Nine Summers Page 7

  Many of them were pieds-noirs, French Algerians like our neighbours on the marina in Sète, and lived a long way from the hospital. Some drove several hours to and from work each day.

  ‘We have to live where we can afford to buy a house, and a lot depends on where our husbands find work. It’s not easy.’

  As the days progressed, my mood veered from terrible distress to an unreasonable euphoria. I started to write mad letters home, behaving as if it had all been a big joke.

  ‘Honey, better not post this letter, it’ll confuse them, it wasn’t that funny. Wait a while…’ Felix realised that I was not entirely rational, and in his calm way tried to tone me down.

  The little shop on the ground floor became my corner grocery. When I visited it each morning to buy the paper, fruit and biscuits, I also had to report to Madame Dupré.

  ‘Alors,’ she’d start. ‘Comment ça va aujourd’hui? How are things today?’

  ‘Oh! La, la!’ She exclaimed the first time I took Felix down past the shop into the garden. She clapped her hands and beamed.

  When David phoned each day, I told him what investigations were being done. ‘…And he’s having such difficulty walking. I hold him up but he can only go up and down the corridor twice, then he’s exhausted.’

  ‘Mum, I can assure you he’s having exactly the same tests and the same treatment in Montpellier that he’d be having here in Sydney. It’ll take time, you’ve got to be patient.’

  A small, middle-aged Vietnamese doctor, with a round face and kind eyes, visited frequently. He always sat on Felix’s bed, held his hand and spoke slowly to make sure we understood. ‘Tout sera bien, all will be OK,’ he assured us. His manner was gentle and concerned, as if we were part of his family.

  The day before Felix was discharged, le Professeur came on a round with his minions. ‘Under no circumstances are you to climb up the mast,’ he said, in French, of course.

  ‘Pas de problème!’ Felix assured him. ‘Ma femme le fait. My wife will do that.’

  ‘Like bloody hell I’ll go up the mast!’

  Felix winked. I wanted to cry out with joy. My old Felix winked.

  ‘And you come and see me in six weeks,’ le Professeur added.

  On the morning of our departure, Felix managed to have a shower with minimum help from me, but I had to help him dress. Then I gathered our few belongings into a plastic bag and we were ready.

  Doctor Arlette and the three nurses we had come to know so well wished us bon voyage. ‘Au revoir, et bonne chance!’

  We were so pleased to know that we’d see them again when we returned for a check-up with le Professeur in six weeks.

  During the two weeks we’d spent at the Guy de Chauliac, I had grown to love the place and also to appreciate the kindness that went beyond anything I’d expected from a hospital. I didn’t feel alone, I felt at home there. Our bilingual efforts made us all laugh. I loved the garden with its scents and splashes of summer flowers. I can still feel the warm benches where I sat under swaying palms, the warm breeze and the gravel paths under my feet. I can still hear the sound of the red helicopter’s rotors, the voice of Claudette, ‘Ah, mon dieu, la chaleur, la chaleur.’

  We waved until we were out of the gates and out of sight. With tears running down my cheeks, I gave Felix a hug. He’d lost weight and felt thin. Thank God, we’d survived. We held hands as we had after his first radiotherapy treatment in London.

  ‘We were lucky to be off the coast of France when all this happened, so lucky. And we’ve learnt so much about the kindness of strangers,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ Felix replied. He squeezed my hand, tears in his eyes.

  chapter three

  ‘We’re back!’ I gave Felix a bear hug as I helped him step into the sunshine of La Grande Motte. He was again close to tears. We stood motionless next to the taxi and looked at our Galatea tied up in everyone’s way, just as I’d left her two weeks earlier.

  Yachties coming in to the capitainerie fastened to her starboard and stepped across her deck to get ashore. After the tranquillity of the hospital, we were no longer used to the loud music and noise that bombarded us. Like Cap d’Agde, this was a port de plaisance, a busy, restless resort in mid-summer.

  Captain Alain, who was in charge of the capitainerie, waved from his upstairs window. A small man with greying hair, he had a shy, reserved manner. Georges, his assistant, a sturdy man with a gentle touch, helped Felix over Galatea’s rails and into the cockpit. I made for the gangway, opened the hatches and let the breeze sweep through, but Felix looked frail and bewildered by the commotion.

  ‘Just sit here for a while, sweetie, don’t rush…’ I sat down with him and put my arm around him. ‘I know it’s hard to believe, but we’re back, and you’ll be OK. Everyone said you would be, but it’ll take time.’

  It was mid-morning and the sun beat down through the Mediterranean haze.

  ‘What a good thing we have a permanent awning,’ I said. Felix just nodded.

  A crowd of holiday-makers with hats and bags stood on the quay and watched boats sail in and out of the harbour, children chased one another, flags fluttered, horns honked and the air smelt of sea and salt and summer.

  ‘It’s so good to be back on board,’ Felix whispered as if talking to himself. ‘Back home.’ He looked insecure and tired, but his face had shed much of its earlier greyness.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I replied. ‘Hey, how about the luxury of sleeping on feather pillows tonight, and soft blankets and thick towels? Five-star luxury.’

  We continued to sit in silence in the cockpit and watch the passing parade.

  ‘I think I’ll go down now,’ Felix said after a while. ‘Isn’t it great to have rails everywhere, so you can hang on, inside and outside?’

  ‘Even though they weren’t quite meant for post-stroke recuperating yachties.’

  ‘But they’ll come in useful,’ I said.

  I helped him down to the saloon. He looked around as if to convince himself that we really were back. While he rested, I stacked away the food I’d bought on the way back from Montpellier. The cheeses, salamis, sausages, pâtés, stuffed artichokes, green olives stuffed with pimentos, black olives stuffed with anchovies, yoghurts...all went into the fridge with the tarte tatin at the top. Then I put clean sheets on our bunk, aired the pillows and blankets and hosed down the deck.

  Felix ate very little. He seemed more withdrawn than he’d been during the last days at the hospital. At night we clung to each other in our double bunk. My mood alternated between relief and concern. I wondered what was going through his mind. I tossed in bed and thought about how he’d always protected me, rarely burdening me with worries if he could avoid it. Now we faced a reversal. My new role was to look after him, to protect him. But when the problems were medical, how could I? He knew more than I what our future had in store for us, what we should do. But at the time neither of us wanted to talk about it.

  He was asleep now, still clinging to my hand. I loved the photos of Emma and Jackie on the bulkhead. I wished they were here, or we were nearer home. Oh, the heat. It was so oppressive, the ceiling so low, the space so confined. The thumping music was pounding my temples. Perhaps one of the basils in the cockpit hadn’t died, I loved that scent. I’d check tomorrow. Reminded me of our garden at home. But it was no longer our garden or our home. I wondered how it looked. My stomach was churning like a dishwasher. I tasted the nougat chocolate. Shouldn’t have had the pork pâté. We were rocking, the water was slapping against the quay, the fenders slipping up and down. If only I could sleep! Puss was stirring. I was so relieved when I felt him move.

  If he didn’t see us on deck by 9, Georges invariably came to check that we were all right. After a few days we’d established a routine. My first port of call each morning was the boulanger for a baguette. By now we wouldn’t dream of eating a morning baguette in the evening. After breakfast, I helped Felix ashore — first one leg over the rail, then the other — and supported him while
we staggered along for his morning constitutional. On the first day, we didn’t go far. After that a little further each time. Some days he needed more propping up than others. Often, along the way, we rested on seats and watched the passing parade.

  ‘This is such a different crowd from the Riviera. No glamour here,’ I said. ‘Ports de plaisance are where the “ordinary” French go on vacation. More flats than hotels. More interesting to observe than the Riviera.’

  ‘For more observation I think it’s time for us to go to the pâtisserie and then check out the charcuterie next door,’ Felix said. I felt like hugging him when he came out with these Felixisms.

  ‘Of course. The focal point of our day.’

  What La Grande Motte lacked in the romance of the old fishing port of Sète, it made up in food shops. The window display of our favourite pâtisserie was mesmerising. It was no easy matter to decide which gâteau to test each day.

  ‘Choices, choices, choices…’ Felix said.

  Meringues filled with whipped cream and topped with berries soaked in Grand Marnier, scooped oranges filled with crème pâtissière or confectioner’s custard topped with caramel chips, meringue with chestnut cream topped with chantilly, orange cake with mocca icing, caramel logs filled with dark nougat, profiteroles with chocolate sauce, berry tartlets…The range was endless. Sometimes we settled for parfaits, or a sorbet ice to go with iced coffee or iced tea or iced mocca, or a fruit granita. The decorations were extravaganzas in sculptured fantasies and designs.

  ‘You must try the tulip framboise. It is tulip pastry with raspberry sherbet and fresh raspberry sauce, it is beautiful. And on top are fresh red currants,’ our friendly helpers behind the counter advised us.

  ‘We did not see you yesterday. We think that you have left us!’

  ‘Mais, non! C’est impossible!’ I answered. A visit to the pâtisserie or the charcuterie never failed to cheer Felix. Diet was not something we worried about. ‘Everything in moderation, ho ho,’ Felix said.

  To brighten the saloon, I filled vases with flowers and replaced the geraniums, the basil and the mint, which hadn’t survived our absence. We loved to brush the basil and sniff the burst of scent that filled the cockpit and drifted into the saloon.

  But the euphoria that had gripped me in the hospital when I knew Felix had survived soon dissipated. Although his walking improved each day, his eyes had become the new problem. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t read until the afternoon.

  ‘My eyes feel as if they’re rotating. They don’t stop moving, I can’t focus.’ Tears of frustration rolled down his cheeks. He was so depressed, it broke me up. When I couldn’t bear to see him like this, I made excuses to go ashore. ‘I think I should take the wash to the laundrette. I’ll be back as soon as I can, honey.’ By the time I got back he was usually asleep.

  Sometimes I told him I was going to the hairdresser, but in fact I sat on a bench, wrote letters, wept or phoned the kids from a booth. Much of the time I watched couples chatting, with arms around each other, children skipping or tossing balls, parents pushing strollers. Everywhere there was sound and movement, loud music and the smell of coffee. Once, an old woman with elephantine legs and heavy shopping bags noticed me cry. She stopped and gave me a sad, sympathetic smile. Some days later she passed again and gave me a broad smile. Her ‘Bonjour, madame, quelle belle journée, what a beautiful day’ made me feel good.

  ‘What should I do? Where do we go from here?’ I kept asking myself. In the hospital I was ecstatic, relieved that Felix was getting better, that he was in an excellent hospital, that he could speak again, that his walking gradually improved. Here, I missed the doctors’ reassurance, the nurses’ banter. I felt alone.

  Felix hadn’t noticed that in one week I’d told him I was going to the hairdresser three times. He hadn’t noticed that my hair looked no different.

  ****

  July, August. The heat glowed and sat on us. Transparent and iridescent, it rose from concrete pavements and asphalt like ghosts drifting up from hell. Day after day, not a breath blew through Galatea. With four fans blowing and wet tea towels suspended from the hand rails and over our faces, we lay on our bunks in swimsuits to get cool.

  ‘Honey, if the worst of your migraine is over, perhaps we could go out and get some air. It’s after 10. Should be much cooler now,’ Felix suggested one evening.

  ‘I can’t stand flashing lights, and you know I never exhibit myself outside in a bikini.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Put on your big straw sun hat, keep your eyes closed and put on your darkest sunglasses.’

  ‘I’ll look like a lunatic. At night, in a hat and sunglasses.’

  ‘What the hell,’ he said. Yes, I thought, what the hell! And so we tottered into the bright night lights — Felix in a swimsuit, barefoot and unsteady, hanging on to me, barefoot in a bikini with a large sun hat, sunglasses and eyes shut.

  ‘Puss, don’t lean so heavily on me, I can’t hold you up. I’m fragile!’

  ‘I’ll try.’ We staggered on. ‘Careful now. Coming to an uneven bit and a step after that,’ he warned me. I shuffled forward.

  ‘What if someone from Sydney sees us?’ The thought suddenly struck me.

  ‘They wouldn’t recognise us.’

  ‘What if a policeman notices us?’

  ‘We’ll tell him we’re Australians, that’ll explain everything. Come on, there’s a bench over here, let’s sit down.’ Clasping my hand, he guided me towards it. I curled my fingers in his hand, a broad, square hand with short, stubby fingers. Smooth, warm, gentle, secure.

  ‘We’re going great guns with one pair of eyes and one pair of steady legs!’ he said reassuringly. ‘Ah, the breeze! Can you feel that breeze?’

  I felt the breeze. But the flashing neon lights penetrated my sunhat, sunglasses, eyelids. Zigzag, technicolour fireworks. Loud music beat on my right hemisphere. Boom, boom, boom.

  ‘What a relief, thank God for this breeze.’ I heaved a sigh. ‘If only we could get away from the heat for a few hours a day. What do you think about picking up the car and going on small drives?’

  ‘It’s OK by me, but I know you don’t like driving a manual, or driving on the right. But if you’re prepared to drive, we could get a taxi to Sète tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll give it a go if you act as back-seat driver.’

  It seemed an eternity since we’d left our car with Madame Thomas for a service.

  ‘C’est pas de problème, no problem, wait till your husband is OK,’ she’d said when I phoned from Montpellier to tell her that I didn’t know when we’d pick it up.

  My hands trembled as I slipped into the driver’s seat and clicked the seat belt shut. Felix rested his hand on my lap. ‘You’ll be OK, just relax.’

  I turned on the ignition. Crrrrunch! I turned it off. ‘Start again, honey. Put your foot on the clutch, turn on the ignition, then put the gear handle into reverse and lift the clutch very slowly while you put your foot on the gas.’

  I put my foot on the clutch, shifted the gear handle into reverse, turned on the ignition then put on the gas. The car went into a spasm of hiccups.

  ‘I’ll break the gearbox!’ I was close to tears. A trickle of sweat ran down my chest. I didn’t want to drive.

  ‘Let me take her out, then you can start on the road. But if you don’t want to drive, we can leave the car here until I can drive.’

  ‘No, it’s OK, I hate it, but I’ll get used to it,’ I mumbled. We changed seats, and Felix backed out of the garage. Madame Thomas’s wrinkled face beamed benevolently. She’d refused to charge us the four weeks’ garaging and gave us a bag of plums from her garden.

  ‘Bonne chance, et bon voyage,’ she waved.

  Driving at snail’s pace, we made it to the old Sète marina. A small work boat now occupied the spot where we’d been. Giselle and Francis’s boat was gone. The flower vendors on the quay were gathering buckets of flowers and folding their stalls at the end of their day, the supermarket had
already closed for lunch and siesta, and the street was deserted. The restaurant awnings were down, but few tables were occupied. Window shutters facing the water were closed to darken rooms and keep out the midday sun. A fisherman, rope in hand, stood at the bow of an incoming boat, ready to tie it to a bollard. Seagulls circled in tow.

  My heart missed a beat as we entered the yacht club’s dining room. It was almost full and, as always, mostly with men. The whole room turned to look and greet us although we recognised only a few faces. They must have read about us in the paper. In a place like this news spread fast. They noticed Felix’s insecure walk and my protective arm around him and soon turned their gaze back to their plates. The hum of conversation continued. We wished them ‘bon appétit’.

  The waiter rushed to clear a table near the window and pulled out a chair.

  ‘Alors, comment ça va?’

  ‘Assez bien, we’re OK. How are you? Where are Giselle and Francis?’

  ‘They left a few days ago, somewhere further along the coast to a new job.’

  ‘Quel dommage, what a pity, we’d hoped to see them.’ The dazzling hors d’oeuvres on the buffet table smelt delicious. Grilled eggplant, stuffed tomatoes, olives, tuna, jellied egg, sausage. I felt a bout of nostalgia as we gazed down on the marina where, only weeks earlier, we’d started on our adventure with such enthusiasm and optimism. The familiar smell of Languedoc cuisine drifted in from the kitchen. Subdued, we ate in silence while we looked at the scavenging seagulls and the fishing boats below.

  Four weeks. Nothing had changed outside. But we...

  I parked the car next to the capitainerie and switched off the ignition. My shirt was soaked. I didn’t move, waited for the flutter in my stomach to subside. Felix put his arm around me.

  ‘You were great! Not even a near collision.’ He laughed. It was good to see him laugh. A black cat marched past me. I bent to pat her for good luck. She turned, looked at me with disdain and trotted off purposefully to a rendezvous.