The only images that remained clearly, too clearly, were those he'd fought to blot out: the young gendarme in the courtyard with Monique collapsed at his feet, the photos of when Christian was found which he and Monique had to view at instruction, part of the process of official identification before the almost ludicrous question, 'Is it your wish that charges are proceeded with?' The two days in court, his outrage as the defence tactics became clear, and then the judge's final sentence: six years? Six years for the life of his son: not even a semblance of justice. Diminished responsibility? Metal plates, army doctors and old resistance fighter. The whole thing had been a pathetic sham.
All that he'd clung to all along had been justice. Everything else had already been stripped away. Pride, hope, some reason to explain the ridiculous, the unacceptable that he'd lost Christian. Was that what he'd hoped for that day in court? Some explanation of why it had happened to lay the ghosts to rest. In the end, reason had been as lacking as justice. What were they saying in the end: that the man had murdered his son, but it was partly excusable because he had a metal plate due to being hit by a Nazi truck twenty years ago?
Jean-Luc shook his head. He felt tired, very tired. The land, the fight to make the farm work, had been sapping him dry the last few years. Christian's death and the ensuing investigation and court case had taken whatever strength and resolve remained. He felt increasingly awkward in Monique's and Clarisse's company, could hardly look them in the eye, knew that they might see what lay beneath: that he just couldn't love them the way he loved Christian. And ashamed that he'd let them down, failed them. The last two letters from the bank he'd stuffed in a drawer without opening them. He knew already what they would say.
He rose slowly, clearing the welled tears from his eyes as he started down the field towards the courtyard. If he saw Christian now, saw a clear image again waving and calling to him, perhaps that would stop him, make him think again. But there was nothing, only the empty field. Empty and dry under the summer sun, unyielding. Nothing left to cling to any more, not even the memory. As he got closer to the house, he saw a faint flicker behind the kitchen window. Monique was busy in the kitchen, but she hadn't noticed him and didn't look up as he crossed the courtyard to the garage.
14th December, 1969
Monique Rosselot tried to make out shapes in the room. Everything was misty, as if looking through a sheet of muslin. The figures moving around were indistinct, blurred, except the nurse when she leaned close, asking her again if she could 'feel anything below her waist?'
'Yes… yes,' she answered between fractured breaths, now slightly indignant at the nurse's doubting tone.
Feel was such a lame word for the terrible pain that gripped her, starting deep in her stomach and spreading like a firestorm through her thighs and lower back. She'd never before experienced such intense pain, didn't know it was possible for any human to endure such agony.
'I don't think the epidural has taken,' she heard a man's voice. 'We might have to give her another shot.'
'I don't think we can at this stage,' came another.
And then the nurse leaning over again. 'Can you feel your body relaxing now?'
'Yes… yes.'
'But can you still feel the pain from lower down?'
Monique exhaled the 'Yes' between clenched teeth, her breathing now little more than short bursts as she tensed against the pain.
Doctor Jouanard contemplated the dilemma. The patient had been given the epidural almost thirty minutes ago. After twenty minutes when it became obvious it hadn't taken because of the patient's continuing pain, the baby was by then engaged in the birth canal. It would be almost impossible for the patient to bend forward to get the right curvature in the spine for a fresh epidural. And the risks of trying to administer it without full curvature were too high. A half centimetre off target and the patient could be paralyzed. In the end he'd ordered a mild general anaesthetic, something to calm and relax nerves, but leave the patient awake so that there was some response muscle control to push with.
At least that had now taken, but the continuing pain and the fact that the baby didn't seem to have progressed any further in the birth canal, despite concentrated pushes from the patient, began to worry Jouanard. He'd read the patient's history thoroughly: two previous natural births without complications, her pelvic girth was obviously sufficiently large, why the problems now?
With one hand on the abdomen, he could feel the baby lodged deep in the birth canal; with the other he spread back the vulva to get a clearer view. He thought he saw what looked like the baby's head, and something else — though he couldn't immediately make out what. There was also too much blood, he began to worry that something might have ruptured internally. He felt inside, trying to identify by touch what he thought was the head.
He worked his hand around, moulding to the shape of the smooth damp flesh: it was a shoulder straight ahead that he'd seen, further down he could feel the thorax and arm, and the head… the head was pushed sharply to one side. And something in between. Jouanard ran his hand around once more to make sure. He looked up sharply.
'Dr Floirat. Administer the patient immediately with full anaesthetic for surgery.'
Floirat started issuing instructions: ECG monitor and oscillatometer to be wheeled forward, doses for the thiopentone.
Jouarnard stepped back, supervising the laying out of instruments with his assistant. The blood loss worried him. Three or four minutes to set up the monitors, another minute for the thiopentone to take effect. How much more would she have lost by then? He directed a nurse to keep swabbing the flow. He noticed the patient's eyes darting, taking in the renewed activity.
'It's okay… it's okay,' he soothed. 'The epidural hasn't taken fully. We're giving you a general anaesthetic. It will all be over soon. Just relax.'
Stock phrases. Inside he was panicking. Breach birth with part of the umbilical cord wrapped around the baby's neck. Pushing against the obstruction had obviously caused an internal rupture, and the baby might already be strangled. If the placenta had ruptured, the baby would soon be dead, if it was still alive. If it was the uterus or womb, he could lose the patient as well. And he wouldn't even know where the rupture was until he opened up.
The nurses were making the last connections on the monitors. Floirat stepped forward and administered the thiopentone. Jouanard looked at his watch, almost counting down the seconds. The blood loss was heavy. Fresh swabs were being dumped in the dish every ten or fifteen seconds. The patient was still alert, responding to the nurse who was talking to check when she was fully under.
As the questions became totally mundane, Monique began to panic, bringing her anxiety at the renewed activity and the doctors sudden urgent orders to a peak. She asked the nurse, 'What's happening?', only to receive a trite smile in response.
'Nothing. Don't worry. Just relax.'
Which only made her panic all the more. She reached one hand up. 'I'd like to see my husband. Please… I'd like him here by me. To help me.'
'Yes… don't worry. We'll get him.' The same practised smile from the nurse, knowing that the patient would be fully under any second.