost 24 hours and, although he still couldn’t speak, he wasn’t distressed. The nurses continued to come in frequently to check on him. He started to drink by himself, holding the cup with one hand.

  As I calmed down, my French improved and I had no problems communicating.

  An Australian we’d met some weeks earlier drove the long way from Castelnaudary to Montpellier when I contacted him. He, too, reassured me that Felix would be well looked after at this hospital. When I mentioned that one of the nurses had offered to take me shopping, he volunteered to drive me to La Grande Motte to pick up the clothes and toiletries Felix and I needed.

  We found Galatea tied up under the capitainerie window, still in everyone’s way, but as the staff had promised, they were looking after her. On the way back from La Grande Motte, we picked up a Montpellier paper, in which a short article appeared:

  MALAISE CARDIAQUE A BORD

  D’UN VOILIER AUSTRALIEN

  Avant 15 h. hier, un pneumatique de la Société nationale de sauvetage mer a secouru un couple d’Australiens en détresse, à 9 km, au large de Palavas…

  HEART ATTACK ON BOARD

  AN AUSTRALIAN SAILING VESSEL

  Just before 3 pm, a coastal patrol rescue boat came to the aid of an Australian couple in distress, 9 km off Palavas…

  When le Professeur — a tall, impressive, sombre man — visited Felix on the Monday, he assured me that the tests didn’t indicate a severe stroke. ‘But it is hard to tell how quick or how complete the recovery will be.’ He always spoke French and let me struggle, although I suspected that he spoke English.

  The weather continued to be excr
uciatingly hot, especially in our tiny room.

  ‘Il fait très, très chaud ici. La chaleur est terrible. The heat is terrible,’ said Claudette, the nurse-in-charge, on the third morning. ‘I think we’ll move you to a bigger room, which is cooler,’ she added. They brought in a wheelchair for Felix and I pushed him into our new room. ‘Hey, two proper beds,’ I said triumphantly, ‘and the room is bigger than most hotel rooms!’

  Felix smiled and, in a slurred speech I could barely decipher, said, ‘Could’ve made it a double bed.’ He was awake most of the time now, more active and interested in his surroundings. He started to put down his legs several times a day, then tried to take a few steps leaning on me. Some days later, we walked along the corridor.

  ‘Hey, Puss, you’re doing great guns. You’re going further each time. Maybe tomorrow or the day after we could go down in the lift and walk in the garden.’

  From the windows of our room, we watched with proprietorial affection as each day the red Pompiers helicopter belonging to the fire brigade flew into the grounds of the hospital with medical emergencies. Sometimes, in an exuberant mood, I hung out the window, waved and blew them kisses.

  The nursing staff, Doctor Arlette, Felix and I established a jovial relationship. This was the summer holiday season, the hospital was not full and the staff not overworked, so they used any excuse to come in and chat. A constant stream of visitors came in and out of our room. Felix and I had rarity value. We were Australian and spoke peculiar French. All of us laughed and joked at our attempts to communicate in French and English. Our French was more daring by the day and reached a stage where we could talk about our lives.

  These nurses, like so many other women we met during the months we spent in France, often asked, ‘What’s it like in Australia? Do the men help at home?’ Invariably they complained, ‘…all of us work, but the men still expect us to do everything — go to work, look after the home and the children. They don’t lift a finger, and even expect hot meals at lunchtime if they come home…’