Lavender & Linen

by Henrietta Taylor

  There were only two dogs left in the litter: two black males. Two gorgeous black puppies falling around helplessly, sweet, adorable. Did my children really need a dog? I looked at the parents of the litter; the bitch and the male were alert, strong and full of personality. We picked up the puppies to inspect them for any signs of weakness or malformation. Definitely. Absolutely. No question about it. The children and I needed a dog. I took out my chequebook and signed away vast sums in the belief that this dog would turn out to be a terrific guard dog, a best friend for the children, a great reason for long walks, and in his spare time he would look for truffles, dropping them at my feet for Maman to put into yummy runny omelettes — even though nobody in the house really liked eggs — and other wonderful French truffle dishes that I would look up in my cookery books.

  It was up to Lizzie to choose which puppy suited Jet, the name that her children had chosen. Pointing the finger at the hyperactive jet-black puppy, her decision was made. The other puppy, which had a violent white flash down his chest, was coming home with me. We set off through the driving rain and now fading light; neither of us had thought to bring along some sort of cage or large cardboard box to carry Jet home. Neither of us had dreamt that we would be taking home two puppies, and soon they were in the process of rolling from one side of the car to the other. The swaying of the car and the sudden change in environment had a disastrous loosening effect on their bowels.

  At the service station we cleaned the car up as best we could and patted the dogs into a slumber that we hoped would last most of the drive. Had I been awake I would have heard Lizzie fuming all the way home at her pathetic friend who, like the puppies, had found the experience utterly exhausting. But I, too, fell asleep and snored with the puppies all the way down the expressway back to Apt.

  Harry and I couldn’t wait to show Mimi the new member of our family, who had temporarily been called Flash or Nelson Mandela; mostly he was called Nopuppy or Puppyno. The coach was due back outside the school the next day at five o’clock. As always, Monsieur Gallegos was there to meet and greet the parents and the coachload of very subdued, exhausted children. They could barely stagger down the steps, having had a long road trip and next to no sleep in the past seventy-two hours.

  As always Lizzie was there on time, divine little Margaux standing at her side holding the lead of their new dog, Jet. In sharp contrast, I was running late, dishevelled and panicky. I watched from across the road as the blond head of Lizzie’s younger son Ollie stuck out from the group of boys squeezing through the door of the coach. He swept up the new puppy, squealing with delight and pulling Margaux’s pigtails playfully. His family all rejoiced at his safe return. Margaux jumped up and down, unable to contain her excitement about the new puppy. Lizzie’s older son Louie stood to one side, away from his siblings, and even from across the road I could see that he was putting on his ‘Older Mature Brother Look’, something that he had been working on; now in the early throes of adolescence, he had recently perfected it. Little bread rolls stuffed with chocolate appeared miraculously from Lizzie’s backpack, only to be wolfed down in one bite by her children. I was woeful in my inability to be punctual or to produce afternoon snacks from my handbag. I could not cut myself in two and pick up Harry from his school, whip down to the bread shop to buy wonderful afternoon snacks and then battle through the afternoon traffic jam that brought Apt to a complete ten-minute standstill with the release of 2000 public school students, many of whose parents double-parked illegally along the road while ten or more coaches perched hazardously at the exit of the high school, all in readiness to carry them away to their afternoon’s destinations.

  As she absorbed the fact that her best friends had got the black labrador puppy that both she and Harry had been wanting, the crestfallen look on Mimi’s face only lasted a few seconds, but for me it was an eternity. Lizzie always had cats wandering all over the house — now they would have the most wonderful black puppy. Unlike me, Mimi never seethed with jealousy; full of sweetness and good humour, she laughed with her friends at their new black-nosed baby, poking out from Margaux’s jacket.

  ‘Hey, Maman, bet you’re glad that it’s not us cleaning up puppy poo all over the house.’

  Harry could no longer control himself and cried out:

  ‘She didn’t have the time. Maman had a meeting at the bank and then she had to pick me up and then come back down here to Apt to meet you at school. She didn’t have the time to go back home to get our dog. Mims, we’ve got the matching dog at home. We’re going to call him Sambo, Prince or Nelson Mandela. He’s Jet’s brother.’

  Mimi and Harry were leaping around for joy, and within one minute I had made the wonderful transition from the Worst Mother in the Whole World to the Best. They understood that things were hard financially and that because I was a single mother concessions had to be made, but a pet had been long overdue and finally I had come through with the pet of their dreams. Already he was showing the hallmarks of being the dog of my nightmares, staining every carpet with large soggy puddles and chewing his first little leather lead in half. Little did I realise then that it was only the beginning.

  By the time we reached home, we had made a family decision that the name Sambo was politically incorrect. Standing in front of the puppy, it was obvious that he should be called Zorro because of the white flash down his chest. All other names suddenly seemed foolish and inappropriate.

  So Zorro came into our lives and proceeded on his path of destruction. It was the first time that I would take over sole responsibility for an animal. During the course of my childhood, my sister and I had had several dogs, but living with a dog and looking after one are completely different things. Kate and I would occasionally walk the dog to the end of the road but most times that was put off until later. It was lucky that the animal did not depend on us, as we often forgot to give it food and water.

  Another yoke was around my shoulders, and this time round I knew that I was going to be responsible for the animal day and night. The matter was taken firmly in hand and I told the children that under no circumstances would this animal be an inside dog. He was a working animal — a very expensive truffle dog that belonged outdoors in his very expensive new kennel in the courtyard next to my bedroom. Zorro made himself at home, and the courtyard was soon strewn with bristles from the outdoor broom and the pinecones that had been carefully stacked in a basket ready for the fire.

  All my good intentions went down the drain the moment Zorro started to whimper at night. Having spent a large portion of my life battling insomnia, I have become a very light sleeper and jump up wide awake at any unusual noise or light. Zorro cried and whimpered. I cried and whimpered when I saw that he had been chewing my mobile telephone, and my cries turned to a howl when I realised that he had eaten the end off the cordless telephone. I put a clock under his blankets but this too was chewed. He was inconsolable. I should have known then and there that I couldn’t win this battle. I should have sent up the white flag and given up the fight but I was determined to outsmart and outwit this tiny puppy. I had managed to raise two children by myself — admittedly both children slept in my bed with me for many years until one night they both got up and said that they were going to their own beds and I would have to cope by myself through the night. My theory had been that children don’t sleep with their parents forever, so sooner or later, between the ages of one and eighteen, they eventually leave the marital bed and find that having their own space is better than being with their parents. I was not going to replace them with a snuffling puppy. Absolutely not. Out of the question.

  At the end of the first week, I was a complete and utter wreck. Everything in the house of any value had teeth marks or had been completely ruined; the automatic unlocking device on the car key, the remote control for the television, all of our pens — even his beautiful expensive kennel had parts ripped off it. I spent the best part of the night patting the puppy to sleep and then listening to him howl, whimper and cry pa
thetically the rest of the night. I was holding firm, even though the temperature was now falling lower and lower. Zorro was cold and miserable and wanted me to rescue him. Little did he realise that we had very little heating in the house and that during the night, after the open fire died out it was marginally warmer outside.

  We continued to shower Zorro with love. From the safety of Sydney, Raymond gave me advice on how to assert my authority as the master with a rolled-up newspaper, tapping him gently but firmly on his rump, maintaining consistent boundaries that he could not overstep. I rolled out the white flag and proceeded to send it up the pole. The dog had won this round. We did not have a nice laundry with washable floors and central heating for him to sleep in like his brother Jet, who slept peacefully next to the radiator and sometimes had to be woken up and reminded to go outside to do his business, having slept heavily all night. I was ready to ask Dr Clément for a sedative from his medical bag either for me or for Zorro but our telephone only worked intermittently after Zorro had sunk his little teeth into it.

  After a fortnight, I realised that I had made one of the most monumentally expensive mistakes of my life. The list of objects that Zorro had eaten, chewed, destroyed, annihilated was growing daily. The Two Ladies were purple with anger when they saw that Zorro had been looking for truffles in the vegetable plot — ten weeks of hard work destroyed. I was contemplating my options while looking up dog obedience classes in the Yellow Pages. To match her perfect-looking children, husband and life, Lizzie now had the perfect dog. Jet could sit on command and was already completely house-trained. Was it true that dogs resemble their masters? Did this mean that I was chaotic and uncontrollable?

  Mon petit — my little darling — was rapidly growing bigger, and something needed to be done about him as soon as possible. Harry was at morning school on Saturday while Mimi, as a high school student, attended school only four days per week, Wednesday being a day off for sport and music and other activities. She took advantage of both Wednesday and Saturday to sleep in until nearly midday.

  One Saturday morning I noticed that Zorro’s familiar yelps had turned into something that sounded seriously wrong. Zorro had stuck his head through the black wrought iron gate of the courtyard. He was completely wedged and becoming more distressed by the minute. The little red bandanna that he sported around his neck instead of a collar had become entangled in the lacy wrought iron and was holding him fast. He was wriggling and squirming. I cut the bandanna free but that did not solve the problem: his head was stuck through one of the holes and there was no way that I was able to push it back. Panic was rising as I called out to Mimi for help.

  Emergency numbers flooded my brain from television: Was it ‘000’ or ‘999’ or ‘911’ or ‘17’, ’18’ or ‘19’? I rang the fire brigade on ‘18’. They answered promptly, asking what the nature of the problem was, who was speaking and from where.

  ‘It is mon petit — he has his head stuck between the holes in the wrought iron gate.’

  ‘Calm down, madame. You must remain calm. How old is he? Stay with him. Go and open the gates to your property because the firemen are already in the car and they will be there shortly. Do not panic, madame. Help is on its way.’

  The people in the main square of Apt for the busy Saturday markets looked up as the red truck, with every light flashing and siren squealing, rushed towards St Saturnin les Apt. I could see the flashing lights on the horizon before I could hear the cacophony of screeching brakes, truck doors slamming, sirens, raised voices and equipment being thrown in the air, all in a chorus of organised chaos. The captain rushed to my side then suddenly stopped in his tracks, a wide smile spreading across his very tanned handsome face.

  ‘Madame, you did not mention that your petit was of the four-legged variety. I will help you with your problem but first I must call the hospital that is waiting with a paediatric team for your little son’s arrival.’

  The firefighters contemplated the problem. The only solution they could come up with was the large pneumatic scissors that cut through metal — usually used in extracting people from car accidents. A call was relayed back to base and the Jaws of Life were dispatched without delay.

  The commotion from the firefighters and their wailing trucks brought my few neighbours running to my assistance — or rather, to see first-hand what the mad Australian woman was up to this time. The Two Ladies, my nearest neighbours, arrived first and I stood back with them and watched as the firefighters tried to comfort the puppy and work the Jaws of Life at the same time. Zorro sprang free from his iron collar and leapt into the arms of one of the firefighters, a woman who by this stage had fallen under his charms and showed little or no intention of giving him back. The job was completed. The puppy was saved. We waved them all goodbye, cheerful in the knowledge that this emergency at least had a happy ending; most of their work revolved around extricating people from cars wrapped around trees or dragging damaged cars and people from deep ditches. As we were saying farewell, Mimi wandered out from the bathroom, a halo of clean hair bouncing around her freshly washed and scrubbed face, to see why there was so much noise. Harry walked through the front gates after his Saturday morning at school, shouting that he needed sustenance immediately as he was dying from hunger, and that something dreadful in the neighbourhood must have happened as there were sirens and fire engines everywhere.

  Disaster averted, the firefighters collected their tools, packed their trucks and sped off down the road back to their control centre in Apt, leaving a trail of red dust rising through the dense grapevines. Mimi showed her brother how the dog had managed to become stuck fast in the gate. Catherine, the younger of the Two Ladies, inspected the lacy wrought iron gate and told me that she would find some thin wire and lattice that could be fixed onto the gate to prevent Zorro repeating his actions.

  ‘Ah, Catherine, I think that you underestimate my puppy. As if he would do that again. He might be young but he is not stupid.’ To my horror, Zorro was at that moment in the process of shoving his head through another hole in the gate. I shook my head: just as well he was a first-class truffle dog because his behaviour was quite idiotic.

  While Catherine went off to find the lattice and the thin wire, our neighbour from the other side arrived. Bernard Blanc lived with his wife and their two grown-up daughters in a house that we could see in the distance from our front verandah, across a very large fallow field. One of his daughters was in high school and she and Mimi would walk along the country lane together to the bus stop at the end. Bernard, too, had come to investigate why we suddenly had several firefighters and their trucks on the property, especially as there was no evidence of the house burning down.

  ‘Madame Taylor, a little word in your ear, if you have a moment.’

  I went over to Bernard and shook his extended hand. This very gesture showed that I knew how to conduct myself with him: strictly formal, using surnames to address each other, shaking hands as a formality rather than the three kisses to the cheeks that was the norm here in Provence. It went without saying that I would use the very formal ‘vous’ form to address him — always best to be too formal rather than too intimate. The ‘tu’ form is used for best friends, family, children and animals. After a decent period of at least ten years, as neighbours we might adopt a slightly more friendly form of address, but we would remain formal for a very long time.

  Though he was clearly slightly agitated, Bernard had waited patiently as the courtyard emptied of firefighters, trucks and the Two Ladies. When we were alone he began explaining what he really wanted.

  ‘Truffles, Madame Taylor. I think that you are sitting on a very large truffle farm.’ This could not be possible. The previous owners had never mentioned anything about this and it would have been a huge selling point if they had known. Monsieur Blanc proposed that later that afternoon he would come with his two truffle-sniffing dogs and they would work the property. Bernard explained that the truffle, a mass of fungus that grew underground and looked unc
annily like a dried dog turd, needed water in the early autumn followed by warmth to nurture it underground until early December, when it would be ready to be unearthed and thrown into delicacies ranging from humble omelettes and salades to more exotic meat dishes — just in time for Christmas.

  I had read about truffle hunts in magazines and books on Provence but never in my wildest dreams had I thought that I would be lucky enough to go truffle hunting — let alone on my own property. I was jumping from foot to foot. All my Christmases had come at once. The children were over the excitement of the firefighters being at the house and were now installed in their bedrooms trying to wade through the hours of homework that had to be completed by Monday morning. They had no intention of wandering through the dense and unkempt undergrowth that had a tight grip on most of the so-called garden for yet another ‘French Experience’, as the children mimicked, writhing in mock pain and agony. The temperature had plummeted and the Mistral had picked up, howling down from the north at ninety kilometres per hour. They called out to me that they would rather stay indoors even if it meant doing their homework.

  Zorro and I greeted Bernard at the gate of the Wild Thyme Patch. My vanity had got the better of me and I had decided to forgo a sensible woollen bonnet or hat. Bernard, a true Provençal, knew better and had come equipped with his woollen headband around his head; tufts of slightly grey hair escaped its mooring. His all-weather coat covered many layers of thick sweaters, giving him a lumpy appearance. His eyes were swivelling around, unable to contain the joy that he shared with his dogs, which were salivating with excitement. Bernard’s two funny-looking dogs were both highly trained truffle dogs that he had coached since birth. The chaos that ensued with Zorro meeting them for the first time was hilarious. With the three dogs running around and sniffing, barking and generally having a wonderful play, it was evident that not much work would be done. Five minutes later, we dispatched Zorro inside so that serious work could begin.