by Carla McKay
‘Fern, I appreciate your concern, but this could lead to something really big,’ said Tim. ‘I’ll be careful, I promise, but you must see how important this could be. Roland is clearly up to no good and I can’t tell you how astonishing that great stash of old wine is up on the garrigue. It’s got to be stolen – or why is it there?’
‘Why don’t you show the bottles you took to someone who knows about wine?’ asked Fern. ‘There may be some perfectly reasonable explanation for it. I know, what about asking Alan Knight? He’s a retired wine auctioneer and expert– he was telling me at one of those barbeques that that was the reason he was down here. He was some big shot in London specialising in French wine and he got to love it so much around here that he moved down here permanently when he retired.’
‘Brilliant idea’, said Tim. ‘I will. I was trying to think of someone I could ask about wine other than my pompous know-it-all brother-in-law who would delight in lecturing me. Alan is bound at least to know someone I could ask.’
He looked fondly over at Fern who grinned back at him. ‘Perhaps I should have been a journalist too,’ she said. ‘Don’t even think of it,’ said Tim. ‘You’re far too nice. I like you just the way you are. You should have seen all those hatchet-faced hackettes I used to work with.
‘But not the hatchet-faced hacks?’ Fern asked.
‘I wasn’t hatchet-faced enough’, replied Tim. ‘Funny thing is, now I’m here, I’m much more keen to sniff out stories. I think being a freelance suits me.’ They smiled uncertainly at each other. Their friendship had been cemented in the past few weeks since Ben’s failed suicide bid. Neither of them had pushed it further but both of them felt that an affair was not out of the question. Tim now leaned towards Fern and kissed her gently on the mouth. ‘You’re lovely, you know’, he said. ‘I feel very protective towards you which is a pretty unfamiliar feeling for me. All the women I’ve known have wanted to boss me around. You’re quite different, thank god.’
‘I’m glad’, said Fern. ‘I’m quite keen on being protected at the moment. Hearing about what has happened to other people recently has made me nervous. I’m not sure I’ll sleep at all well tonight.’
‘Would it help if I stayed with you?’ asked Tim a shade too promptly. Fern couldn’t help smiling.
‘It might’, she said.
Next morning, after bidding Fern a tender farewell and high-fiving Ben on the stairs, Tim sought out Alan Knight clutching his two bottles in a plastic bag. He reckoned he’d just show them to Alan to see what he thought before telling him how he’d come by them.
Alan was gratifyingly intrigued. ‘Most of the label has disintegrated’, he told Tim, ‘but you can just make out a word or two – look, ‘…oide’ there and what looks like ‘…lang’ there. Clearly French, clearly old –in fact, looking at the type of bottles and corks, I would say 1940 vintage –something like that. War time probably. Where did you get these?’
Tim hesitated, but decided to rely on Alan’s discretion. After all, he rather needed his help. ‘Let’s just say, for the moment, that I found them,’ he said, in the countryside, along with hundreds of others, not far away. It’s obviously a hidden stash, and I know who’s involved in it, but I’d rather not tell you that at the moment. For all I know, it’s perfectly above board, but I somehow I doubt it.’
Alan looked thoughtful. ‘Do you know anything about what happened in the south of France during the war on the wine front?’ he asked. Tim shook his head. ‘Nope. Never thought about it.’
‘Well, this may help clarify things,’ said Alan. ‘During the German occupation of France, the Third Reich wanted to get their hands on France’s fine wines and huge amounts were stolen from wine estates and restaurants all over France’. ‘What did they do with it?’ asked Tim.
‘Well, for one thing, they drank it. Although Hitler himself didn’t care for wine – he called it ‘vulgar vinegar’, many of the Nazi top brass, especially Goring and Goebbels, possessed vast collections of wine in Germany. Ribbentrop’s preference was for champagne, I believe. He represented a couple of the famous champagne houses in France before the war and even married into the business. Goring was famous for sending military trucks to various wine estates, especially in Bordeaux, with no official authorization or anything, to haul away masses of wonderful wine for his personal collection. And what they didn’t drink, they took back to Germany to sell internationally – it helped finance the war’.
‘I had no idea,’ said Tim. ‘Couldn’t the wine growers do anything to stop them?’
‘They tried to hide the stuff from the Germans. Many of them built false cellar walls and that kind of thing. But it was largely impossible. The Germans had recruited teams of wine experts who knew the growers in France and knew just what stock they had. The French called them ‘Weinführers’ – they sniffed out the wine and bought huge quantities – compulsorily purchased in many cases – to send back to Germany. Sometimes the French co-operated with them willingly of course; it was often worth their while.’
‘So you think this hoard I’ve found could date back to the war?’ asked Tim?
‘In all probability. It looks the right kind of age, and why else would it be hidden in the countryside?’
Tim whistled. ‘This is going to be big!’ he exclaimed. ‘Alan, you must help me. How can I best find out exactly what’s going on?’
Alan thought for a moment. ‘I’ve got a friend in the business I could ask,’ he said. ‘He’s a wine grower over towards Beziers – one of those old aristocrats whose family have been in it for generations; in fact, he was one of the reasons I came to this area. I used to auction wine for Christies and did a lot of business with him… I could ask him, if you like. He may be able to recognise these bottles.’
‘That would be a good start,’ said Tim. ‘Thank you so much, Alan. I’d better tell you all that I know about all this. I think there’s something really fishy going on.’
30
Lance was already asleep by the time Jean returned from Judith’s house. She had deliberately waited until it was late so as to avoid an unpleasant scene. When she quietly let herself in, the house reeked of cigar smoke and stale alcohol. Lance had evidently coped with the aftermath of the meeting in time-honoured fashion by laying into the whisky and feeling sorry for himself. Had she been around, he would have laid into her too. He must have been livid with her for abandoning him like that. But, having spoken to Judith and, for the first time, openly acknowledged her fears about what Lance may have done to Sarah, she had made up her mind. She was going to London first thing in the morning to renew her search for Sarah and to get away from Lance. The thought of staying a minute longer with him repelled her. She was not going to live with a child molester – and what’s more – she was going to find out if that was what had driven her daughter away. How could she have been so blind and so stupid? How could her first loyalties have been to her repugnant husband instead of her child? Overcome with remorse, she decided that she would stay in London until she had found Sarah. And if she discovered that he had touched her, or harmed her in any way, she would avenge her – of that she was now absolutely sure.
Meanwhile, she had to pack a few things without Lance waking up and as soon as it was light, she was going to walk over to the bus stop. She didn’t think she’d have any difficulty getting on the Ryanair flight the next evening from Montpellier. She would leave Lance a note saying simply that she was taking a break in England. She didn’t think he’d make much of an effort to find her.
She tiptoed up the stairs. The bedroom door was ajar and Lance was lying on his back snoring across the whole bed. A floorboard creaked and he stirred. ‘Jean?’ he muttered. She froze, and after a few seconds he turned over and went back to sleep. Quickly she got together some basics for the journey – fortunately, she kept most of her clothes in a spare room where she was going to spend what remained of the night. One thing she must do, however, before she left. She padded silently down to Lanc
e’s study and inched open the door which creaked. Once inside, she opened the drawer where she had tucked away the photograph she’d found of Sarah and her friend Louise posing topless on the beach. If she couldn’t track down Sarah straight away, at least she could try to find Louise.
Back upstairs, she climbed into the single bed, curled up and drew the covers round her. The night was hot and the room was airless, but she felt cold and panicky. She lay there, muscles clenched, listening to her heart thud and wondering if she would ever feel happy again. How could she ever forgive herself? Finally, she slept.
It was after ten thirty in the morning before Lance came to himself. The sun streaming through the slats in the shutters woke him – that, and a splitting headache. Instantly, the mortifying events of the previous evening came back to him. What the fuck was Bill Bailey on about? He would bloody sue him for slander – insinuating in the meeting in front of everybody that he was some kind of pervert. It was fucking intolerable. And, just as bad, was Jean refusing to walk out with him–as if she were in agreement with Bill. Recalling that, he sat up in bed and yelled for her. No reply. Where the fuck was she? He’d never forgive her. ‘Jean,’ he bellowed. ‘Where the hell are you?’ Shouting made his head throb more. Throwing on a towelling robe, he went to the bathroom and then made his way downstairs. She was probably in the garden, damn her. On his way to the fridge to get some juice he spotted a note on the table.
‘Gone to London for a while’, he read. What the devil…? No explanation; no forwarding address. What the hell was she up to? Instinctively, he walked towards the phone, then he remembered. Jean didn’t bloody have a mobile. Of course, she wouldn’t. That was the kind of antediluvian idiot she was. Too bloody complicated and modern for her he supposed. Well, she could fuck off for all he cared. Good bloody riddance in fact. He might have wrung her neck if he had seen her this morning, staring at him with those watery, reproachful eyes. A thought struck him. Surely she didn’t suspect him of anything? He’d been so careful, and Jean just wasn’t the type to think ill of anybody. Anyway, even if she did, what could she do? She was a useless bitch. He doubted whether she would even be able to find her way to London on her own. Shaking his head at her stupidity, he climbed the stairs again back to bed, took some paracetamol and fell back to sleep.
Scarcely an hour later, he was woken up again by the persistent ring of the phone next to the bed which drilled into his consciousness. ‘Yes?’, he barked into the receiver thinking it must be Jean. ‘Where the hell are you?’
‘I’m at home,’ said Tim, puzzled. ‘It’s me, Tim.’
‘What is it?’ said Lance testily. ‘I’m asleep.’
‘Sorry’, said Tim. ‘It’s 11.30 though. It’s just that I’m writing a piece for the paper about the anti-English business and I wanted a quote from you.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ exploded Lance. ‘I’m so damn fed up with all of this. Why can’t you get quotes from the sodding French? It’s them that’s got some explaining to do.’
‘Well, I shall try that too,’ said Tim reasonably. Then, realising that Lance was in no mood to co-operate, changed tack. ‘But Lance, you’re the only person I really want to quote from the English side. People see you as a sort of spokesman for the community. Plus, of course, you’re a name that people know. And, you’re easily the most articulate on the whole question,’ he added for good measure.
Lance sat up in bed. Now completely awake, though still with throbbing temples, he recognised flattery when he heard it, but thought it entirely justified. He would give Tim a quote – after all, it would come better from him that some of the other idiots around – but he’d ask for something in return too. The events of yesterday evening were fresh and sore in his memory and one thing he was determined to do was to get revenge.
‘Give me ten minutes,’ he told Tim, and you’ll have your quote. But, not before you answer a question for me.’
‘Sure’, said Tim. ‘What is it?’
‘Remind me which school in England Judith Hay used to work for before coming to France’.
Tim hesitated. ‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked. He already felt uncomfortable with the fact that he had mentioned recognising Judith to Lance. The man was spiteful and Tim was sure he didn’t want the information for any innocent purpose. On the other hand, it would be easy enough for Lance to find out if he really wanted to by looking up the story on the internet.
‘Just tell me,’ said Lance. ‘Or no quote.’ Tim told him. What difference did it make, he reasoned.
As soon as he had telephoned Tim back with a quote to the effect that the efforts of a few misguided Frenchmen were not going to drive the British community out of a country that they had every right to be in, Lance turned on his laptop. Right now, he wasn’t so interested in punishing the French as he was the two English people who had incurred his wrath at the meeting.
Bill Bailey, he had dealt with nicely in the quote he had given to Tim by saying in what was supposed to be a rueful afterthought, that although the actions of the French were deplorable, he could understand their attitude in respect of the few uneducated arrivistes from Britain who spoiled everything for their fellow countrymen by refusing to integrate in any way and behaved like louts. He stopped short of naming Bailey but gave an example of ‘a Northern, nouveau-riche loudmouth who had arrived recently in their midst, purchased the biggest house around and proceeded to alienate everybody he encountered, both local and expatriate’. People like that, he explained, with no breeding, were an absolute menace and everybody would be a lot happier if he went back to the pit-town he came from.
Tim had chuckled when Lance had told him that. ‘He gave you a bit of a drubbing last night, didn’t he?’ he said. ‘What he said was an outrageous slander,’ retorted Lance. ‘It’s class war as far as he’s concerned. That’s what it’s about. The French won’t run us out of town, but I sure as hell will try to run him out.’
Now, however, he turned his attention to the real menace in town – Miss Judith Hay, lately sacked from her English public school. ‘The Chase’ he typed into the Google search engine. The name ‘Judith Hay’ alone hadn’t yielded the story he was looking for. Immediately, a wealth of material about examination results, hockey tournaments and bursaries filled the screen. But, there at last was the entry of interest to him: ‘The Chase – Resignation of Deputy Head – The London Evening News report June 5th.’ Double-clicking on it, the story that the newspaper had carried that day came up in full.
Smiling to himself, in spite of the still throbbing temples, Lance read it through twice and pressed the print button. A few miles away, Judith, similarly cursed with a headache brought on by the anxiety she felt over Jean would have felt even worse had she heard Lance’s printer whirring into action and realised its significance.
31
That Sunday, Tim’s story about the meeting at Vevey and the anti-British activities was the lead story in the weekend supplement and had been followed up in their later editions by one or two of the Sunday tabloids delighted for another opportunity to indulge in the national sport of bashing the Frogs for their perceived insolence. Whilst these latter had fun with new versions of racist headlines like ‘Up Yours Delors!’, the Sunday Times piece was much more measured, and various contributors besides Tim had written ‘think pieces’ about the British migration to France and its implications.
The reaction in Vevey was mixed where every ruinously expensive copy of the Sunday Times (now available the same day thanks to a print-run in Marseilles) was sold out before 10 am. The Huffers and Puffers like Sue the tennis coach and her cronies were outraged that they and their ilk were now lambasted for their own failures in the integration process. ‘A lot of the new migrants to rural France,’ wrote one perceptive lady journalist who had spent time in France herself, ‘get it wrong by doing the very same things for which they are quick to criticise immigrants to Britain… the number of people who think they can get by without learning French is amaz
ing. They can’t read road signs, appliance instructions or their own mortgage offers – and some of them have been in the country for decades. They rely on partners or children to translate and live lives as isolated as that of an illiterate 70-year-old plucked from a village in Bengal and marooned in an East End tower block…. My finger speaks French, they will say, meaning that they merely point at things when they go shopping.’
Whilst those to whom these words clearly applied were stung and outraged and stormed that it was typical of the British media to betray them, others smiled in recognition of what was a real problem in their community, where one half tried to fit in with the French (after all, they were mostly there through choice unlike most immigrants), whilst the other half grimly clung to their fragile sense of nationality by organising cricket matches and cream teas and making it a point of honour not to understand the language. That their new neighbours should be insulted by this form of jingoism either didn’t occur to them, or they didn’t care.
Bill Bailey was ominously quiet. He must have recognised himself as central to the feature, thought Tim, but nobody heard a peep out of him. It was only when people started noticing removal lorries outside his ‘starter chateau’ that it sunk in that Bill had been good as his word and gone to try his fortune on the Costa del Sol. Bryony, meantime, had long since packed her bags and was living happily with an English plumber in the next village.