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The fracture, Dr Mortimer tells me, is very serious and given his age, unlikely to heal anytime soon. Grandad must not be allowed to do any physical activity, no question of him walking more than a few steps, absolutely no bending down or climbing stairs. And the worst news of all is that he might never heal. Old bones don’t mend easily. With luck, a lot of luck, he might have a partial healing in three months, enough to be able to take off the collar.
And of course, there is absolutely no question of him returning to his shop any time soon. Any strain, the slightest twist might cause the broken bone to shift and injure his spinal cord.
This is such bad news; I have to pretend to look at the fountain, so he doesn’t see the worry in my face. If Grandad can’t work, then he won’t have an income.
The empty food cupboards are the least of it. Medicines are not cheap, neither is medical care, and I have no idea what kind of health insurance they have here.
The doctor asks with a sympathetic look, “Can you manage his care on your own?”
“I can handle most things, but…” His manner puts me at ease, and I find myself confiding in him. “Grandad needs someone to help him have a bath and I don’t think he’ll let me…he’s very proud and…he called me a slip of a girl.”
Dr Mortimer nods. “It’s an intimate task, and he won’t feel comfortable having a young woman undress him. But we sadly don’t have male nurses here.” He taps a finger to his lips, thinking for a moment then says, “Let me see what I can do. There’s a middle-aged nurse who normally works for Lord M. Hedge might feel more comfortable with her.”
“Would she agree, I mean if she’s already working for Lord Du Montfort?” Even I, who doesn’t live here, know about La Canette’s old seigneur who lives at the grand manor house. “Surely, we can’t borrow his private nurse?”
“I know them very well. I’ll ask,” Dr Mortimer assures me with an easy smile.
Okay, on to the next difficult question. “And what about costs?”
“Costs?” His eyebrows rise then his face brightens with understanding. “Do you mean his medical bills?”
“And medication. How much do we owe you?” I brace myself for the answer.
Dr Mortimer chuckles. “I’m sorry I should have explained. I forgot you don’t live here. The clinic and most medical costs are covered by a charitable trust. You don’t owe anything.”
“And... the nurse?” I try to sound unconcerned, the way Andrew used to sound when asking about the best wine on the menu, as if the cost didn’t matter. If this nurse works for a lord, she won’t be cheap.
Dr Mortimer studies me for a moment. “Miss LeFevre, Hedge is a respected member of this community and one of its oldest. La Canette has a long tradition of looking after their own. Lord M is more than generous when someone is in need. Please don’t worry.”
I try not to worry. After the doctor walks away, I do my shopping and buy a few supplies. I don’t want Grandad to see me walking in with bulging bags, making him feel like a charity case. I get milk, cheese, coffee, fruit, a few tins, and a pumpkin – well there must be a reason they sell so many, mustn’t there? I also buy soap and laundry detergent.
Just as I’m ready to go back, the pub catches my eye. The Swan looks like an old-style Inn with bow windows, mullioned glass, and a roaring fire inside. Best of all, there’s a Wi-Fi sign on the door. I order a glass of wine and ask the barman for the password.
“You’re Hedge’s granddaughter,” he says, writing the code on a piece of paper and handing it to me. “Tell him we hope he’ll be hale for the tide.”
No idea what that means, but my mind is too preoccupied, so I nod and thank him then find a bench seat inside before calling Paul on Facetime.
“What does this mean?” my brother asks after I’ve explained everything to him.
“I think Mum would be the ideal person to come and live with Grandad. She’s not taken to retirement and has been bored and depressed especially now she’s on her own. It’ll be company for both of them.”
“And her pension will go a lot further on La Canette than in New Zealand. We can all chip in too.” My brother’s solution to everything is to throw money at it. “If he never recovers and can’t go back to work, why not sell the shop and let him live off the proceeds?”
My sister, Sophie, when I call her, listens with one ear while shouting instructions to her children. But as soon as I mention our mother, she nixes the plan before I’m halfway through explaining.
“No. Not mum,” Sophie interrupts me sharply. “Out of the question. We only just got her out of her depression. No way!”
“But Grandad,” I point out logically.
“Is not her own father.”
“You make her—"
“Why not hire someone to manage the shop for him?”
“Soph, he needs someone to live with him, to look after him, he’s ninety-three.”
“Elodie?” She stops me. “You have to stay a few more days and find him a good shop manager and helper. Someone who isn’t a woman with special needs.”
