Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft (18 page)

‘The Ty Coz,
Monsieur
? In
Le Guide
?’

The Director helped himself to an
oursin.
‘You feel it is not “Stock Pot” material, Aristide? I have to say this sea-food platter is beyond reproach.’

‘Not “Stock Pot” material?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse could hardly believe his ears. ‘After my experience the other evening I would not recommend it for an
oeuf
saucepan – an
oeuf
saucepan riddled with holes – not even a colander! After the other evening I never want to hear the words
La Cuisine
Régionale Naturelle
again.’

‘Ah!’ The Director visibly brightened. ‘That, Aristide, is one wish you may be sure of being granted.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director. ‘You mentioned
a bargain,
Monsieur
,’ he said slowly.

The Director gave a sigh. ‘The long and the short of it, Aristide, is that there is no such thing as
La Cuisine Régionale
Naturelle.
It was a practical joke on the part of Madame Grante. A figment of her imagination. One which occurred to her soon after she learned you were coming here. She sent word down to her relative and clearly he was only too willing to oblige. You alone were singled out for the so-called
cuisine.
’

‘And you agreed to it,
Monsieur
?’ Memories of the expression on Madame Grante’s face the last time he saw her came flooding back; the look of triumph should have been a warning sign. The bitterest pill of all was the thought that the Director had been in on it too!

‘You must understand, Aristide, that I had very little choice. You are not the only one to experience trouble with your P39s. In some ways those working out in the field are fortunate. It is hard to argue with a man who says he needed extra
essence
for his car so that he could circumnavigate a traffic jam in order to reach a restaurant on time. It is his word against Madame Grante’s. I have no such advantage.

‘Besides, short of committing physical assault on her person in order to retrieve the key, it was the only way I could get my balloon back. And with the Elysée Palace awaiting its return I had no alternative.

‘It does show that deep down Madame Grante is not without a sense of humour. A trifle warped, perhaps. But it is there, nevertheless. All is not lost if she has it in her to concoct practical jokes.’

Warped! It was no more a practical joke than that played by Madame Grante’s mother when she gave birth to her in the first place. It was more a calculated act of revenge. Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to let forth on the subject when there was a rustle of cloth and Mr. Pickering arrived back. He was carrying a salt-cellar.

‘Sorry I was a long time. I went into the
Hommes
by mistake and had to wait until the coast was clear before I
could get out again. All very tedious.

‘That was our Foreign Office on the phone. It seems the airship has now landed safely. A statement is being issued congratulating all concerned and expressing hopes for the future – the usual thing. For the time being there will be no mention of the attempt to blow it up. They will play that side of it by ear. You will be pleased to know that those in charge of catering arrangements are especially singled out for praise. Both food and wine were judged to be beyond reproach.’

The Director raised his glass. ‘I would like to second that, Aristide.’

‘Hear, hear.’ Mr. Pickering joined in the toast. ‘And my own thanks to you both once again for all your help. My men are already on their way home.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse finished off his
rillettes
and came to a decision. He signalled for the waitress.

‘With your permission,
Monsieur,
I think I shall change my order.’

‘Does that mean,’ ventured the Director, ‘that you have revised your opinion of the Ty Coz? You think it may be worthy of a mention? A recommendation? A future “Stock Pot”, perhaps?’

‘We shall have to see,
Monsieur
.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse refused to be drawn. ‘You would not expect Pommes Frites to judge a restaurant on one steak alone.’ He felt an approving movement at his feet.

‘You are the judge, Aristide. It is your taste buds that will have to make the ultimate decision. One must not let personal matters affect the outcome.

‘However, take care when ordering the dessert. I have arranged for a bottle of Château d’Yquem to be made ready – the 1904. It would be a pity to waste it on something mundane.’

A 1904 Château d’Yquem! Monsieur Pamplemousse could hardly believe his ears. What riches! No wonder the Director had trouble with his P39s. It must have cost a small fortune. Suddenly all was forgiven. If it was a case of quid pro quo,
then it was worth every centime. Clearly, by his expression, Mr. Pickering felt the same way.

‘I ordered two bottles for the maiden voyage,’ explained the Director. ‘Afterwards it occurred to me that they might not even get through one and it seemed a pity to waste it. Who knows where it would have ended up?’

‘Of course,
Monsieur.
I’m sure Madame Grante will understand.’

‘I hope, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely, ‘that Madame Grante will never know.’

‘Madame Grante again?’ Mr. Pickering pricked up his ears. ‘I feel I almost want to meet her.’

‘It could be arranged,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You could travel back to Paris with me tomorrow.’

‘Unfortunately,’ said Mr. Pickering, ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I am arranging for Mrs. Pickering to join me for a few days. The sea air will do her good. It will help blow the cobwebs away.’

He glanced around the dining room. ‘We could do worse than stay here. Eunice would appreciate the décor. Perhaps you could send me some copies of those photographs you took of the old harridan outside the
Sanisette.
She would appreciate those too.’

It was hard to tell if Mr. Pickering was being serious or not. It was hard to tell a lot of things with Mr. Pickering. The English were trained from an early age not to reveal their true feelings, even when making jokes.

The restaurant was almost empty. Couples with young children had already gone up to their rooms, those without were thinking about it over a final, lingering coffee.

The d’Yquem almost defied description. Rich, fragrant, the colour of old gold, and despite its age, in perfect condition.

At the end of their meal Monsieur Pamplemousse, feeling more replete that he had for a long time, positively awash with good things and with the taste of the Director’s wine still lingering in his mouth, announced his intention of taking Pommes Frites for a last stroll down to the harbour.

The Director and Mr. Pickering said their goodbyes in the foyer, then the Director went up to his room to make a telephone call. ‘You go ahead, Aristide,’ he called. ‘I will catch up with you down at the Port.’

Mr. Pickering hesitated as they made their way out of the hotel. He obviously had something on his mind.

‘I think you will find the girl from the circus much recovered, Aristide,’ he said. ‘I’m told you were worried about her.’

‘Yasmin? You know her?’

‘I know
of
her. When she came round she started calling out your name. I happened to hear about it quite by chance. Ironically, the staff at the hospital kept trying to feed her grapefruit. Having seen you the previous evening it suddenly clicked in my mind.

‘When she realised the truth of what had happened she went into a state of shock. That was when she was moved. Luckily for her as it turned out; Andreas might have had another go. Now she is on the mend – it is only a matter of time.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked put out. ‘Why wasn’t I told?’

‘I did my best to pass on the news,’ said Mr. Pickering, sounding equally aggrieved, ‘but you kept avoiding me.’

‘
Touché
!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse acknowledged defeat gracefully.

‘One of the especially nice things about your country, Aristide,’ said Mr. Pickering, as he waved goodbye, ‘is that you do have exactly the right word for everything.’

It occurred to Monsieur Pamplemousse as he and Pommes Frites made their way down the road that he didn’t even know where Mr. Pickering was staying. Perhaps their paths would cross again one day. It was a very small world.

The church clock was striking eleven as they reached the harbour. He led the way down to the narrow strip of beach left by a high tide which was now on the turn. Walking on the dry sand was hard work, and twice he stumbled over a
discarded beer can. After a few minutes he gave up and mounted some steps leading to the promenade. The young couple from the hotel strolled past arm in arm, their Walkman sets going full blast. What it must be like on the business end of the headphones was hard to imagine. In a few years’ time they would probably both be deaf; not that it would matter very much by the look of it. Strange that an invention which had its roots in communication should be death to all conversation.

The circus was in darkness. Not surprisingly, there could have been no performance that evening. Even before he got there he caught a whiff of charred wood. There was a police car parked near the wreckage. He could see the occasional glow of a cigarette from one of the occupants. For a moment or two he toyed with the idea of crossing the road and knocking on Madame Caoutchouc’s door, then he thought better of it. Besides, there was nothing he could say that hadn’t been said already, and he didn’t want to risk a second attack of cramp. It would be another news item for the local
journal,
which must be having a field day. Perhaps it would be put down to a gas cylinder exploding.

He stood for a while thinking about Yasmin, wondering if he was pleased or sorry not to have seen her perform. Suddenly their meeting seemed an age away.

As he turned to make his way back along the promenade he caught sight of someone standing beside one of the telephone
cabines.
Pommes Frites pricked up his ears and as he ran forward a young girl wearing a thin, white cotton dress came towards them.

‘Sister, please may I speak with you?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked round, then realised she was talking to him. She had dark, curly hair and an oval, Breton face. Her lipstick looked brown under the artificial light.

‘Of course. What is it you want?’

‘
Quelle
heure est-il
?’

Without thinking, he looked at his watch. ‘It is fifteen
minutes past eleven.’ The gold Cupillard Rième gleamed momentarily in the light. Patently it was not a ladies’ model.

If the girl noticed, she was unperturbed; rather the reverse it seemed, for she immediately fell into step alongside him, assuming an almost proprietorial air. It wouldn’t have surprised him if she’d linked arms.

‘Would you like to hear about my problems?’

‘Your problems?’ She looked hardly old enough to have problems, other than with her homework. The promenade was now totally deserted. Even the couple with the earphones were nowhere to be seen. He tried to keep his voice as high as possible.

‘Tell me, my dear, what is troubling you?’

The girl lowered her head. ‘I am afraid it is to do with men, Sister.’

‘Ah, men.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse managed to imbue his reply with all the sympathy at his command. His protective instincts were roused. How often had he not heard the same remark. Men! A pretty girl, young and full of innocence, still at school, and yet already at the mercy of all and sundry. Men who wanted nothing more than to use her to satisfy their selfish lusts.

‘My child, you must understand that young men are not like young girls. They cannot always help themselves. It is in their nature to be the hunter. Sadly, and it is hard to understand I know, sex is often uppermost in their minds.’

‘I know, Sister. It isn’t always the young ones who are the worst either.’ The girl ran her tongue slowly round her upper lip. Monsieur Pamplemousse did his best to pretend he hadn’t noticed. His own lips suddenly felt remarkably dry.

‘You must not lose faith, my child,’ he began. ‘Always remember, true faith needs no evidence.’ He wondered where he had heard the phrase before. He was beginning to enjoy his part. Perhaps he had missed his vocation.

‘But, Sister, it is not the fault of the men.’ The girl stopped and stared up at him through large, round eyes. He couldn’t help but notice that in the moonlight they also looked
impossibly blue. ‘If it was only that there would be no problem. I am well able to look after myself. It is my fault. I think I must have a devil inside me. I cannot leave them alone. I think of little else. It keeps me awake at night.’

‘You can’t!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse lowered his voice. ‘I mean, it does?’

‘In the long winter months when the nights seem endless and during the summer when they are hot …

‘It is not just sex either, I mean, ordinary sex. It is … other things.’

‘
Other
things?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked round uneasily. Pommes Frites was pointedly relieving himself on a nearby lamp-post. He always seemed to have reserves he could draw on for such occasions. He was wearing his
déjà vu
expression. It was hard to tell whether it had to do with his task in hand or the new arrival. Strongly suspecting the latter, Monsieur Pamplemousse avoided his gaze, listening instead to the complicated tales coming from alongside him. They were growing wilder and more improbable by the minute. How much of it was true and how much a product of the girl’s imagination he had no idea, but clearly she had a future in the world of letters. Had he been a literary agent he would have signed her up on the spot.

‘My dear,’ he exclaimed. ‘This is terrible. Have you not made your confession to the good Father?’

‘Many times, Sister. But sometimes it seems as though he does not really wish me to be cured. I think he looks forward to my visits. He is always asking me when I am coming next. He is excitable and lately I have become frightened of being in the same box with him. Which is why I have turned to those of your calling.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked round uneasily. ‘That is what we are here for, my dear.’