The Tin Snail

by Cameron McAllister

  I was about to jump into the seat when the sound of a gate creaking on its hinges made me turn. I darted my head back outside and saw the housekeeper hurrying in through the snow, her gray shawl wrapped around her head as she leaned into the frosty wind. I dragged the garage door shut behind me and made my way back across the icy courtyard.

  “Am I glad to see you!” I called to the woman as I burst in through the door. “I’m starving.”

  The figure turned, and to my shock I realized it wasn’t Marguerite at all but a girl, possibly only a year older than myself. Her skin was so clear it was almost luminous, while her ruby lips were chapped and split from the bitter cold.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, her piercing green eyes staring at me, full of fierce suspicion.

  “Er…Angelo,” I stammered. “My father and I are staying here for a few weeks.”

  The girl looked me up and down, clearly unimpressed, then unwound the scarf. A mane of thick, unruly red hair spilled onto her shoulders.

  “What happened to Marguerite?” I asked, suddenly a little tongue-tied.

  “I help her out when there are visitors.” She took off her coat and tied an apron tightly round her waist. “Don’t expect much to eat, by the way. The delivery van broke an axle in Boutonne when it slid off the road, so there’s only some stale bread.”

  “We could always take the motorbike to collect some fresh,” I offered brightly. “How far is it to the nearest village?”

  “Regnac is just the other side of the stream, but it doesn’t have a bakery. You can sometimes get pastries at the bar tabac if you go early enough. Otherwise the nearest town is Boutonne,” she explained. “But it’s twenty kilometers away.”

  With that, she set about scouring the cupboards to prepare what little breakfast she could. I watched her for a moment before she felt my gaze on the back of her neck and turned fiercely.

  “What?”

  I shrank back like a scalded cat. “Nothing.”

  A little while later, after chewing on a rather meager breakfast of dried fruit and stale bread, I went outside to find my father trying to kick-start the motorbike. After a moment he cursed and aimed a sharp boot at the exhaust pipe.

  “It’s frozen solid. I knew I should have brought it inside.” He looked over and saw me concealing a smile. “You think this is funny?”

  “Come and see,” I said, dragging him over to the rickety old shed.

  I pulled open the huge wooden doors, and Papa’s face lit up as he spotted the old tractor lurking in the back. Heading over, he wiped some dust off the radiator, and a chrome nameplate gleamed back at him.

  “It’s a Lamborghini!” he exclaimed. “We had one almost exactly the same when I was your age.”

  Intrigued, I ran my hands over the rusty bonnet, then suddenly froze. The key had been left in the ignition. “Maybe you should try it,” I suggested cautiously.

  My father leaped into the driver’s seat and gave the key a turn.

  Nothing. He tried again: still the same.

  Marguerite’s helper was right—we were indeed marooned. But as I turned to head out of the shed, I caught a glimpse of the lawn mower….

  Seconds later we burst out of the garage, my father holding on to the lawn mower’s handlebars, goggles down, while I clung on behind, acting as rear gunner. Hearing the commotion, the girl came to the doorway and stared in bewilderment.

  “We’ll be back with some fresh pastries!” I shouted to her, rather too pleased with myself.

  The lawn mower, however, had other ideas. At that precise moment it took an unexpected detour—straight toward the house. Seeing the danger, my father made a lunge for the brakes, only to find that the cables had snapped, presumably gnawed through by some rodent.

  With seconds to spare, he wrenched the handlebars to the right, avoiding the stone wall by a whisker. Clattering dementedly toward the gate, we bounced through a puddle, squirting frozen mud up our fronts and completely covering my father’s goggles.

  “I can’t see anything!” he shouted.

  I leaned forward and wiped the lenses as best I could while he piloted the machine out through the gates and down the snow-covered track.

  As we rattled our way down the hill, I peered around at the countryside flashing past. On either side the meadows were covered in snow, lilac in the early-morning light. A few cows, huddled together by a trough of frozen water, lifted their heads to see what the noise was about, then turned away, bored.

  Suddenly we rounded a corner and I saw that we were rapidly approaching a stream. With no way round it and no time to stop, our only option was to carry straight on through.

  “Go! Go!” I roared in Papa’s ear.

  He twisted the throttle and the lawn mower plunged into the stream, sending up a huge curtain of icy water in our wake. As we burst out the other side, we let out a huge whoop of excitement that sent a flock of starlings flapping up into the sky.

  Ahead lay a daunting climb up to the village through an avenue of cypress trees. Urging the lawn mower on, my father squeezed every last bit of power out of the whining engine until, spluttering and coughing, we swept into the square.

  To our left was the imposing structure of the church, its huge medieval tower casting a shadow over the entire hillside. On the other side, a pair of scruffy, peeling doors opened out onto the street from a dingy little café—the local bar tabac.

  As we circled the muddy square, a thought suddenly popped into my head.

  “If the brakes don’t work, how do we stop?” I shouted over the racket the engine was making.

  By now one or two of the locals had emerged from the bar and were watching our antics curiously. The same thought had obviously occurred to them. As we banked sharply for another fly-past, I nodded and lifted my cap in greeting.

  “You’ll have to switch it off!” I yelled in my father’s ear. But he clearly couldn’t hear over the noise of the engine. Worryingly, a low wall was now looming fast in front of us.

  “Turn it off!” I shouted more urgently this time. Papa began searching desperately for any sign of an “off” button, but there wasn’t one. With seconds to impact, I reached forward and snatched the key out of the ignition.

  The sound—or lack of it—was instantly deafening as we coasted forward, then shunted to an abrupt halt against the wall. With the morning’s performance clearly at an end, the locals now melted back into the café as silently as they had emerged.

  My father dusted himself off and peered at the bar in front of us. “Time for coffee,” he announced cheerfully.

  Inside, a rather portly man stood chatting to a small gathering of locals. This, it turned out, was Victor, the owner—a proud, stout figure who had cultivated a huge handlebar moustache that sprouted from under his bulbous nose like a pair of restless ferrets.

  A woman appeared from a doorway behind him and started wiping down the tables. This, I would soon discover, was Dominique, his wife. Pale and delicate like an exotic flower, she glanced over at us, and I saw a flicker of curiosity before she averted her eyes shyly.

  “Excuse me,” my father called out to attract the barman’s attention. The chatter of the other men hushed, and Victor looked over indifferently. “A black coffee, a hot chocolate and two tartines, if you will.”

  “Sorry,” Victor grunted, without sounding the least bit sorry. “We’re fresh out of bread.”

  “Perhaps if we come back later,” my father suggested. “Are you expecting any deliveries?”

  “Not for several days at least.” The barman sniffed. “The delivery van is out of action.” He set about preparing our drinks while the older men muttered conspiratorially, shooting glances our way.

  “But why doesn’t someone just drive to the nearest town?” I asked, confused.

  At that the men at the end of the bar fell silent. As Victor shoved my hot chocolate across the counter, I sensed I had somehow touched a nerve.

  “Perhaps you could drive your lawn mower,”
he suggested with a sly smile. Instantly I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  “Can you at least tell us if there’s a restaurant where we can eat?” my father asked, clearly frustrated now.

  “Absolutely,” Victor replied, more brightly this time. “You’re sitting in it. But, before you ask, there’s no menu.”

  I could sense the hairs rising on the back of my father’s neck. “Then perhaps we can book a table for later.”

  “Of course. But you may have a long wait.” Victor smirked. “We’re shut until the spring.” This brought a hearty roar from the rest of his cronies.

  Papa’s jaw tightened and he gulped his coffee down in one slurp. “Let’s go,” he hissed.

  I tried to protest that I hadn’t even started my chocolate yet, but he was already stalking out the door. As I turned to follow him, I saw the barman’s wife watching me closely. For a moment I wondered if she was embarrassed by her husband’s snide remarks. But if she was, she didn’t say anything.

  Outside, we wheeled the lawn mower round to face in the right direction; then I leaped on. Hastily grabbing my father’s waist so I didn’t topple off the back, I tugged my hat down over my mop of dark hair and we backfired our way across the square and headed toward the manor house.

  Less than an hour later, I was squatting at the bottom of the big stone staircase. My father was on the telephone to my mother.

  At first there were some hushed mutterings I could barely make out: something, I thought, about Ferdinand Porsche. I’d heard my father and Bertrand whispering a few days before about how Porsche was secretly developing lightning-fast tanks for the German army.

  I sighed gloomily, but moments later my ears pricked up. Papa was trying to persuade my mother to come down for the weekend. I leaned forward, straining to hear if there was any sign it was working.

  “Bertrand and Christian are coming down tomorrow,” he told her. “You could hitch a lift with them and arrive in style. Then you could take Angelo back.”

  My heart suddenly clenched. Going home was the last thing I wanted. For a start, it might mean being sent back to school. But more importantly, I hadn’t made things right yet. Ever since I’d crushed my father’s car—not to mention his career—I’d vowed I would do everything in my power to make up for it. I didn’t know how…just that I had to try.

  I headed outside, feeling more despondent than ever, and soon found myself back at the rickety old garage. As I lifted the latch, a bird fluttered up in my face and flew out through a hole in the roof. The shock made me bark my shin against the broken shaft of an old pitchfork, and I cursed in my best slang. If only Maman could hear what I’d been learning at my fancy school! The thought cheered me a little, and as my eyes grew accustomed to the light, I decided to explore a little further.

  Behind the tractor the shed was crammed to the roof with rusty old gardening tools and tin cans—debris that seemed to have lain untouched for tens of years. As I pulled at some wooden crates, I caught a glimpse of something bulky lurking at the back under an old tarpaulin. Clambering over the junk, I gave it several sharp tugs—until all at once it slid off, sending up a thick cloud of dust that made me double up coughing.

  When my eyes finally stopped streaming, I realized that I was staring at another vehicle of some sort. I’d seen something similar in my father’s studio once: an aging photograph, peeling at the corners, that showed one of the earliest motorcars from the turn of the century.

  Using my sleeve, I began to wipe away the dust on the door, and then my eyes suddenly widened like saucers. Two white lines had emerged in the shape of a faded cross.

  It was an old ambulance—possibly from the Great War, twenty years ago. The front of the vehicle—the bonnet and driver’s cabin—looked like a very grand (if dusty) vintage car. But a large wooden box had been attached to the back, presumably where the stretchers were stowed.

  I tugged the door open and climbed up into the cabin. But as I slid in behind the steering wheel, I failed to see a large spring that had burst through the upholstery. No sooner had I sat on it than I leaped up with a yelp, clonking my head on the ceiling and ripping a hole clean through the seat of my trousers.

  Brilliant! Another reason for my mother to give me an earful. I groaned, peering round at my rear end.

  When my head had finally stopped throbbing, I turned to discover a moldy curtain separating the cabin from the wooden box at the back. A little more cautious this time, I drew it back and peered into the gloom beyond.

  Inside, there were two canvas stretchers suspended from the ceiling like hammocks. But it was what lay beside them that really caught my eye. On the floor, caked in a thick layer of dust, was an antique gas mask. I stretched out my fingers hungrily and pulled it over by the strap. Little more than a pair of goggles, it had a piece of cloth folded into a pad—presumably to filter mustard gas in the trenches.

  Suddenly a voice behind me made me spin round.

  “What are you doing in here?” The girl was standing in the doorway, staring at me accusingly.

  Guiltily, I let the gas mask drop and cleared my throat. “I found the door open, so—”

  “Monsieur Hipaux doesn’t like anybody poking around. You have to leave,” she said sharply.

  “Why?” I asked, frowning. “I’m not doing any harm. Anyway, I’m good with old cars and things.”

  The girl raised an eyebrow. “Somehow I doubt that.” She was obviously referring to the earlier incident with the lawn mower. “Now please leave.”

  Grudgingly, I made my way outside and watched her lock the door with a large rusty key. “Where did the ambulance come from anyway?” I asked.

  “Nosy, aren’t you?” she said, before stowing the key inside her shawl and turning to leave.

  “Wait. Where are you going?”

  She stopped and eyed me suspiciously again. “Why?”

  “If you’re going to get food, I could help,” I mumbled. “It’s not like there’s anything else to do.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t need any help,” she said gruffly. With that, she turned and stalked off across the courtyard.

  “Couldn’t you at least show me round…?” I called after her, but either she couldn’t hear me or she chose not to.

  Fine, I thought. If she doesn’t want to be my guide, I’ll just follow her instead. So no sooner had she disappeared through the gates than I set off after her.

  For a while I kept pace about twenty meters behind, ducking behind a tree whenever I thought she might turn and see me. When we reached the village, I saw her take a left turn, away from the bar, before climbing some steps. Curious to know where she was heading, I carried on shadowing her. But by the time I reached the top of the steps, she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a mangy old tomcat with only one eye jerked its head to look at me, then scurried off through the snow.

  “Shoot,” I muttered under my breath: she’d given me the slip. Not knowing which way to turn, I decided to follow what looked like a fresh set of footprints in the snow. The track ahead led back down to the square by way of a large loop, and it wasn’t long before I came to an area of wasteland with a rusty old petrol pump. Beyond it were the doors to what appeared to be the local smithy. I wiped vigorously at the glass and tried to peer in, but it was too ingrained with dirt to see more than a half meter or so inside.

  With a last glance around, I sighed with frustration and headed back toward the manor house.

  She had beaten me…for now.

  The following day my mother came to join us. She, Bertrand and Christian drove down from Paris in Christian’s latest toy—a canary-yellow BMW roadster that was all chrome running boards, shiny headlamps and dimpled leather upholstery. Christian never drove anything that wasn’t the latest model of something, and this was no exception.

  Splashing through the mud and melting snow, the car couldn’t have looked more exotic as it swept in through the gates to the manor house and crunched to a halt in front of us.

&nb
sp; Taking Bertrand’s hand, my mother stepped regally from the car, only for her expression to falter. I knew straightaway what she was thinking. This was Uncle Bertrand’s château? It looked more like a dilapidated ruin. But as soon as she saw me, her face broke into a smile. She hugged me to her, squeezing me till I thought my eyes would pop.

  “Maman…!” I gasped as she was about to suffocate me. She let me go and stepped back to take a look at what I was wearing. I had found some work clothes in the cellar—coveralls and cap that made me feel like I was back in my father’s workshop. It had the added benefit of hiding the large rip in the seat of my corduroy trousers.

  “You look like a mechanic.” She grimaced, staring at me.

  “I want to be a mechanic,” I protested, and she rolled her eyes.

  “I suppose it’s an improvement on street urchin.”

  “I think he looks entirely the part,” Bertrand declared, studying me evenly. “And I’m especially fond of street urchins. I find they make the very best stew, though they can be a little gristly.”

  “I found the old garage,” I told him enthusiastically. “There’s even an ancient ambulance.”

  “Ah, that old thing.” Bertrand beamed, his eyes dancing with boyish excitement. “You know it was originally a Rolls-Royce? Well, at least the front end.”

  My mother look astonished. “They turned a Rolls-Royce into an ambulance? Whatever for?”

  “I would have thought that was obvious, my dear,” Bertrand said, glancing over his glasses. “To save people’s lives.”

  Maman smiled uneasily as Christian grabbed the suitcases and threw them to my father.

  “Bit grim,” he said, eyeing the house. “Reminds me of one of the dumps I used to run away from as a child.” He lit one of his exotic foreign cigarettes and put an arm round me as we headed in. “So, young Angelo, I want to hear all about the local women.”