Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft (3 page)

Catching sight of Pommes Frites, and anticipating his next move, the Director issued a warning cry, but it was too late. Watched by all three, the dirigible lost height rapidly and disappeared at speed through an open window several floors below.

A feeling of gloom descended on the balcony. It was as though a large black cloud had suddenly obscured the sun.

‘Let us hope,’ said the Director, ‘that Madame Grante manages to shut off the motors before too much damage is done. I think it was her window the dirigible entered. I trust, also, that it is not an omen.’

Without bothering to reply, Monsieur Pamplemousse bounded through the Director’s office, past an astonished secretary, and out into the corridor. Eschewing the lift, and with Pommes Frites hard on his heels, he shot down three floors, arriving outside Madame Grante’s office without even bothering to draw breath. There was a possibility, a very faint possibility, that she would be out of her room.

But as he opened the door he came to an abrupt halt.
Patently the room was far from empty. There were papers everywhere. It looked as though it had been struck by a minor hurricane.

Madame Grante was in the act of closing the door of her stationery cupboard on the far side of the room.

She turned. ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse?’

‘Madame Grante.’ He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. ‘Madame Grante, I was wondering … that is to say … may we have our balloon back,
s’il vous plaît
?’

With a flourish Madame Grante deposited a silver key in a place where it would have needed a braver man than Monsieur Pamplemousse to retrieve it. ‘Your balloon, Monsieur Pamplemousse? I see no balloon.’

For a full thirty seconds they stood staring at each other. Once again he was conscious of a look in Madame Grante’s eyes he couldn’t quite make out. It was something more than mere triumph.

Wild thoughts of declaring his undying love for her crossed his mind and were instantly dismissed. Bernard always said you never could tell; still waters ran deep. But Bernard had theories about most things. The prospect of Madame Grante melting in his arms was not only remote, it didn’t bear thinking about. Such a declaration might even send her into a state of shock. Not to mention the possible effect on Pommes Frites. Would it get him what he wanted? More important still, would it be worth it?

For the sake of the Director? Certainly not!

For the sake of France? No, not even for that!

Monsieur Pamplemousse knew when he was beaten. He turned on his heels and left, making his way up to the top floor at a somewhat slower rate than he had come down.

The Director was waiting outside his door. His face fell as Monsieur Pamplemousse came into view. ‘You are empty-handed. Don’t tell me …’

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘I am afraid we are in trouble,
Monsieur.
Madame Grante has put the, dirigible where she keeps her P39s.’

‘And the key, Pamplemousse? Where is the key?’

‘The key,
Monsieur,
is in a place which is even more impregnable than her store cupboard. It is where she keeps her
doudounes
!’

The Director clutched at the door frame for support. ‘This bodes ill, Pamplemousse!’ he exclaimed. ‘I am not by nature a superstitious man, but I fear this bodes ill for us all.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse focused his Leica camera on the off side of his 2CV, or the little of it which could still be seen above the top of a ditch, and operated the shutter several times. As he did so he pondered, not for the first time in his life, on the immutability of the laws of fate which decreed that following a series of seemingly unconnected events one should, for better or worse, find oneself at a certain spot at a certain time, not a second before nor a split-second after that moment which had all the appearances of being pre-ordained.

His present situation definitely came under the second category. If fate had indeed had a hand in things then someone, somewhere on high, had it in for him. His star was not in the ascendant.

He shivered a little, partly from delayed shock and partly from the cool breeze which was blowing in from the sea. He licked his lips. They tasted of salt. Glancing up he registered the fact that the same breeze was bringing with it a bank of dark rain clouds and he hoped it was only a passing storm. The sky to the west still looked bright enough and the long-term forecast was good, but even a minor shower would be bad news in the circumstances. Short of getting back in the car – which wouldn’t be easy – shelter was non-existent. Pommes Frites would be all right. At least he had his inflatable
kennel, but there certainly wouldn’t be room in it for both of them.

If only he hadn’t decided on the spur of the moment to branch off the D99 at Guérande. It hadn’t even been a short cut; a voyage of remembrance rather than one of discovery, an exercise in nostalgia. If he’d stuck to the main road he would have been in Port St. Augustin by now, sampling the delights of
La Cuisine Régionale Naturelle.

Long before that there had been lunch.

Not that he regretted his meal, but it had been a far more protracted affair than he’d intended. One of his colleagues, Glandier, had left a note in his tray back at the office concerning a little restaurant he’d come across on the bank of one of the Loire’s many tributaries. Any recommendation from Glandier was worth following up, and on the strength of it he’d made a detour.

In the event it had exceeded all his expectations. Over a Kir made with ice-cold
aligoté
and served at a little table under a tree by the river, he had been able to watch the work going on in the kitchen, while making the first of many notes to come during the meal.

The first course – a cucumber salad – had been exactly right. Peeled, split down the middle, its seeds removed, the cucumber had been cut paper thin and sprinkled with salt to draw out all the excess liquid, leaving it, after draining, limp, yet deliciously crunchy. The vinegar and oil in the dressing had been of good quality with just the right amount of sugar added to counteract the natural bitterness. But it was the addition of the few freshwater crayfish which had lifted the dish above the norm.

With a basketful of crisp, fresh bread and a glass or two of sparkling Vouvray to help it down, he’d been of a mind to call it a day; a refreshing break in an otherwise long and tedious journey. But then he’d caught sight of some trout being brought to the back door of the restaurant by someone he had earlier seen fishing further along the river bank and the temptation to explore the menu still further had proved too great
to resist.

It had been a wise decision.

Coated in oil and rolled in flour before being seared in hot butter – quickly enough so that it didn’t stick to the pan, but not so hot that the flour formed a crust – the fish had arrived at the table golden brown. A little lemon juice and some fresh blanched parsley had been added to the butter in which the trout had been cooked and made a golden foam as it was poured over the top at the last moment. The
pommes frites
were as perfect an accompaniment as one could wish for.

But it was the dessert which was undoubtedly the
pièce de
résistance.
When Monsieur Pamplemousse saw a man at a nearby table – obviously a regular – tucking into a jam omelette with such gusto and dabbing of the lips with his napkin that it was like a cabaret act, he’d quickly succumbed.

As with the trout, the omelette arrived at his table at exactly the right moment. Piping hot, the icing-sugar on the top caramelised in a criss-cross pattern by the use of a red-hot metal skewer, the
confiture
inside of a quality which indicated it had never seen the inside of a shop let alone a factory. He could still taste it.

Even Pommes Frites, not normally a jam-eater, had signalled his approval, which was praise indeed. The look on his face as his master slipped him a portion said it all. Even so, with a long journey ahead of them, to have indulged in a second helping had been folly of the very worst kind. A feeling of somnolence had set in uncomfortably soon after they set off on the last part of their journey. Snores had started to issue from the back of the
Deux Chevaux
long before they reached the N23.

Driving along, Monsieur Pamplemousse had fallen to thinking about his work, and that, too, had slowed him down. Deep inside there was the usual conflict which began when he came across somewhere new, a battle between the desire to share his pleasures and a selfish wish to keep them to himself. He had no doubt that Glandier felt the same way too. All too frequently, discovery and a mention in
Le Guide
brought success, but with success came different pressures and often changes for the worse. It would be sad to come back another year and find the tranquil field at the side of the hotel turned into a car park smelling of petrol fumes, disturbing the peace and quiet of this lovely backwater with the sound of revving engines and slamming doors. But you couldn’t have it both ways.

He gave a sigh as he regarded his 2CV. He couldn’t have it both ways either. Normally he prided himself on his reactions at the wheel, but they had been dulled by over-eating; over-eating and, he had to admit, perhaps one glass of wine too many?

On the other hand, who would have expected to encounter in an area such as the
Marais Salant
– a vast unrelieved mosaic of grey salt pans, flat as a pancake as far as the eye could see – a car travelling on the wrong side of the road. He felt very aggrieved. It wasn’t as though it had been driven by some maniac English tourist admiring the view – there would have been some excuse then; it had been full of nuns. Nuns who had so far forgotten the basic tenets of their calling that they hadn’t even bothered to stop to make sure he was unharmed. For all they knew he might have needed the last rites. That they had seen him drive into the ditch he hadn’t the slightest doubt; at the very last moment he’d caught a glimpse of two white faces peering out at him from the rear window of the car as it disappeared in a cloud of dust.

He wondered what the world was coming to. A few well-chosen words in the ear of the Mother Superior would not come amiss, but he’d been so taken aback by the whole incident he’d failed to register the number of the car – an old Peugeot 404. Given his background and training that was unforgivable. He must be getting old.

The really galling thing about the whole affair was that he’d seen the car coming towards him long before it arrived, starting as a tiny speck on the horizon and growing in size until it had loomed inescapably large as they met on the corner, forcing him to take evasive action at the last possible
moment by driving into the ditch.

Fortunately no great damage had been done, and apart from looking somewhat dazed, Pommes Frites was in one piece. The far side of the ditch was higher than the other, being part of a long platform on which salt was piled to dry off in the sun, and the grass which covered the sides had acted as a cushion. But the possibility of getting his car back onto the road again all by himself was remote. He made a few desultory attempts, but one rear wheel was lifted clear off the ground and even with Pommes Frites’ weight on the back seat, that was where it stayed. He would need the help of a tractor, and looking around the area, mechanical aids of any sort seemed to have low priority in ensuring the continuing supplies of sea salt to the tables of France.

Bleak was perhaps the best way of describing the countryside; bleak, but with a strange, almost translucent light. In the distance across the empty landscape he could see the occasional figure of someone working late, but they were all too far away to notice his plight, or to do much about it if they did.

A sandpiper flew past.

Four cars came and went, but they were all going the wrong way and full of holiday makers. He glanced at his watch. It was just after “six-thirty. They were probably the last he would see for a while. Most visitors would be back in their hotels by now, getting ready for the evening meal, having left the beach early because of the approaching clouds. After a long day on the sea-front those with families were probably glad of the excuse.

Just as the first rain began to fall he saw a car coming towards him, travelling the way he wanted to go. It was being driven fast, and as it drew near he saw there was a girl at the wheel.

Signalling Pommes Frites to stay where he was, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to abandon his own car and leapt into the road, waving his arms. Almost immediately, he jumped back again, nearly losing his balance as the black BMW shot
past, swerved, then skidded to a halt a little way along the road. He might have been killed. Regardless of the rights and wrongs of stopping for strangers, there were ways of going about it. For a moment he almost regretted no longer being in the Force. In the old days he’d thrown the book at drivers for less.

There was a roar from the engine and a moment later the car reversed towards him. At least the girl wasn’t leaving him to his fate like the others. It skidded to a halt and he waited impatiently for the electrically operated window to be lowered.

Sizing up the situation with a quick glance the girl reached over and released the door catch. ‘You’ll get soaked. You’d better get in.’

‘I have a companion.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse pointed to Pommes Frites. ‘And some
bagages.
I’m afraid we have had an accident. Some
imbéciles
nuns driving on the wrong side of the road. If you would be so kind …’

There was only a moment’s hesitation. ‘He’d better get in the back. I’ll look after him. You see to the rest. The compartment is unlocked.’

Pommes Frites was in the back of the car almost before his master had time to get their luggage out, watching proceedings through the rain-spattered glass, making sure his own things were safely installed.

The boot was empty save for a small and expensive-looking valise and a roll of coarse material which he had to move before he could get his own belongings in. There was also a strong smell of pear-drops.

Monsieur Pamplemousse closed the boot and ran round the side of the car, reaching for his handkerchief as he went. He could feel the water running down his face in tiny rivulets.

‘It is very kind of you.’ He climbed in, mopping his brow. In the circumstances gratitude was very much in order. He could hardly complain that a moment or too earlier she had nearly run him down. ‘I’m sorry if we have delayed you.’

The implication that she’d been going too fast was not lost.
‘I hope I didn’t frighten you too much. I was reaching for the lights as I came round the corner and your car was hidden from view. Besides, I didn’t expect you to jump out from nowhere. What happened?’

‘We are on our way to Port St. Augustin. We were making a detour as it happened …’

‘Port St. Augustin! But that is where I am going. I can take you all the way. Where are you staying?’

‘The Ty Coz.’

‘I do not know the name. I know only the Hôtel du Port, but we can look for it. The town is not large.’

As he settled back in his seat, Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt warm and comfortable and at peace with the world. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Pommes Frites felt the same way too. Dog-like, he had already assumed the proprietorial air of an owner-driver, gazing out of the window at the passing scene as if he did it every day of his life. Perhaps it was their presence in the car, not the accident leading up to it, that had been pre-ordained by the giant computer in the sky. Now there was a thought.

He stole a sideways glance at the girl. Obviously she was not a local. He doubted if she was even French. Although she spoke the language well, she sounded foreign. Italian, perhaps. Or Greek. She had a dark, olive-skinned complexion which suggested the southern Mediterranean. She was gypsy-like. Her hair was long and jet-black. In a few years it would probably be too long, but time was still on her side. Her skin was smooth and unwrinkled. She drove quickly and with precision, taking advantage of every bend and camber in the road. He felt safe with her and changed his mind about the ‘incident’. Perhaps, he told himself, he had been at fault for not giving her more warning.

By now they were almost out of the marshes and the giant sardine canneries of La Turballe loomed into view. They were preceded by a row of modern-looking shops and flats. He wondered about getting out there and then in the hope of finding a garage, but the first one they saw was already
closed. He gave up the idea. He had no wish to be stranded with all his luggage.

Almost as quickly as it had begun, the rain stopped. Out to sea the sun was shining. Any moment now it would be shining on them too. He found himself looking for the inevitable rainbow. Keeping her eyes on the traffic ahead, which was beginning to build up, the girl switched off the wipers and leaned across to adjust the demister. Her hands looked strong, almost masculine, and yet well cared for – the nails short and business-like. If she wore any perfume it didn’t register, and yet there was a curious, indefinable scent of something which stirred memories in the back of his mind. Make-up was minimal. With her looks it would have been an unnecessary embellishment.

He allowed himself a longer look while her attention was otherwise engaged.