Beyond The Rainbow

by David Forrest

  Barbusse looked at himself in the mirror and flexed his biceps. ‘Before I give myself to you, have I ever showed you how they made us Paras train for the really high jumps? ‘

  ‘No, but I’m sure you will.’ Josephine’s voice became a little bored. ‘But whatever you are going to show me, please do it quickly.’ She glanced at the clock by her bedside. ‘I can hardly contain my need for you, my fondest sweetheart.’

  ‘I will take a short run ... from here...’ said Barbusse. Josephine’s eyes opened wider. ‘I will hurl myself over the foot of this bed in a forward dive.’ Josephine wriggled aside hurriedly as Barbusse half-coiled himself for take-off. ‘And I will do a forward roll on landing, ending up with a headstand against the wall behind you . . .’

  ‘Oh, Darling . . . no . . .’ began Josephine, but Barbusse’s powerful body was already in motion.

  With a cry of ‘Ole! ‘ he hurtled over the end of the bed...

  ‘Uncouple the truck,’ said Colonel Lorraine. ‘We will push our beloved Admiral with our own hands to his new and significant position, guarding the interests of his villagers and relatives.’ The crowd cheered.

  The Mayor stepped up on to the trolley for his triumphal journey across the square with the Admiral. One of the wheels juddered slightly off the crown of a cobblestone. The slight movement swivelled a forward wheel onto a splurge of butter that Flambert had dropped. The butter released what adhesion and braking effect the forward wheels had got, and the entire trolley moved a centimetre forward down the slight slope of the square. The movement of the trolley beneath him caused Colonel Lorraine to stumble slightly. He took a quick step backwards. The transference of his weight added impetus to the vehicle, and with a creak it moved forward, slowly. ‘Hold it,’ shouted the Mayor, and leaped off. For a second nobody moved - then it was too late. The trolley gathered speed and lumbered across the square. ‘Stop - stop,’ shouted Mayor Colonel Lorraine, in his most military voice. The trolley disobeyed him. Alphonse Joliot made a grab at its side and was dragged a few yards before he was forced to release his hold. The creaking of the trolley became a rumble, as the sound echoed back off the walls. The Mayor and the villagers watched it go. At first it appeared to be heading directly for Barbusse’s bar, and the few of the villagers standing on that side of the square scattered from its path. Then, following the slight camber of the square, it curved to the right. The statue of the Grand Admiral charged, upright, its sword extended proudly like a cavalry officer at Balaclava, straight for the house of Josephine Abelard. The trolley mounted the low pavement with a bound. Miraculously the statue remained vertical. With a splintering crash the sword smashed through the new shutters of an upstairs window. The Admiral’s extended arm followed - up to the armpit. Then, with a crunch, the trolley hit the outer wall of the house, and stopped, surrounded by a dusty whirlwind. There was a fearful scream from inside the house. The crowd watched, horrified. ‘Someone’s been killed,’ said Father Benoir. He turned to Claire Laplace, who stood, as usual, beside him and spoke urgently. ‘Go fetch my alb from the church,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ moaned Colonel Lorraine.

  For a few seconds the villagers were motionless. Then Colonel Lorraine acted. It was, after all, just another skirmish. ‘M’aider ... a moi, mes amis,’ he shouted, leading a charge in the direction of the screams and shrieks coming from the shattered building.

  The Mayor stopped outside the still intact door. He stepped to one side. ‘Kick it down,’ he ordered Laplace.

  Laplace reached forward and opened the door with the latch. Colonel Lorraine scowled at him and strode inside. The screams came from the bedroom above. Pushed by the crowd from behind, Colonel Lorraine and the priest found themselves mounting the stairs. The pressure from behind forced them through the bedroom door. Inside, at the end of the bed, stood Josephine, staring at the far wall, her hands against her face, her eyes open wide.

  Father Benoir followed her terrified gaze. The Colonel’s monocle popped. On the far side of the room, upside down, pressed against the wall by the Admiral’s sword, was Barbusse - naked, his legs gently waving. The point of the concrete sword pressed into his navel just hard enough to hold him in position like some pale beetle in a cabinet.

  ‘See to Mademoiselle,’ commanded Father Benoir. Someone handed her a dressing gown. The Mayor moved closer to the head of the bed, till he could peer down into Barbusse’s face.

  ‘What happened? Am I dead?’ asked the bar-owner. ‘Speared through the guts? ‘

  Colonel Lorraine stepped forward and felt the point of the sword. ‘You’re not even wounded, man,’ he said. ‘Hasn’t broken the skin.’ The Colonel turned, took the flour-white cap off the head of Laplace the baker, and perched it discreetly between Barbusse’s inverted legs. There was a snigger from the now crowded room.

  ‘Josephine’s thimble would have done just as well,’ sneered Farmer Joliot. Barbusse’s courgette-green face took on a purple hue.

  Barbusse remained suspended for two hours, during which time the entire village made a pilgrimage to the bedroom to view him. Outside, Colonel Lorraine supervised the moving of the statue. Damage to one of the trolley wheels, which had now become square, made the job difficult.

  At last, a squad of the village’s strongest young men, plus Ravelle’s winch, moved Admiral Dordogne back a few feet and turned him around so that his outstretched sword was now pointing into the centre of the square.

  They hauled over the slabs of the marble base and re-erected it on the pavement. Then they slid the Admiral off the trolley and back into position on the plinth, his backward-facing head now staring accusingly into Josephine’s shutterless bedroom.

  As the evening darkened, the men dragged the first fat timbers off the back of Ravelle’s lorry and laid them in a straight line between the church and Barbusse’s bar. Father Benoir and the Mayor stood and watched from the church steps.

  Father Benoir clasped his hands across his chest and smiled. ‘Praise be to the Lord,’ he whispered.

  ‘Amen,’ grunted Colonel Lorraine.

  In the front room, over the bakery, Henri Laplace undressed and waited for his wife to finish cleaning the counter of the shop before retiring to bed. He stood in front of the dressing- table mirror, remembering Barbusse’s well-muscled figure. He flexed his taut but emaciated arms, then tried pulling in his thin stomach. The gaunt muscles were too tired to respond. He grinned, reached down and took hold of his genitals. He suddenly felt extraordinarily happy. They made two good handfuls.

  Six

  Constable Chaminade stood on a pile of timber in the centre of the square and addressed the villagers. ‘Listen to me, I tell you. Get yourselves neatly arrayed in readiness, so that when our Mayor and Father Benoir arrive there will be no time wasting . . .’ he shouted.

  The crowd, however, took no notice. ‘As Chief Constable of the Village of St Pierre-des-Monts, I hold it within my power ... ’ A note of warning crept into Constable Chaminade’s voice.

  Then, with sudden terror, he realized that the crowd had stopped, and were looking at him. He couldn’t remember this happening before. They began to walk towards him. Constable Chaminade felt menaced. He opened his mouth to shout, but no words came out. The crowd shuffled itself. The women and children moved to the sides. The remainder moved into an untidy cluster.

  ‘Master tradesmen, time-served apprentices and skilled craftsmen only in the front rank,’ said a voice, so close to Constable Chaminade’s ear, that he jumped. It was the Mayor, Colonel Lorraine himself, standing on the plank behind the constable. Chaminade looked, startled. The Mayor now wore his full dress uniform of a colonel of the Spahis.

  Constable Chaminade sucked in a quick breath and snapped a salute that nearly sheared the peak of his kepi. The Colonel’s uniform was impressive. Chaminade beamed at the red hat with its gold braid, the slim-fitting tunic with polished leather belting, the baggy trousers with a hundred pleats, and the Mayor’s boots that were so shiny they refl
ected the tatty and smiling image of the constable. Colonel Lorraine slapped the boots with a swagger-cane. A pair of silver cavalry spurs jingled.

  Constable Chaminade, half-hypnotized by the Mayor’s resplendent appearance, found himself elbowed into the front rank of the workers. He was jostled more and propelled into the second rank, amongst the more advanced apprentices and improvers. They were rougher than the first rank, and in seconds Constable Chaminade was at the rear, behind the row of labourers and those with no handicraft skills. He found himself among the few whose ability to do anything successfully was suspect. He tried to barge himself forward again, but the solid backs of the rear rank were immovable.

  Constable Chaminade snarled angrily. He made his way round a woodpile, climbed over a pile of refuse and finally arrived once more beside the Mayor just as he began his inspection of the ark’s workforce.

  Colonel Lorraine strode along the length of the front rank. He peered closely at each man as though he had never seen any of them before. Constable Chaminade skipped a couple of paces to get in step, and followed like some rather scruffy adjutant. He wished that he, too, had a swagger-cane. He took a long stride that brought him close behind the Mayor. Colonel Lorraine hesitated in front of one of the men. Constable Chaminade, who was, at that moment watching the overhead flight of the Orly/Nice Caravelle, didn’t. He trod on one of the Colonel’s spurs. The Colonel, in slow mid-stride, sat down heavily, the spur on his other boot puncturing the fine material of his breeches and stabbing him in the left buttock. He rose from the ground with a speed surpassing that of his descent, and struck Constable Chaminade such a blow on the crown of his kepi with his swagger stick that the official hat was jammed down over the constable’s eyes.

  The first rank of artificers barely wavered. The second rank, of those less skilled, giggled. The third rank, of labourers and wasters, shrieked and roared with laughter. Colonel Lorraine regained his dignity with a cough and a total disregard of either the discomfort of his pierced behind or of his flustered policeman.

  ‘I will remind you that we are working for the benefit of ourselves, not for a master’s profit. Time is valuable. Don’t waste it.’ The front rank nodded.

  Father Benoir beamed. The Colonel waved an arm towards him. ‘My friends,’ said the young priest. ‘Let the Lord bless and approve all your work. Let it be good and strong. Let it be safe and secure and holy. Fit the timbers together with love. Nail them with trust. Screw them with ...

  ‘Josephine,’ muttered one of the rear rankers. The rear rank giggled again.

  Colonel Lorraine cracked his stick against his boot. The men were silent.

  ‘Let the good work of you industrious people secure the future for the world through the greatness of our Lord,’ said Father Benoir.

  ‘Hurrah!’ shouted Claire Laplace.

  ‘Hurrah . . .’ echoed the second and third ranks. The first rank clapped, politely. Colonel Lorraine clicked his heels and inclined his head.

  ‘Right!’ he shouted. ‘All ranks, fall out and sign on at the Mayor’s office. Establish your right to draw national unemployment. Right, dismiss.’ The workforce stood for a moment until his suggestion had sunk in, then they turned and walked into the bureau.

  ‘That was a very clever idea,’ said Father Benoir.

  ‘It is a criminal act to strike a Police Constable on his head in the course of his duty,’ said Constable Chaminade, laboriously rubbing his scalp.

  ‘It occurred to me last night,’ said Colonel Lorraine, oblivious to Chaminade’s distress, ‘that the biggest threat to getting the work done on time was loss of wages by the men. I felt it would be fairly legitimate for them to draw the dole.’

  ‘I will have to make a full report of the incident,’ grunted Constable Chaminade feeling in his breast pocket for his notebook.

  ‘I suppose that as Mayor it is your right to decide such things,’ said Father Benoir. ‘Not that it matters very much anyway, what with the floods to come and everything.’

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Colonel Lorraine. ‘But it will keep the men happy.’

  ‘Your name and address, please,’ insisted Constable Chaminade.

  ‘But if that’s the case, why haven’t ship designers thought of it before?’ Colonel Lorraine asked Moreau.

  Moreau shrugged and raised the palms of his hands.

  Charles Grouflier, his assistant, also shrugged. ‘Monsieur Moreau says, phuishhhh, and why not indeed?’

  Moreau nodded. Having taught Grouflier his job as an apprentice, there was a close understanding between them. By saying so little himself, and by having Grouflier to talk for him, Moreau estimated he saved a lot of time that he would otherwise waste. And anyway, he’d exhausted his quota of words already this year.

  Colonel Lorraine, standing on the topmost of the church steps, lined up the ribs of the ark with his monocled eye. They now sprouted from the ark’s twin keels like guardsmen. The view across the village square was like looking down a wide tunnel of football goal-posts.

  Moreau waved his hands up and down, then suddenly turned them both palm upwards. Grouflier smiled at him. ‘He says that the reason why ships turn over is because designers build them narrow at the bottom. Now, Colonel Lorraine, he asks, isn’t that stupid?’

  The Mayor looked at Mortimer Moreau, who waved his hands again, this time vertically. Grouflier continued. ‘He asks whether you would build a tower that was wider at the top, than at the bottom? Of course not. Therefore, he has based his design on an architectural fact that ship-builders conveniently overlook in order to save materials.’

  Colonel Lorraine scratched his ear. He was sure that there was something wrong with Moreau’s argument . . . but then, how did one argue fine points with a man who preferred speaking by sign language through an interpreter? He felt consoled, however, by the thought that, if there were small discrepancies in Moreau’s ark building, then, in some way, the good Lord would make compensations.

  ‘Forgive us, mon Colonel,’ smiled Grouflier. ‘But Mortimer and I must give further instructions to our workmen.’

  Colonel Lorraine nodded, and watched them disappear inside the church door. A few moments later, he was surprised to see them appear on the balcony beside the bell.

  ‘Hey . . .’ Grouflier’s voice, thin now from the height of the tower, seemed to float from the sky like a weightless arrow. The men in the square looked upwards and waved. Moreau waved back. Grouflier shouted. ‘Number two vertical, on the left side ... That long piece, Joliot. Take it more to the right and point the front end at the door beside Barbusse’s bar. Good. Now d’Arle, drag the other long piece over and put it parallel to Joliot’s. No, more to the left. Ah . . . fine. And you, Laplace, bring that heavy piece and add it to Joliot’s . . .’He continued his instructions for half an hour. The stacks of timber were shuffled and re-arranged. The long standards dragged about the square until the two men were satisfied. Their figures disappeared from the tower and a few minutes afterwards they stood again in the group. ‘Here,’ Grouflier pointed. ‘Moreau says this must be joined to that. A good joint - almost a metre long - sloped like this and then pinned. Here too, he says, this must be similarly made. All joints screwed, pinned and glued. And the main timbers in these exact positions. And here ... ‘ he waved a hand, ‘there must be an upright. And a corresponding upright on the other side. And here and here and here, too. All jointed like the others. Glued and pinned. And when that has been done, the top pieces fitted. Then we fill in the sides with planks. Everyone understand what Mortimer wants?’

  The men nodded and smiled. They could all work when they knew what they were supposed to be doing.

  ‘Make the first cut, Monsieur Moreau,’ suggested Laplace. He handed Moreau a saw and gave a small bow. Moreau nodded. He stepped forward to the large piece of timber that formed the left-hand keel of the ark. He sighted along it with a keen eye, pinged the teeth of the saw with his thumbnail, then laid the blade to the wood. His cut was sure and certain. Moreau per
mitted himself a completely unseen smile. Building an ark was child’s play. After all, he had been building coffins for fifty years, and when viewed from its correct perspective, from the top of the church tower, the ark looked like any one of them.

  ‘The construction’s going pretty smoothly,’ said Saint Peter. ‘I was watching on the monitor only this morning. Quite a good ark, actually. Different from the last. I suppose it’s because they’re using better tools than Noah had. In fact, the old boy’s livid. Jealous, I suppose.’

  ‘There’s no patent on arks,’ snapped God.

  ‘I don’t think that’s what’s troubling him,’ said Saint Peter. ‘It’s just that this new lot have come up with a more original design.’

  He was interrupted by the door being pushed open. He looked up, angrily. The Orderly Arch Angel stood nervously just outside.

  ‘Permission to interrupt, suh?’

  ‘Yes?’ asked God curtly.

  ‘It’s them Romans,’ said the Orderly Arch Angel. ‘And the bloody bubbles.’

  ‘Bubbles?’

  ‘Yessir,’ said the O. A. A. ‘Bubbles and squeaks ... Greeks.’

  ‘Not them again!’ sighed God.

  ‘They want to fight the Mongol hordes, sir.’

  ‘If you remember,’ whispered Saint Peter into God’s nearest ear. ‘It’s only three weeks since they asked if they could have a war with Matamoto and his Samurai army.’

  God glowered at the Orderly Arch Angel. ‘Go and tell them permission refused. They’re only allowed to fight each other.’ ‘They say there’re cheesed off,’ said the Orderly Arch Angel. God growled furiously. ‘Cheesed? Cheesed? How dare they be cheesed. This is my heaven, not theirs. I make the rules. I absolutely forbid anyone to be cheesed. Tell them to go away and re-enact the sack of Corinth. And this time, the Greeks can win for a change.’ The Orderly Arch Angel began backing from the doorway. ‘And you tell them,’ continued God, testily, ‘that this time they’ve got to clear up afterwards. There’s enough of a litter problem up here already.’