Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft

by Michael Bond

  ‘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.’

  She looked up at him again and moved a little closer. ‘You nuns have been so good to me, and so generous.’

  ‘We have?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his voice going again.

  The girl nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, all of you. Ever since you arrived. There is not one of you this past week who has not listened to me with patience and understanding, often far into the night. Some of you kept coming back for more. But now that most of you have left I don’t know where to turn.’

  ‘My child, my poor child,’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked towards the port. He reached out, intending to point her in that direction, then thought better of it. Allard was right. He always maintained there was one in every class. And he should know – he’d once been a teacher. Some of his tales about sixth-formers asking to stay on after school because they were having trouble with their biology homework were spellbinding.

  ‘Will you listen to me, Sister? There are many more things I can tell you. Your time won’t be wasted.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. He sensed Pommes Frites concentrating on
their every word, looking from one to the other as he waited for them to catch up.

  Hearing footsteps he glanced across the road. They were heading towards the Sanisette. He hesitated, but only for a second. It was too good an opportunity to miss.

  ‘I think,’ he pointed towards the approaching figure. ‘I think it is really a case for the Mother Superior. She is very wise in such matters. I’m sure she will listen to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister. Oh, thank you.’ For a moment he thought the girl was going to kiss him, then he realised she had her hand out. He reached automatically into an inside pocket and withdrew a fifty franc note.

  A moment later she was gone. It was just as well. It could have been an expensive evening.

  Pommes Frites registered his approval with a wag of the tail as he followed his master towards the Quai Général de Gaulle. He wasn’t at all sure what had been going on, but he sensed that all was now well again. The crisis had passed.

  Apart from a few lights coming from the Hôtel and from some of the yachts at their moorings, the Port was in darkness. Somewhere, far out at sea, there was a flashing beacon. A fishing boat chugged its way out through the harbour entrance. The men on deck were busy coiling ropes, getting ready for their night’s work.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stayed until the light at the masthead was a barely visible speck on the horizon, then he turned and made his way slowly back towards the town. At long last he posted Doucette’s card at the P. T. T. – with luck it might even reach Paris before he did. It felt almost like an act of absolution.

  He glanced along the narrow street towards the Gendarmerie. All the lights on the upper floors were on. The Barbouze must still be at it. He could picture the inquests being held. They were likely to be at it all through the night. He was glad to be out of it.

  ‘Pamplemousse! Pamplemousse!’ He heard a pounding of feet and a figure suddenly loomed out of the darkness behind them. It was the Director. He was clutching his wallet. It crossed Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind that perhaps he wanted change for a 200 franc note, then he dismissed the idea as being unworthy. The Director looked as if he was in need of help of a different kind. His habit was not at its best. At a passing-out parade in the Vatican he would not have been in line for the golden sceptre as the best turned out Mother Superior of his year. He was also patently short of breath.

  ‘Thank goodness you’re still here. You will never believe what I have to tell you.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at the Director. He thought of the time that he and Pommes Frites had spent in Port St. Augustin; he thought of Mr. Pickering, the dirigible, and those who had travelled in it; he thought of the circus, of Madame Caoutchouc and of Andreas; he thought of Yasmin and the fact that tomorrow he would be able to stop off at the hospital and see her again. Then he looked up. The sky was inky-black. He could see the Milky Way and the Plough and beyond that the North Star. Glinting faintly above him were the Great Bear and a host of other heavenly bodies of greater and lesser magnitude.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said innocently, ‘on such a night as this anything is possible. Tell me the worst.’

  About the Author

  MICHAEL BOND was born in Newbury, Berkshire in 1926 and started writing whilst serving in the army during the Second World War. In 1958 the first book featuring his most famous creation, Paddington Bear, was published and many stories of his adventures followed. In 1983 he turned his hand to adult fiction and the detective cum gastronome par excellence Monsieur Pamplemousse was born.

  Michael Bond was awarded the OBE in 1997 and in 2007 was made an Honorary Doctor of Letters by Reading University. He is married, with two grown-up children, and lives in London.

  By Michael Bond

  Monsieur Pamplemousse

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Secret Mission

  Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Rests His Case

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Stands Firm

  Monsieur Pamplemousse on Location

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Train

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat

  Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation

  Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

  Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Tangled Web

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  12 Fitzroy Mews

  London W1T 6DW

  www.allisonandbusby.com

  First published in 1989.

  This ebook edition first published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2015.

  Copyright © 1989 by MICHAEL BOND

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–1876–4