by Michael Bond
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 on
e 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.
She was wearing a loose-fitting jump suit. Dark green, the colour of her eyes. She might have been a garage mechanic for all it did for her figure, but as she leaned forward he was very conscious that what was underneath was the whole person and nothing but the person. Only someone confident enough to know the effect that would have could have got away with wearing it. Or perhaps she didn’t care.
‘Well, do I pass?’
He came down to earth with a jerk. ‘I’m sorry. To be truthful, it is very rude of me, I know … but I was wondering what you do for a living.’
‘And?’
‘You don’t look as though you are on holiday and you are not a housewife. At least, you do not drive like one.’
‘You can tell a housewife by the way she drives?’ She was mocking him, and yet it was done with good humour.
‘Not exactly. But it is a process of elimination.’ He felt he might be on dangerous ground. ‘Housewives who own a BMW 325i are in the minority. If it is their husband’s car, then they usually drive with care – they are frightened of scratching it.’
‘Being married doesn’t necessarily turn you into a housewife, nor does it stop you doing something you enjoy doing well.’
Outside La Turballe they met a long line of traffic. She overtook two cars quickly and easily, then slipped into a gap behind a third.
‘You are also good at making decisions.’
‘Housewives do not make decisions?’ Again it was said with a half smile.
‘Constantly. Thousands every day. But on the whole they are minor ones. They are not usually a matter of life and death …’
He broke off, allowing her to concentrate as she pulled out to overtake the car in front. They passed a rose-filled garden, then hedgerows with occasional patches of yellow gorse. The countryside was in full bloom. He could see giant clover and daisies everywhere. Fields of camomile bordered the road.
‘That is very perspicacious of you.’ She laughed. ‘You will never guess.’
It was a challenge he found hard to resist. Suddenly, it was like playing a television game. It gave him the freedom to make wild statements. He almost asked to see her ‘mime’.
‘If I found myself in a tight corner I wouldn’t mind having you beside me and I wouldn’t worry about you as I might about others.’
‘What a strange thing to say. Are you often in a tight corner?’
‘Occasionally. I used to be at one time.’
It was her turn to look intrigued. She stole a quick sideways glance as they dropped in behind another lorry.
‘Tell me more.’
He avoided the question. ‘I couldn’t help noticing your hands just now. They are well cared for, and yet they are also very strong. You also, if I may say so, have an extremely good figure. For what you do you must keep very fit, or vice versa.’
‘That is true.’
‘Fit and strong, so you must do it regularly.’
‘That is also true.’
‘And you are happy in your work?’
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, ‘Very. It is my life. I am lucky. To be fit and well and to have work that also makes you happy is a great blessing. I couldn’t wish for more.’
That, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, is not the total and absolute truth. There are other things you wish for. He wondered what they were.
‘And you? Are you happy in your work?’
‘Very.’ A quarter of an hour before he wouldn’t have said that. A quarter of an hour ago, standing in the rain beside his overturned car, he had been far from happy. ‘I couldn’t wish for more either.’
‘I think perhaps you enjoy food. There is a fresh stain on your tie, and you have – please forgive me …’ for the first time she sounded embarrassed, unsure of herself. ‘You have been eating garlic recently.’
He was about to deny it. Nothing he’d eaten for déjeuner had contained a scrap of garlic. Then he remembered that Doucette had given him a plate of saucisson for breakfast on account of the journey. Between them, he and Pommes Frites had eaten the lot.
She was one up. ‘Yes, I do like food. That is my life.’
‘And that puts you in danger?’
Before he had time to answer, a signpost for Port St. Augustin came into view. She flicked the indicator and pulled over to the left to enter an intersection. They waited for traffic coming the other way to pass.
‘Sometimes. It is a throwback from my previous work. If it is true that some people tend to attract problems, then I tend to attract “situations”. Or perhaps I look for them.’ He rarely brought it into conversation, preferring to remain anonymous, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he was saying it now. ‘For many years I was with the Paris Sûreté.’
She clicked her fingers. ‘Of course, I knew I had seen you somewhere before. Or rather, not you, your picture. You have an unusual name.’
‘Pamplemousse. I was sometimes in the journaux.’ That was an understatement. There had been a time when, for one reason or another, it felt as though he was never out of them. Once, after being involved in a notorious case which had hit the headlines, he’d even had a feature article written about him in Paris Match. It had pursued him for years.
Seeing a gap in the traffic, she glanced quickly in both directions before accelerating off the main road.
He was suddenly conscious of a change in the atmosphere. It was as though a shutter had come down. She seemed nervous and kept looking in the mirror. He wondered if she had noticed something. On the pretext of seeing how Pommes Frites was getting on he turned round in his seat and took a quick look out of the back window. A dark blue van was just turning off the main road. It was too far away to identify, but the girl evidently saw it too, for he felt her accelerate and they took the next corner at a speed which startled him.
Unobtrusively, he slid his hand down and tightened his safety belt. But he needn’t have worried. His companion was much too busy with her own thoughts to notice. The earthy, almost animal-like quality he had noticed earlier was now even more apparent. She was like a deer on the run. Tense, alert …
‘Alors!’ As they reached the outskirts of Port St. Augustin he glimpsed a row of posters and the penny dropped.
‘You are with a circus!’
She nodded. He relaxed again. Now that he knew, it all fell into place. Her name was Yasmin. The first poster had shown her dressed in a black jacket and fishnet tights. She was holding a top hat in one hand while she kept a group of lions at bay with a whip. In the second she had been flying through the air high above the ring holding on to a trapeze by one foot. They were both artist’s impressions, and no doubt he’d given full rein to his imagination, but the likeness was there. She must be doing well to be driving a nearly new BMW. It was intriguing. He had never met a circus artist before. If the advertisements were anything to go by, no wonder she oozed confidence.
‘You are a girl of many parts.’
She shrugged. ‘In a small travelling circus like ours you have to be. We all do many things.’ For a moment she relaxed and became animated again.
‘I would like to come and see you.’
By now they were almost in the middle of the town. The har
bour lay to the right and through an alleyway he caught a glimpse of the sea.
‘That would be nice. Look …’ She pulled up sharply. ‘I am afraid I shan’t be able to take you to your hotel after all. I must drop you here.’
‘D’accord. It was kind of you to bring us this far.’ He wanted to say more, but for the first time on the journey he felt tongue-tied.
‘Please hurry.’ She stared back the way they had come and he saw an expression almost of fear in her eyes. She suddenly looked very small and vulnerable.
‘Of course.’ He was out of the car in a flash. Ever alert to his master’s wishes, Pommes Frites followed suit.
Monsieur Pamplemousse paused as he shut the door. ‘Thank you once again. If I can be of any help, at any time, I shall be at the Ty Coz. You know my name. You can leave a message.’
‘Thank you.’ She sounded genuinely grateful and he wondered if she would indeed take up the offer.
He hardly had time to shut the boot before she was on her way again. The BMW disappeared round the next corner, towards the harbour, just as the van came into view. As it slowed to negotiate the intersection he caught a glimpse of the driver. Around his neck was a gold cross on a chain. Their eyes met for a brief second and Pamplemousse knew he had seen him somewhere before. The van was on hire. It was a Renault with a local registration. Taking out his notebook he flipped through the pages and added its number to the day’s notes. It might be worth a telephone call when he got to the hotel.
The garage next to the Mairie was closed, but if his memory served him right there used to be one near the harbour which refuelled the fishermen’s boats as well. In those days he hadn’t owned a car. He and Doucette had taken the train to St. Nazaire and then caught the autobus. It had been a big adventure. He looked at his watch again. It was twenty to seven, but the garage might still be open. It was worth a try.
Feeling out of place in his Paris suit, Monsieur Pamplemousse gathered up the luggage and set off, his thoughts still very much on the girl. Reminders of her were pasted up everywhere, on walls and telegraph poles.