by Carla McKay
Lance felt his initial misgivings melt away. Both girls were pretty in a Slavic way and well developed. They obviously knew what they were here for and didn’t seem at all alarmed. After all, this wasn’t some child slave outfit. Gilles was clearly just a pimp but the girls probably were a great deal better treated here than they were in their own countries. Brita now passed him a glass of wine and sat herself down beside him. ‘Cheers’, he said clinking his glass with her own. ‘Do you speak English?’
24
It was well past midnight when Gerald saw Judith to her car after a rather good seafood dinner at his local bistro and she set off back home. As she was tired, she decided to take the Beziers road back to Vevey rather than risk falling asleep on the auto route which became even more alarming at night with vast trucks thundering along, either from the Spanish border, or on their way to it. If you got stuck between two of them on one of the stretches where there were eternal roadworks and you were down to one lane, it was like a rollercoaster ride to hell. You had to keep up with their speed or they bore down on you, lights glaring and sometimes even sounding their terrifying horns threatening to hurtle through your back window. The hair-raising American film, Dual, always sprang to mind on these occasions – the one where the innocent motorist is pursued at breakneck speeds by a psychotic trucker along cliff top Californian highways.
Why were the French such suicidal drivers, Judith wondered. They must teach them that style of ferociously threatening tailgating when they took driving lessons. They all did it; it wasn’t just the boy racers. Normally mild-mannered French housewives became demons behind the wheel and even the auto-école cars with their learner drivers cut you up at high speed and waited for a corner to overtake. No wonder this country boasted the highest rates of road deaths in Europe – and by a huge percentage. Nor were they deterred by the worrying number of poplar trees one saw standing like sentries on either side of endless straight country roads with flowers tied to their trunks in memory of another fallen Frenchman who had collided with one.
Even more spooky was a large notoriously dangerous roundabout with several exits that Judith now edged round, on which at least a hundred ghostly cut-out silhouettes of people were displayed in a silent throng, each one apparently representing ten real people who had met their untimely deaths at that junction. At night, in the purple shadows, they loomed up in a spectacularly sinister way, a terrible reminder of mortality, yet the French friends to whom Judith had mentioned this national failing merely shrugged as though it was to be expected. ‘It’s the way the French drive’, they would say, almost with a hint of Gallic pride at their statistical achievement in this area. ‘What can you do?’
But tonight Judith was less troubled by the cavalier culling of motorists on French roads than by her decision, taken after discussion with Gerald, to speak to Jean about Lance and what had happened to Sophie. The fact that Jean already suspected Lance of inappropriate behaviour with Sophie helped. She probably didn’t realise the extent of it though and it was going to be very difficult. Jean might well, with reason, tell her it was none of her business; on the other hand, Jean might confront Lance and somehow put a stop to his activities. Sophie, Judith gathered from Rose, was probably going to be all right; another victim might not be so lucky. Perhaps it was a cowardly way of shifting the burden of knowledge but she felt that it was better for Lance if someone close to him warned him off than that the police were involved. Not that that was a viable option. The local gendarmerie took a dim view of foreigners and their problems as it was; they would scarcely take any notice of an Englishman stabbed through the heart on their doorstep, let alone take any interest in his sexual proclivities.
Gerald had been understandably wary about this course of action but he could see how much Judith needed to feel she was doing something responsible. ‘If he can do that to Sophie, he’s probably tried it before and will try again’, she argued. ‘He’s clearly a sexual predator and somebody’s got to do something about it. Jean already knows something, I’m sure of it. When she came to ask me what I saw Lance doing in Vevey that made him so angry, she said something about the past… something that happened in the past to do with all this. She was distraught, Gerald. It’s perhaps better that she learns the truth about him, if she doesn’t already know it.’
Gerald had still been anxious. ‘It’s not your problem, Judith, and this is all heresay, don’t forget.’
‘What I witnessed in Vevey wasn’t heresay,’ Judith retorted. ‘The man is a monster. I already feel guilty because I could have perhaps prevented Sophie going out alone with Lance to begin with; Rose told me he was planning it and I could have told Sophie’s parents then. Although I don’t suppose they’d have stopped her. They don’t seem that concerned about her.
‘It’s a ghastly mess,’ conceded Gerald. ‘I just don’t want you to get caught up in it all; it could turn very nasty.’
Judith felt a little glow inside her as she thought about this conversation on the way home. It was a long time since anybody had been concerned about her.
As she turned the corner finally into her street, she was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the freshly sprayed graffiti on the wall outside her house. ‘GO HOME ENGLISH SCUM’ it read.
25
Judith did not have long to wait before she saw Jean. The following morning she received a telephone call from Frank Partridge whose estate agency in Vevey had been daubed with red paint and anti-English slogans during the night. Not only that, but many of the English owned houses in the town and surrounding villages had also been targeted and defaced with graffiti. Frank was keen to call a meeting of expats to try to defuse the crisis and work out what to do. ‘I’ve spoken to the Mayor of Vevey who is very concerned and he’s agreed to meet us tonight in the library to try to sort this out’, he said. ‘We mustn’t let this anti-English thing spiral out of control. It’s probably just a couple of workmen who’ve been fleeced by some idiot like Bill Bailey and are taking it out on the rest of us. Come to think of it I must phone Bill now and see if he’s been affected up at the “manor”. He’s the one I won’t feel sorry for, if so.’
Judith’s first rather uncharitable thought was relief that she hadn’t been singled out for abuse. Her next was the old familiar feeling of fear and insecurity. It would be awful if she were to be drummed out of France, just as she felt she had been from England. Finally, she was beginning to feel settled and content here in La Prairie, especially now that she had struck up a friendship with Gerald Thornton. A kindred spirit at last! She damn well wasn’t going to move again just because of a little local hostility.
She could see that it must be infuriating in a way for the French in this improbable backwater to be so comprehensively invaded by the English – she didn’t care for it herself – but on the other hand, the local economy benefited from it and villages like hers which had been dying on their feet were now thriving again thanks to foreign investors. In the past, young people couldn’t get out fast enough to go and find work in the cities and virtually every small shop and business had closed down. Only the village bakers seemed to survive since the French needed their daily bread in the way the British need a pint in the pub.
She started to telephone the people Frank hadn’t had time to call or didn’t know. They needed as many people as possible at the meeting tonight. She thought of Fern and then hesitated. Fern didn’t need another crisis in her life right now, but on the other hand, she would see the graffiti herself and be worried. Then she remembered Tim. He certainly should come to the meeting. As a journalist he might have some bright ideas as to how best to tackle this, and he could perhaps break the news gently to Fern. Jean would have the number of the gîte – and come to think of it, Jean and Lance would have to be there too. With any luck, Jean rather than Lance would answer the phone.
‘I’m glad you’ve called,’ Jean said when Judith got hold of her. ‘Lance is spitting. His car has been vandalised which he think
s is all part of this anti-English thing. If it is, they certainly knew how to rile him the most. The house, thank god, seems to have escaped. Frank has already told him about the meeting and he’s in his study now preparing some Churchillian war speech. Personally, I think it’s a storm in a teacup – probably local kids. I’ve got more pressing concerns – as you know…’, her voice faltered. In fact, Judith, I was wondering if I could talk to you again. I hope you don’t mind, but you seem to be the only person I can think of confiding in.’
Judith paused. Fate seemed to have determined her course of action. She had to tell Jean what she knew now, but she’d see what Jean had to say first. ‘Of course we can talk,’ she told Jean. ‘Why don’t you come back to my place for a coffee after the meeting?’
In Tim’s gîte the phone rang on the floor by his bed but the sound was almost completely muffled by a pile of discarded clothes and books topped by one of Piggy’s many sticks that lay more or less on top of it. As it rang on, Judith wondered if he was still asleep since it was only just after eight, but even if Tim had been asleep, he probably wouldn’t have heard it. In fact, Tim, unusually for him, was already striding along stony tracks through the nearby garrigue with Piggy in the lead swerving in and out of the thorny undergrowth in search of small animals and ever larger sticks for Tim to throw.
For Tim, as he put it to himself, was on a mission. Like his dog, he was onto the scent of something – and that something, he told himself, could possibly be a story. The newshound in him had not died even though it had been dormant for a while. Also money was becoming tight and Tim needed some fresh ideas for his column back in England.
The fact was that the previous day, whilst Tim had been out in the same area around dusk, a favourite time when the sun was setting in a red flush in the sky and the scents of the garrigue seemed to be at their strongest, he had suddenly caught sight of someone in the distance who every so often seemed to disappear into the ground and then emerge again. Intrigued, Tim moved a little closer until he could make out that the figure was a man hunched a little under the weight of whatever he was carrying, who did indeed seem to go down into the ground every so often. Instinctively, he stayed where he was not wanting to be seen but determined to investigate once the man had gone.
Some twenty minutes later, he heard a car being driven at speed along the track towards him throwing up clouds of dust and small pebbles. Grabbing Piggy by her collar, he crouched behind some gorse bushes as it went past, peering out just enough to establish that the driver was Roland, the café owner’s son, in his ancient blue Renault van.
What the hell was he doing up here, he wondered. The only people he had ever encountered before were the one or two old farmers who still eked out a living by tending small hillside vineyards that they had somehow coaxed out of the inhospitable territory. And why did he keep doing that disappearing act? He started to walk in the direction he had seen Roland but by then it was getting dark – something that seemed to happen more suddenly than it did at home – and he had several miles to cover. Reluctantly he turned back, but not before noting some markers in the landscape so that he could find the spot again. I’ll come back early in the morning, he thought, when I can be sure that Roland will be working in the café and nobody else should be about. He was sure Roland was up to no good in the garrigue. The man was a shifty looking bastard, he thought, who virtually snarled at anyone he didn’t know who walked into his café. Or perhaps it was just the English interlopers he didn’t like, with the exception of Lance who, strangely, appeared to be his best buddy. And that wasn’t much of a recommendation.
Now in the early morning light, with a light breeze blowing in from the sea, Tim paused to get his bearings. Nobody was around which was good – but he couldn’t quite recall the exact area where Roland had been foraging around. He started climbing up from the path towards a clump of rock roses which he thought he recognised and went on stumbling around amongst the thorny bushes for another half a mile or so. It was Piggy who alerted him to the spot he wanted – or rather Piggy’s disappearance. Where on earth had she got to?
Ten minutes of increasingly frantic whistling and calling later, Tim heard scrabbling and rustling to the left of him and the dog ran into view, shaking mud off herself. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Tim asked her, relieved that she wasn’t stuck down some rabbit burrow. She was completely filthy – she must have been digging. He turned in the direction Piggy had come from and then all became clear. Partially concealed by branches and undergrowth that had been recently moved out of the way was the entrance to a cave. That would explain both Piggy’s appearance and Roland’s disappearance. Now he came to think of it, Tim knew that there were many such caves in the garrigue which had been put to all kinds of clandestine uses throughout history. The question was, what use was Roland Rat putting it to?
Wishing he had a torch, Tim cautiously made his way into the relatively narrow entrance of the cave. It was pitch black and very wet and muddy but after several metres, the tunnel opened out and thanks to a chasm in the rock roof above him which let in some light, Tim could make out dozens of wooden crates. His eyes adjusting to the light now he could see that they all contained bottles of wine – thousands of bottles in all, old and dusty. So that was Roland’s game! He was some kind of wine smuggler. This little lot must be worth a fortune. But how and why had he come across it? He certainly wouldn’t have been able to afford to buy such quantities, and even if he had, he would hardly be storing them in the middle of nowhere. Clearly, this was stolen booty. Roland must have been removing a couple of cases of it yesterday.
All of Tim’s newspaper instincts were on red alert. Carefully he removed a couple of bottles which wouldn’t be immediately noticed and put them in the rucksack he used to carry water. And now, he thought, I’m going to leg it before Roland comes back for more. He didn’t fancy his chances if that weasel-faced little shit caught him here red-handed.
26
The meeting was held in Vevey Bibliothèque, the town’s library, the staff there being quite accustomed to large numbers of British people using their facilities which, in most cases, were considerably better than in their own home towns. A private room had been booked by Frank Partridge who was to address the meeting. Many of tonight’s participants were familiar with it since it was the room where an unappealingly bossy woman called Heather held a monthly bookclub meeting that which had started off with about 25 members but was now down to about 10, owing partly to Heather’s overbearing personality, and partly because she forced them all to read obscure French literary works when they wanted only to discuss the likes of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin. The bookclub had announced that it was open to all comers, English and French alike but, as usual, in any co-operative venture, only English people had shown up.
Judith had been approached by Heather shortly after arriving in La Prairie – ‘You’ll be a splendid addition to the group’, Heather had said, ‘with your background in literature. I’m afraid some of our members are a little lax in their reading habits. I’m all for self-improvement, aren’t you?’ Wisely, Judith had prevaricated, not wishing to offend, but also not desperately wanting to be told what to read by the harridan Heather. ‘What did she used to do in Britain?’ she asked Camilla Stanhope one day. ‘Oh, I think she was a tax inspector’, said Camilla. ‘Priceless, isn’t it? Did you notice her moustache?’
Now, quarter of an hour before the meeting began, Heather was the first person Judith saw as she came into the room, sitting in the front row of chairs that had been put out, flanked by a couple of her book club stalwarts. Quickly acknowledging them, Judith hurried on to the back where she spotted some less threatening companions. Lance, she saw, was also in place near the front, importantly rustling some papers – a harrumphing speech no doubt. He glanced up at her as she passed and managed a frosty greeting. Judith’s stomach turned somersaults. All she could think of was that he should be behind bars; she really must pass on the information about hi
m that she had. She only wished that it didn’t have to be to his poor, downtrodden wife who sat beside him and smiled wanly at Judith. ‘See you later’, mouthed Judith when Lance’s back was turned. Jean nodded and fumbled in her handbag for her specs.
The room filled up suddenly and more chairs had to be hurriedly squeezed in. Many people, apparently, had been affected by the recent spate of anti-British feeling, and those who hadn’t been were apprehensive as to what might be coming. Sue, the tennis coach, complained loudly that some of her French pupils had abruptly cancelled lessons with her. ‘It’s ridiculous,’ she exclaimed. ‘There’s just a few people whipping up this anti-Brit thing but it seems to be catching on fast. I’m beginning to feel like a Jew in pre-war Germany.’ This was received with a few nervous giggles. Trust Sue to go too far, thought Judith. She really was a silly woman.
Frank Partridge called the meeting to order and introduced the Mayor of Vevey, known to many there who had met him at other Anglo-French functions. M. Berol, was a charming, educated man who spoke English fluently and was fully aware of the economic benefits accruing from the town’s fast growing British community. He gave a short speech designed to quell fear and proffer reassurance. ‘This is the work of a small minority of French people,’ he said ‘who, I think, are not against the British in themselves, but mistakenly think that they will somehow ‘take over’ in this part of France. They feel vulnerable because young people cannot find work here, cannot therefore afford housing here and move to the cities. The foreigners find the houses cheap and the sense of community especially in some villages, they feel, is lost.
‘However, most people realise that the foreigners who come here do only good. They restore houses which would otherwise fall into decay; they spend money locally; they employ local workmen and they tell me they like it here. They move here for the peace, the countryside, the quality of life and so on; they do not wish to spoil it for us; quite the reverse.