Bones in High Places (4 page)

Despite the still heavy skies and tiredness from the recent rigours, now that we were actually in France, and unmolested by its Customs inspectors, I began to relax and enjoy the journey. I had not visited the country since a couple of times to Brittany well before the war. Then I was a boy, encumbered by shrimping nets and parents. I recalled that it had been my task to carry the lilo – a gigantic yellow creation which, to my father’s fury, I invariably managed to puncture. Pa spoke an ersatz French – loud, ill-pronounced and drawling – a source of cringing embarrassment from which Primrose and I had fled whenever possible. Apart from that and the disputes over the lilo, my principal memory was of the hotelier’s two pug dogs, sparky little fellows who answered to the names of Merde and Méchant.

Thus with so brief a memory and experience, it was pleasant to sit back and absorb the wide rolling countryside with its fluttering poplars, grazing dun-coloured cows, lime-washed farmhouses and ubiquitous grey church steeples. Now and again we would pass a wagon of turnips or be waved at by children in navy smocks and ankle boots. At one point I even saw a gaggle of geese being herded by a small girl as if she had stepped straight out of an Impressionist painting … Yes, I reflected, this was surely better than Mavis Briggs and her elevating
Gems
. I stretched, opened a fresh packet of humbugs and wondered if I might now be permitted to remove my collar.

After a while the
paysage
became more hilly and wooded, with a proliferation of narrow lanes and thick hedges, and I realized we were already immersed in the famed bocage. Fleetingly I thought of those lumbering Shermans and the skulking German Panzers … But before my imagination could take a firmer grip Nicholas exclaimed, ‘Oh hell, I’ve left the maps in my case. Not quite sure about the next bit, I’d better check.’

‘Good,’ said Primrose, ‘I could do with stretching my legs.’ He stopped the car and she got out, while he wandered around to the back.

I also got out, released the dog, and leaning against the bonnet lit a cigarette and watched a couple of thrushes as they fought over a worm. I was just taking my second puff when there was an anguished yell from the rear – ‘Christ almighty, I don’t believe it!’ I spun round just in time to see a dark shape streak from the open boot into the roadside undergrowth.

‘That’s your bloody cat!’ he cried. ‘Are you mad! What the hell did you bring that for?’ I stared dumbfounded at the tussocks of scrub where I knew Maurice to be lurking. There was a suspicious stillness: neither sound nor sign. But he was there all right, watching us, weighing things up, planning his next move.

‘I did not bring him,’ I hissed. ‘He must have jumped in somehow at the last moment.’ And turning back to the undergrowth, said in wheedling supplication, ‘It’s all right, old man, you can come out now. We’ll find you some nice haddock.’

Naturally there was no response, and apart from Ingaza’s imprecations there continued a fraught silence. I tried further coaxings but to no effect.

‘Well, if the little perisher won’t come out we’ll just have to go without him,’ grumbled Nicholas. ‘We haven’t all day to waste on your peculiar creatures – I suppose that damned wolfhound will appear next.’ I cast a nervous glance into the open boot, half expecting to see Florence’s shaggy hide, but mercifully it contained only suitcases and the surpliced whisky.

‘I think,’ I said, ‘that if we get back into the car and start the engine he may emerge – you know, sort of pretend we couldn’t care less.’

‘Some of us don’t,’ replied Nicholas grimly.

At that moment there was an anguished shriek from behind a tree where Primrose had repaired to answer a call of nature. ‘Christ, what’s that bloody creature!’ She emerged, straightening her skirt and looking distinctly flustered.

‘It’s all right, Primrose,’ I replied soothingly, ‘I think it’s Maurice.’

‘Maurice? You mean your cat? What’s he doing here – my God, that’s all we need!’

‘Precisely,’ I said drily. ‘Now be quiet and we may be able to catch him.’ I dropped to my hands and knees and started to croon his name enticingly.

‘Not that way,’ Primrose said irritably in a loud stage whisper, ‘he was behind that tree.’ She stooped down and started to peer into the bushes.

After a few minutes of fruitless searching, there was a call from Nicholas by the roadside. ‘Come on. Don’t hang about.’

‘But we haven’t found the cat –’ began Primrose.

‘You don’t need to, the bugger’s here.’

We scrambled towards the car. And there he was, sitting squarely on the bonnet grooming his whiskers. He gave us a cursory glance and then continued his task with dedicated attention. Regarding him intently from below, and surprisingly silent, sat Bouncer. I wondered why the dog hadn’t set up a hue and cry at the creature’s sudden appearance; but there’s no accounting for animals and I was in no mood to ponder the matter. Thus I marched up to Maurice, gripped him firmly by the scruff and, shoving the dog in ahead, resumed my position on the back seat. Here, comfortably ensconced on my lap, the stowaway gazed up impassively as I parried the grumbling brickbats from the front.

‘Well, that’s not going to endear us to any hostelry when we turn up asking for rooms plus a special boudoir for the cat and dog,’ said Nicholas testily.

‘No need to exaggerate,’ I replied. ‘There’ll be no bother. If necessary I’ll leave Bouncer in the car – he’s quite good like that, you know. And as for the cat, I shall simply carry him in under my arm with a nonchalant air. No one will say anything.’

‘Hmm – fine in theory, unlikely in practice,’ said Primrose. ‘I remember you trying to appear nonchalant as a boy – you simply succeeded in looking furtive and sinister.’

‘Tell you what,’ suggested Nicholas, ‘we could at least shove the cat into Primrose’s handbag, it’s big enough!’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she cried. ‘I’ll have you know this bag cost innumerable guineas from Bond Street. It’s not silk-lined and initialled just to be a cat-carrier!’ Despite her protests, it struck me as quite a good idea and not one to be immediately discounted …

There was a silence. And then Nicholas exclaimed, ‘But how on earth did he get himself into the boot at all? You
must
have had something to do with it, Francis. He couldn’t have hitched a lift in two cars unaided.’

‘I’ve told you,’ I protested, ‘I know nothing about it. You don’t think I’d want to bring him on this joyride, do you? And if we’re searched on the way home they will both have to stay in quarantine for months.’ I stared down in dismay at the bundle of fur on my lap, and it stared back with unblinking eye.

‘That creature moves like greased lightning,’ observed Primrose. ‘I saw him stalk and ambush a mouse once. Not exactly a pretty sight. But he’d got the whole thing down to a fine art all right. Mouse didn’t stand a chance … He obviously slept in your motor last night. And then when we were all jawing in the car park with the doors open and messing around with the bags, he must have slipped out, lurked under the chassis, and jumped into the Citroën’s boot at the last moment.’ She laughed. ‘I expect those absurd vestments were a godsend.’

Nicholas gave a whistle. ‘Little blighter!’

Conversation lapsed, and worn out by the traumas of the ferry crossing and the animals’ charade, I fell into a light doze.

I awoke with a jolt to the sound of a curse from the driving seat and an anguished protest from Maurice. We were on some minor side road overhung with trees and strewn with potholes, one of which the Citroën had clearly encountered.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ exclaimed Nicholas. ‘That was near, almost got the back axle.’

‘If you went a little slower,’ observed Primrose pointedly, ‘such hazards might be better avoided.’

There was a pause, and then he said mildly but carefully, ‘Unlike your Morris Oxford, this car was not built to be driven at hearse-like speed by octogenarians through the purlieus of Lewes and Eastbourne.’

She didn’t like that. ‘At least their owners don’t harbour delusions of being Fangio,’ was the tart response. ‘And if you imagine that –’

‘I say,’ I said brightly, ‘the sun’s come out over there. You can see it through the branches. Things are looking up – how about stopping for a coffee?’

‘Good idea,’ said Nicholas, ‘and then your sister will have time to check the tyres for punctures.’

I could not see from the back seat, but knew she would be growing pink and formulating some sharp put-down. I leant forward. ‘And tell you what, the first one to spot a café gets a
digestif
on me.’

‘Good Lord,’ exclaimed Nicholas, ‘you
are
in the holiday mood. Better make it two while you’re about it – we shan’t hear that offer pass this way again.’ And so saying, he accelerated (smoothly) and passed Primrose a mollifying Sobranie. For the next twenty minutes there was silence as they scanned the terrain with hawk-eyed intensity.

Eventually we approached a crossroads and a better surface, and taking the route south continued for another couple of kilometres until we reached a small hamlet which at first seemed to have nothing in it at all, not even a filling station. But as we rounded the bend, resigned to pushing on, Primrose suddenly cried out, ‘Oh, there’s something, look!’ On the edge of a tiny square there were a couple of zinc-topped tables, a battered umbrella and a tricolour waving wanly in the breeze. A lurcher lolled under one of the tables, and at the other a girl in pinafore and slacks sat engrossed in a book.

As we got out of the car, I heard Nicholas murmur to Primrose, ‘Remember – that’s two
digestifs
Francis owes you.’

‘Yes,’ she replied sweetly, evidently still smarting from his reference to her Morris Oxford, ‘one for me and one for him.’

He grimaced good-humouredly, and adjusting his scarf sauntered over to the girl. In fractured but theatrical French he asked for three coffees and a look at the
carte des vins
. The latter was sparse, listing mainly Stella beer and one or two local ciders. The appallingly bitter Cynar featured, as did the French version of Babycham. There were, however, three brands of pastis. Nicholas, with unctuous charm and fulsome gesture, tried to elicit which of the three could be recommended. But torn from her reading, the girl seemed unminded to discourse on their respective merits, remarking with a Gallic shrug that as far as she was concerned they were ‘
tous la même chose
’. As she ambled off to fetch our order I glanced at the cover of the discarded book: the title read
J.P. Sartre et la Bêtise Anglaise
. I placed it on the other table.

Our order arrived and, despite its chicory addition, we sipped the coffee appreciatively. And then even more appreciatively we diluted the pastis from the water carafe, lit cigarettes and took our ease in the now warm sun.

‘Hmm,’ said Nicholas, stretching languidly and sniffing the air, ‘I can smell the south.’

‘You do talk nonsense,’ laughed Primrose, ‘we’re barely out of Normandy!’

‘Ah, but it beckons, it beckons …’

‘So does Maurice,’ I said. ‘Look.’

They turned towards the car where a furious face glared out from the back window.

‘He does look a bit disgruntled,’ observed Primrose.

‘When doesn’t he?’ said Nicholas. And then in kinder tone suggested I took ‘the poor little toad’ out of the car and find him some milk. ‘Go on, the girl’s bound to have some.’

Diffidently I approached both Maurice and the girl. The cat was unexpectedly compliant and allowed himself to be hoiked from the back seat with little demur. But I was nervous of asking for anything extra from our po-faced waitress. A baby in hand might have seemed more legitimate. However, I pushed through the plastic ribbons of the café entrance and enquired tentatively if there was any chance of some water for the dog and milk for the cat. The girl gestured towards a tap and a cracked bowl, and then to my surprise her impassive face broke into beams of delight, and in the next instant she had wrested Maurice from my clasp and carried him off to some nether region behind the counter, babbling to whoever was within to ‘
donnez du lait au pauvre petit chat anglais. Il a beaucoup de faim
.’ I had not thought that Maurice looked particularly hungry (though I suppose he must have been) but was grateful that the girl seemed so concerned for his welfare.

I poured the water for Bouncer and then hung about for some time waiting for Maurice to re-emerge, which he eventually did: still in her arms, and looking placidly satisfied and more than a little sticky around the gills. ‘
Je lui ai donné aussi des grosses sardines
,’ she announced happily, ‘
et maintenant il va dor-dor!
’ Go ‘dor-dor’, would he? I thought gloomily. More likely be sick in my lap. However, I thanked her profusely, settled the bill, and retrieving a mellowed Maurice joined the others. It struck me as odd how cat and waitress had so transformed each other’s demeanour, and wondered what Sartre would make of it.

We were just preparing to leave, when there was the sound of a low engine and swishing tyres, and moving at absurd speed there flashed past a silver-grey sports car. The dozing lurcher leapt up and started to howl, and from the barber’s shop next door came the protest, ‘
Merde – les foux Anglais!
’

We looked at one another. ‘That was that Austin-Healey 100,’ announced Nicholas.

‘Not the one on the boat again!’ I exclaimed.

‘Yes, your sister’s friends, Climp and Mullion.’

‘Or Mullion and Climp,’ I giggled, clearly having drunk my Pernod too quickly.

‘They weren’t my friends,’ said Primrose indignantly. ‘They merely engaged me in conversation – passing the time of day.’

‘Well, at that rate they are certainly passing the time of day all right – they’ll be into dusk by now!’ replied Nicholas, adding as an afterthought, ‘Quite a lot of these Fangio fellows about, it would seem.’

We returned to the car, and I asked helpfully if Nicholas would like me to drive for a while.