‘I’m her son and this is my cousin, her nephew,’ Alain said. ‘But we’re more like brothers, really.’
Bruno felt himself almost absurdly pleased to hear Alain’s words. He’d never thought of himself in that way. They could have been brothers: he and Alain were similar types, Alain in the air force and Bruno in the army and then the police. They were both men whose chaotic childhoods had steered them towards the structure and routine of military life. He was still glancing sideways at Alain when the doctor began to speak.
‘My name is Dumourriez and I’m the specialist who’s been treating your mother since she was admitted yesterday morning. I’m afraid I have bad news. We gave your mother a scan this morning and the results are not at all encouraging. She’s had two heavy strokes and there are signs of serious brain damage. I’m sorry but don’t expect her to be capable of rational speech again. Her heart is in very bad shape and she wasn’t in good health to begin with. I don’t think we’ll be able to do much more than to make your mother comfortable for the time she has left.’
She paused and picked up a file from her desk and opened it to a page that Bruno recognized as a printout of a scan.
‘Your mother certainly won’t be able to return to the retirement home where she was living, they aren’t equipped to care for her. We can’t keep her here so she’ll have to go either to a geriatric ward or, if her condition continues to decline as I expect, then she should go into a hospice.’
‘You think she’s dying?’ Alain asked, but his tone made it clear it wasn’t a question. He seemed resigned to it.
‘We’re all dying, I’m afraid,’ the doctor said with a shrug and a clearing of the throat that might have been a resigned laugh had she not been so visibly tired.
‘But I’m sure she grunted when she recognized me and she squeezed my hand when I sat beside her,’ said Bruno.
‘That was probably an automatic reaction. Please don’t get your hopes up. And she’s getting on for eighty. That’s a pretty good age and it’s clear she didn’t have an easy life. I wish I had better news for you.’
The doctor rose to signal that the meeting was over. She ran a hand through her greying hair, pushing it back from her face. Bruno wondered how many such conversations she had gone through that day, that week. She handed Alain a sheet of paper.
‘Here’s a list of the local hospices,’ she said. ‘I’ve marked the two that have a vacancy. I recommend the first one if you can get her in. Under the new rules, we’ve already had to inform the retirement home that your mother won’t be going back there so you’ll need to clear out her belongings.’
‘What new rules?’ Bruno asked. He kept his voice neutral but there was something in his tone that made the doctor look at him properly for the first time. Under the red jacket that Bruno donned when he wanted to appear civilian, the doctor took in his uniform shirt and the police pouches at his belt.
‘Gendarme?’
‘Municipal, from St Denis,’ Bruno replied, lifting the left side of the jacket to show the police badge attached to the chest pocket of his shirt.
‘The Conseil Générale of this département brought in the new rule last year,’ the doctor explained. ‘Here in the Dordogne we have one of the oldest populations in France; one in seven is aged seventy-five or older. That means an unusual degree of pressure on retirement homes, geriatric wards, hospices – and on people like me. For you, monsieur, it means significantly less crime, since most crimes are committed by younger people.’
‘Not for white-collar crimes, madame,’ Bruno replied. ‘But I think we understand the extraordinary pressures you’re under. Thank you for what you did for my aunt,’ he went on. ‘When do you expect to move her to a hospice?’
‘Tomorrow, two days at most. I’ll keep her under observation, see if there’s any reason for hope, but I have to say I doubt it.’ She glanced at the file open before her on the desk then looked up again to address Alain. ‘We have contact details for your sister, Annette, but you might give me your mobile phone and email, just to keep you informed. Please could you jot them down here.’ She pushed the file towards him.
4
Bruno’s aunt never regained full consciousness and died a few days after she was moved to the hospice. The funeral was a quiet affair, just Bruno, Alain, Bernard and Annette, and half a dozen of her friends and former neighbours. Some more residents from the retirement home turned up for the brief buffet lunch that was held after the cremation. Her other two children had sent wreaths, pleading that they were unable to get time off for the funeral. Nobody except Bruno seemed much surprised by this.
‘I haven’t had time yet to go through her things,’ said Annette when only the family remained. ‘Not that there was much after she came to the retirement home. There was a photo album, some clothes I’ll give to Action Catholique, a couple of cushions she’d embroidered and a few photos in frames, her own wedding and mine, along with pictures of you and Alain in your uniforms. Not a lot to show for eighty years.’
Bruno smiled ruefully at the thought. He had half-hoped that there might be something of his mother’s in his aunt’s belongings. On his visits to her, he had pored over the battered photo album, trying in vain to find at least a picture of the young woman who had given birth to him, and left him as a newborn baby at a church door and then disappeared. His aunt had refused
