The Retreat

by Anne Morgellyn

  ‘They didn’t do anything, did they?’ Herbert asked. ‘Just dirty talk.’

  ‘I must say, I’ve never gone down that path on my own’, Sofka said. ‘I told you that bar is notorious, Mackie.’

  ‘Joanna took me there.’

  ‘I’ve never gone there on my own, Joanna protested.’

  ‘She’ll be a black belt in karate,’ Gerald said, in his quavery invalid’s voice.

  ‘I know how to defend myself.’ She smiled at him. He smiled back affectionately, and nodded.

  ‘Can you throw a man over your shoulder?’

  ‘If I’m pushed too hard. The point is, women shouldn’t have to put up with it.’

  Madame L’Oiseau appeared with a covered dish. Joanna hastily cleared the soup plates. Why didn’t Marie-No do it, Mackie wondered? They’d get through the meals a lot faster with another server standing by. Lucie could come and work here and earn a bit of extra cash instead of hanging around in that bar.

  They tucked in to a thick fish stew. When they got to the cheese, Herbert tapped his glass.

  ‘I think the moral of this story is that the ladies here should think twice about going for trips on their own. It’s usually a quiet town, very low crime rate, but you should exercise some caution.’

  ‘The ladies, as you call us, should be able to go wherever we want.’

  ‘You shouldn’t ask for trouble,’ Iris said.

  ‘What do you expect me to do — stay indoors with a bag over my head? If it applies to the ladies, then it should apply to the gents.’ She looked at Roman, who was strangely silent.

  ‘Just take sensible precautions,’ Herbert went on ‘Any one of us could get mugged.’

  ‘Exactly. We’re all sales métèques.’

  Roman spoke at last: ‘This is where you benefit from having Scout around.’

  ‘I thought he was the driver, not our bodyguard I’ll go where I want to,’ she said. ‘Except the conference centre.’

  ‘I told Immaculata not to go over there when a conference was running,’ Roman explained.

  ‘You invited her when the funders were here. You have never invited any of us,’ Sofka said petulantly.

  ‘They wanted her opinion as an officer in the Metropolitan Police.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Come on Sofka. You know that whatever is said in the conferences is confidential. If it were otherwise, no one would come to us. Even the trade ones are confidential.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what they asked me,’ Mackie said. ‘They wanted to know if the police were equipped to deal with a revolution in London.’

  ‘And are you?’ Herbert asked.

  ‘Up to a point. If we ran out of resources, they’d call in the army.’

  She noticed Scout doing a passable impersonation of thinking.

  Iris got up. ‘I’m going to bed.’ She glared at Mackie with those pebbly eyes. ‘You have brought fear into this house with your silly stories. I think you should leave.’

  ‘Iris!’ Roman exclaimed. ‘Immaculata is our guest.’

  ‘I know why she’s like she is,’ Mackie said when the old woman had gone. ‘She never goes out. She should get a life.’

  Roman put his hand on her wrist. Joanna noticed it. She looked put out.

  5

  She called Rudyard and told him Scout’s surname.

  ‘We’ll check him out.’

  ‘He’s now a French citizen. A privilege given to ex legionnaires.’

  ‘We do talk to the French. When is the next Babel conference?’

  ‘No idea. I’ve been warned off the conference centre.’

  ‘A short break from the Retreat wouldn’t do you any harm. See it as extra reconnaissance. Three or four days. Have you been to Nice?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. There’s a new examining magistrate here, Jean Paul Duroc. Is that of interest to you?’

  ‘I’ll make a note of it. D U R O C.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll persuade the police to get their fingers out.’

  ‘We’ve talked about this, Inspector Divine. No getting involved with local crime investigations. I hope I won’t have to remind you again. Enjoy your stay on the Riviera. You can claim expenses.’

  Roman said he wished he could accompany her. ‘I’ll be thinking about you, Mack the Knife, while I’m faffing around in the conference centre. Go to the Matisse museum and the Russian Orthodox church. I used to go there when I visited my great

  grandparents. They had a villa on the Promenade des Anglais.

  They’re buried in Nice. The villa is now a museum. It’s close to the Hotel Negresco where Edith Piaf used to stay.’

  ‘I’ll be away for three nights. I won’t have much time sightseeing.’

  She thought he was going to kiss her goodbye, but he didn’t.

  Scout drove her to the station in Quimper.

  ‘Were you in the Foreign Legion at the same time as those Dutch guys?’ she asked him. ‘Where did you sign up? Marseilles?’

  He stared at the road ahead. A vein pulsated in this thick neck, making the flashes dance. He pulled up at the station, not looking at her as she maneuvered herself and the holdall out of the minibus.

  She bought a ticket on the TGV and sped off to Paris. It was incredible how fast the train travelled and how comfortable it was in second class. There was a two hour wait before the next train to Nice. She took the Metro to the Gare de Lyon and made a beeline for a bistro opposite the station where she drank a glass of sauvignon blanc and watched the passers by. For every smart pedestrian, there were three or four in casual attire, which gave the place a weekend ambience. She could have sat there all afternoon, but when a woman in tight white jeans took the vacant seat at her table and lit up, she made a move.

  There were a lot of police on the station concourse, walking up and down and glowering at people who looked anything but French. The transport police in London were less forbidding. They had only bullet proof vests to protect them. These officers had pistols. How fast were they on the draw? Would they be up to handling a revolution in the French capital? Would Herr Winkel and General Pombo approve of the hardware?

  The Riviera train glided through the foothills of the Massif Central, but sold stale baguettes. It got to Nice at ten past six – five minutes early. The grand station was sultry and oppressive. She felt disorientated after the swift transition from maritime Brittany, to the sticky heat of the south. It could be stiflingly hot in London during the summer, but it was hotter here. She was dazed by the tiled concourse with palm trees in planters and summer travellers. People wore light colours. That made a nice change after the granite and sepia tints of Pont du Calvaire. She felt a headache coming on. She took off her black wool blazer and slung it round her shoulders. Her feet were swollen from sitting in trains all day. Her sandals were at the bottom of the holdall. She looked for a bench to sit on while she changed her footwear. She had to repack her bag, attracting comments from teenagers. who pointed at her M & S knickers. The trains disgorged groups of young men, also in light colours. She had some water left and swallowed a migraine pill. The kaleidoscope in her eyes soon stopped turning. She looked at the trains coming in on this platform, direction Monte Carlo. There was a carriage full of Asians. There were Chinese about. If this is multiculturalism, she thought, I’d rather be amongst these people than stick out like an alien in Pont du Calvaire. There was a good atmosphere here. Laid back. Relaxed. Not uptight about sharing the same patch of ground.

  Some of the young people were carrying balloons and rolled up banners. A young guy saw her sitting there and came up to ask if she was alright.

  ‘I’m just resting. Where are you from?’

  ‘Germany. And you?’

  ‘I’m British.’

  ‘You don’t look British. Those people are British.’ He pointed to a middle aged couple in clothes that nearly induced another migraine. ‘They are not an attractive race.’

  ‘Hang on. We’re not all like that. What about Keira Kni
ghtly?’

  ‘David Beckham.’ He closed his eyes and sighed. ‘I have to go now. I must join my party. Are you coming to the parade?’

  ‘What parade?’

  ‘Tomorrow night. Euro Pride. It’s on the Promenade des Anglais.’

  ‘That’s not far from where I’m staying. I’ll check it out.’

  ‘See you.’ He waved. The group he joined started laughing when he reached them. They sobered up when he began to talk about her.

  6

  The hotel she had booked was located half way between the station and the sea. It was an easy walk with the holdall, less than ten minutes. She tried out her French at the reception desk. As usual, they replied in English, but weren’t unfriendly. The room they gave her was on the third floor, so she took the lift. It had a wrought iron grille. She unlocked the room and opened the shutters. There was a balcony but no view of the sea, just some old but rich looking apartment blocks with gated front gardens. It was dog-walking time. A medley of chihuahuas, dachshunds and other toy breeds were shitting in the sandy soil around the palm trees. The owners – women in pristine white trousers and gold sandals, men with paunches in chinos and soft loafers, cooed over their defecating pets, but made no attempt to clean up after them. That was something that had struck her in Paris. The pavements were full of dog mess.

  She looked in the bathroom mirror and pulled a face. She looked drained and her hair was coming down. She had a very pale complexion – that was her Irish ancestry, but her hair was showing grey around the sides. She’d have to get another supply of those wash-in colours. Her Ma said men didn’t look at a woman once she turned grey.

  When she had tidied herself up and put on a bit of tinted moisturiser and lipstick, she took the stairs down to reception and asked where she could get a light meal nearby. There was a restaurant next to the hotel but it didn’t open until seven thirty, so she continued down the station road towards the corniche and found a place that sold different types of pasta. It was a take away, but there were two rickety plastic tables set out on the pavement. The road was busy, and she didn’t want to be sitting too long in fumes. She finished the ravioli quickly and left, passing a pharmacy where she bought some plasters for her ankles. They had blistered on the walk from the station to the hotel. Next, she went into a café and asked for a Perrier. She was the only woman there, apart from the barmaid. The men were speaking Arabic, a language she was used to hearing in London. The loo was a hole in the floor with slimy footpads and dirty tiles. There was no room to put on the plasters.

  The Promenade des Anglais was in sight. The sea and the pedestrian promenade, an open sided covered walkway, lay across the coast road where drivers ignored the signs at the crossing. She joined a clutch of tourists and waited till they made their dash. There were a lot of couples in their middle years, mostly Dutch and British. You could only really tell them apart when they opened their mouths. The British men wore socks and sandals, the Dutchmen trainers.

  Under the awning, which stretched for a couple of hundred yards, people were strolling, jogging, running, and sitting. The Promenade looked out at the calm blue waters of Mediterranean. It was a beautiful sight. Mackie grew up by the steely waters of the Mersey estuary that leeched into the Irish Sea. But out there was America. She felt at home in the USA. New York and Baltimore contained a fair share of cousins from Galway. In fact, she had more relatives on the East Coast than in Britain. Her father had retired to Ireland. Her mother and grandparents were dead. There was only Niall. She ached to hear his voice, but he’d be at the theatre. It was ages since she’d gone on holiday with him.

  She sat on a bench and took out the plasters. As she was putting them on, a superannuated man who stank of sweat and cigar smoke, sat down next to her. He was way too close. She shifted her backside down the bench. He shifted his.

  ‘Vous êtes seule?’

  She got up and made for the steps that led down to the beach.

  ‘C’est triste de voyager seul,’ he called. ‘Venez boire un coup. Moi, je suis seul aussi. On peut se consoler...’

  Roman came into her mind: we could comfort each other. She stared at the people on the pebbly sand – locals catching the late sun, swimmers enjoying an evening dip in waters heated by the day’s sunshine. She hadn’t brought a swimsuit to France, though she swam regularly at a 4 star hotel in Euston, where she was a member of the sports centre. Nobody bothered her there. She was trim, but she wasn’t glamorous enough for the foreign businessmen who came over on the Eurostar. She looked hard and forbidding. Noli me tangere. She couldn’t make out what had happened with Roman. The thing was, she liked it.

  The street lamps were on when she crossed back over the Promenade and up to the hotel. She climbed the steps up to reception and said bonsoir to the concierge.

  ‘Good night, madame.’

  7

  The breakfast room was full of holiday couples. Two businessmen were talking in French over a laptop on their table. They looked like sales reps or conference delegates. Mackie was the only one on her own. She ate a croissant, two slices of ham, two of Dutch cheese, and a strawberry yoghurt. It was obvious that this was a hotel that catered for foreigners. The lingua franca was English. She also heard Swedish, German, Dutch, and Chinese. There were tea bags but, as usual, they were Liptons. Did Liptons make this so called breakfast tea especially for export to the continent? She had also tasted it — if taste was the word, in the USA. Her cousin, Maeve served it proudly and claimed that it came from Ireland.

  After breakfast, she walked down to the Promenade and headed for the market in the old town. The fresh sea smell from the fish stalls reminded her of Pont du Calvaire. She bought a swimsuit from an Asian man, a leather satchel for herself in red Moroccan leather, and a wallet for Niall in the same design. Resting her legs at a café opposite the line of goods stalls, she watched the world go by from the terrasse. The freshly squeezed orange juice she ordered, which came with a large jug of tap water, cost nine euros. It must have been the priciest orange she had ever eaten. She would be claiming expenses.

  Suddenly, the crowd of tourists and locals doing their daily marketing parted to let through a trio of young men with Mohicans and flashes on their arms, like the ones worn by Scout and the Dutch bikers. There was a smell of burning. A couple of the North African stalls, down wind of where she was sitting, had been set alight. The stallholders were trying frantically to stop the flames with scarves and embroidered shawls, but they only succeeded in fanning them. This side of the market emptied quickly, allowing waiters from the cafés to dash over with fire extinguishers. By the time the police and fire crews arrived, the fires were out. The trio of thugs had disappeared with the tourists. The market was empty, except for locals calmly buying fish and vegetables on the other side of the square. It was as though a light had gone out over the place, in spite of the noontime sun. She made her way to a big plaza behind the market site. The space was festooned with rainbow flags and posters of two men embracing. A concert platform had been set up and there was sound-check feedback coming from the amplifier. She felt a headache coming on, and made her way back to the hotel where she slept for most of the afternoon.

  She awoke around six , feeling better. So much for the Matisse Museum and the Orthodox Church. She had missed lunch too, and was hungry. The bars and cafés were all full, so she picked up a a mini quiche from a pâtisserie and something called a pissaladière, planning to eat them on the promenade under the awning. It was very crowded at the crossing, and she had to muscle her way through to the traffic lights. The road was lined with people as far as she could see. She decided to walk in a westerly direction where the crowd was less dense, eventually coming to some large wrought iron gates. A brass plate affixed to the gatepost said: Maison ouverte: 9-17 h. Jardin ferme à 21 h. She went into the garden. There was plenty of shade and wrought iron benches around the path. A few old women were sitting and talking near the entrance. She went to the furthest bench and ate her quiche and t
he other thing – a slice of tart with onions, olives and anchovies. She felt embarrassed to be eating street food in this grand location. Maybe this was the villa that belonged to Roman’s great grandparents. She’d thought he was making it up to impress her. He was full of the blarney. And himself.

  The iron bench was hard, but she felt drowsy. She’d been thinking about the rumpus at the market. She should have snapped the thugs. They seemed to be relatives of Scout and the Dutch bikers. Same haircuts. Same tattoos. Same loutish behaviour. But plenty of men had tattoos like that. Neo Nazi body art was the fashion. They looked menacing, so people kept out of their way. The fires in the market were started at stalls held by North Africans. Immigrants at sometime or other. That, and the tattoos, pointed to racially motivated attacks. She fell into a reverie: Roman in his study, rolling up his sleeve to show a twin headed eagle. She unbuttoned his shirt. Another eagle covered his chest.

  ‘Madame?’ A man in a smart green uniform stood before her. ‘Le jardin ferme dans cinq minutes. Il faut que vous en aillez.’

  He was chucking her out, courteously. She gathered her things, including the paper bags that had held the quiche and pissaladière.

  ‘Bonne soirée, madame.’

  8

  A noise of whistles and drums followed her down the corniche. They looked as though they were heading for the plaza. She elbowed her way into a front position in the crowd to see the parade. A band of drummers and saxophonists, dressed like clowns, preceded the first float. Four transvestites, in stiff gold tutus, gyrated to the beat. Next came a stagecoach of cowboys with mustaches and oiled chests. Behind them a giant pink penis. The escort jumped off the float and handed out favours to the crowd. Mackie was given a rainbow flag, a packet of condoms, and a little box of nuts and raisins. More floats passed by. Pretty boys with gelled-back hair wearing bell bottoms, and sailor caps. She looked for the young German but couldn’t see him. Lady-boys, butch women and femmes, men in leather waistcoats, chain belts slung over their skin tight trousers. Behind the last of the floats came six police riders on motorcycles. Next, an assortment of conservatively dressed men women. They all held copies of the Bible. There was a row of nuns and a priest in a cassock. Behind them, women in burkas, escorted by bearded men in Islamic dress. They had a striking banner in green and gold, the text in Arabic script. If this was an an anti—gay protest, it was pretty ineffective because any calls of disapproval were drowned by the whistles and drums, and the applause of the crowd of bystanders. Mackie joined in the clapping. She felt more cheerful. Relaxed, even.