The Tin Snail

by Cameron McAllister

  Philippe and Camille were talking, but he was standing uncomfortably close to her, and his arm was barring the doorway so that she couldn’t leave the room. She was trying to push past him, but he refused to budge.

  Suddenly Camille saw me watching and landed a sharp kick on Philippe’s shin.

  Philippe winced, then turned and saw me. “What?” he asked balefully.

  “I don’t think she wants to talk to you,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

  He took a step toward me, bristling with menace. “Really? And who says?”

  I stared up at him. He was a good ten centimeters taller than me and built like a brick outhouse, not a skinny whelp. I could see his flexed biceps straining against his shirt sleeves.

  Camille quickly stepped between us. “Thank you, but I don’t need your help. Philippe is just going,” she said, staring at him defiantly.

  Philippe’s eyes drilled into mine in an unspoken threat; then he turned and stalked away.

  I sighed with relief and my heart rate began to level out again. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean to intrude…,” I stammered.

  Camille had whipped off her apron and was already putting on her coat. “I told you. I don’t need your help. So stay out of my life!” she said, scowling. Then, without another word, she marched upstairs, her shoes echoing off the stonework. Moments later, I heard the side door creak on its hinges, then slam shut behind her. Through the grating above my head, I heard her tramp away through the snow.

  Perhaps my confidence that we would become friends was misplaced after all.

  It was just after two o’clock the following day, Saturday, when Bertrand and my father looked up to see me standing in the doorway to the breakfast room. At first they hardly recognized me. I realized that my face must have been sprinkled with a fine layer of rust from where I’d patiently sawn away at the metal chair legs in the old ambulance.

  “I thought you should know I’ve finished.”

  “Finished what?” my father asked.

  “Come and see,” I told him breathlessly.

  Papa looked suspiciously at Bertrand. “Is this some nonsense you’ve put him up to?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” he replied, feigning innocence.

  A few moments later they were both standing outside, astonishment on their faces.

  “What is it?” Papa asked cautiously.

  I turned and surveyed the strange invention parked next to me. “It’s my new prototype,” I announced. “A car for ordinary people.”

  I had cobbled it together out of the lawn mower and a rusty old trailer I’d found hidden behind the tractor in the garage. Sitting on top were two canvas chairs I had borrowed from the ambulance.

  Bertrand sucked on his pipe as he circled the bizarre contraption. “It doesn’t have any suspension,” he observed, but I was ready with my answer.

  “The seats are heavily sprung, so they should absorb most of the impact of the potholes.”

  “What if it rains?” he asked.

  “I’ve thought of that.” I hauled an old canvas tent off the back of the trailer.

  “All I need to do is tie this over the top. It won’t protect against a storm, but it should at least be showerproof.” I looked nervously at my father, who had yet to say anything. “What do you think?” I asked hopefully.

  For a moment he looked completely lost for words. “It’s very…unusual,” he faltered. It wasn’t exactly the overwhelming response I’d been hoping for.

  “But can’t you see?” I asked. “This could be your new design. I mean, obviously it needs a lot of restyling….”

  “Angelo, I know you’re trying to help,” he sighed wearily. “And I’m very grateful. But believe me, it’s going to take a lot more than a battered old lawn mower with a couple of rusty seats to save my career.”

  “I admit it’s a little rudimentary,” Bertrand interrupted, “but don’t be too quick to dismiss it. The boy might be on to something.”

  “Please, Papa,” I protested. “At least let me demonstrate it for you.”

  “There’s no point,” my father replied, more sharply this time. “I told you, it won’t make any difference.”

  “Surely there’s no harm in letting him try…,” Bertrand reasoned.

  Suddenly my father’s temper boiled over. “We all need to stop kidding ourselves and face facts!” he snapped. “There isn’t going to be a car, Angelo. Not this or any other one. Now put it all back where it came from and get your bags packed. We have to leave early in the morning.” With that he turned and marched back inside.

  I felt like I’d been thumped in the guts. It wasn’t just that I’d spent so long making the prototype—it was that I really believed I was onto something. Sure, it looked stupid—but somewhere in amongst that pile of rusty metalwork and old cogs there was a dazzling new design just waiting to be discovered. I’d never been more certain of anything.

  Bertrand must have seen how dejected I looked; he rested one of his long, knobbly hands on my shoulder. “Don’t take it too hard. It’s himself he’s angry with, not you.”

  I felt hot tears start to well up in my eyes and had to look down before I betrayed myself.

  Bertrand must have sensed it. “You know, you could always take this over to the blacksmith in the village,” he suggested thoughtfully.

  “What’s the point?” I grumbled, kicking at the gravel tetchily.

  “If you don’t leave till the morning…that still gives you this afternoon.”

  “For what?” I asked, confused.

  “To take it on its first test run, of course.” I looked up and saw a twinkle of devilment in his eye.

  “B-but you heard what my father said,” I stammered.

  “I did. But do you always do what your parents tell you?” he asked mischievously. With that, he patted me on the back and strolled back inside.

  —

  Less than an hour later, I was standing in the blacksmith’s forge, the dusty little workshop I’d discovered the morning I’d followed Camille back to the village.

  The blacksmith, Félix, was a tall, solid man of few words, with a bald head covered in soft gray down. His forearms were like the branches of an oak tree, while his face was deeply creased and careworn. As he came toward me, I noticed that he had a pronounced limp. Apparently a tractor he’d been welding once had toppled over and trapped his leg.

  “Here,” he grunted, offering me his spare mask.

  “It’s OK,” I told him, pulling out the goggles I used in my father’s workshop. “I brought my own.”

  In front of us sat my strange half–lawn mower, half-ambulance contraption. For the moment, the canvas seats had been hastily held in place with a few nails. But if the prototype was to stand any chance of completing its test run over a plowed field, Félix would need to weld them securely in place.

  With the flick of a switch, his welding torch sparked into life and he set to work.

  For the next thirty minutes I was in heaven again—back inside my father’s workshop in Paris, the white-hot flame of the welding iron reflecting off my goggles.

  Then, as suddenly as we had started, it was over. We raised our masks and peered at the ungainly creature in front of us.

  “Will it hold?” I asked, eyeing the seats nervously.

  Félix considered for a moment. Considering things earnestly was something he did a lot, I would discover. “That all depends….”

  “On what?”

  “How big a bump you hit,” he replied gruffly.

  Suddenly a voice I knew all too well called from upstairs.

  “Papa…?”

  I spun round just in time to see Camille appear at the bottom of the stairs. So this was where she had disappeared the day I followed her. Félix must be her father.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, startled.

  “Your father is doing…some work for me.” I faltered, edging in front of the lawn mower. I was suddenly embarrassed b
y how absurd it looked. Curious, Camille stepped toward me and peered over my shoulder.

  “What is it?” she asked uncertainly.

  “I’ve made a sort of bet with Victor,” I explained. “He said I couldn’t invent a vehicle that could drive across a field without breaking any eggs.” I glanced between an astonished Camille and her father before adding sheepishly, “Or spilling any wine.”

  Camille looked at me like I was some kind of lunatic. “Without breaking any eggs?” she repeated. “This I’ve got to see.”

  Black clouds were building ominously as I swung the lawn mower through the gate into one of the lower fields not far from the village. Underfoot, or underwheel, the ground was roughly plowed, a series of deep furrows that gently sloped away, becoming steeper at the bottom, near the stream.

  Camille walked behind me carrying a tray of eggs and a flagon of wine—everything we needed to conduct our first test run.

  As we reached the top of the field, I lined the lawn mower up, facing slightly downhill to make things easier.

  “If you’d like to take your seat,” I said, nodding to one of the canvas hammocks.

  Camille groaned, clearly wondering why she had ever agreed to this madcap experiment, then clambered aboard.

  “Ready?” I asked, forcing a cautious smile.

  “Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?” she asked drily.

  I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and eased out the choke so that the engine ran a little faster.

  It was now or never.

  I let out the clutch, and suddenly the machine bolted forward, nearly sending Camille toppling off behind. She hauled herself back on board and gripped the side of the seat, white-knuckled, as the lawn mower shuddered its way across the field.

  At first I was scared that our combined weight might be too much: the lawn mower’s engine was whining in protest. But gradually we began to pick up speed, gathering momentum as we approached the first frozen furrows in the field.

  However, as we rattled over the stony ground, the seat I was perched on soon started to shudder. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the rivets Félix had welded onto the frame were already starting to crack.

  I leaned forward, my goggles almost level with the handlebars as I willed the machine forward. But as we hit the first furrow, my chin crunched onto the metal, sending a shooting pain through my head that made my eyes water. Several eggs shot up out of their tray and would have smashed to the ground if Camille hadn’t plucked them out of midair.

  By now the field was starting to drop away more steeply, and I realized getting up enough speed was no longer the priority. It was stopping.

  My heart started to race as I saw the danger looming ahead. Knowing that the brakes were hopeless, I shoved the choke in to try to slow the engine revs, only to find it made no difference. The lawn mower and its creaky chariot were by now almost in free fall down the hillside. Soon it was all I could do to hold on to the handlebars as we hit every bone-crunching pothole and gulley.

  Behind me, Camille was holding on for dear life. Any attempt at protecting her precious cargo had been abandoned: eggs danced and then exploded into the air like firecrackers. With each stony hillock the trailer mounted, the wine flagon perched on her lap started to slide forward. Finally it slipped off and landed on the floor with a thump; the bottom of the jug sheared off and the wine went everywhere.

  “You need to stop!” Camille shouted frantically.

  “I can’t!” I hollered back without turning my head. By now the bottom of the field was fast approaching and I knew I had to find a way to stop or we would soon be catapulted into the stream on the other side of the bank ahead. I thought of trying to swerve, but at this speed we would turn somersaults in the mud.

  “We have to jump off!” I called back.

  Camille glanced nervously at the frozen ground flying past. To leap would almost certainly be suicide. Suddenly there was a loud crack and the undercarriage of our seats broke clean away from the trailer. There was no longer anything keeping Camille attached to her chariot.

  My stomach lurched as I realized that within seconds we would be in the river. Quite apart from the risk to life and limb, the idea of sinking two vehicles in as many days was unthinkable!

  I needn’t have worried. As we hit the last plowed furrow, Camille was suddenly catapulted into the air as surely as if I’d pressed an ejector button. She landed with an awkward thump that made her cry out in pain before rolling over face-first in the mud.

  At the last second, just as the lawn mower careered toward the riverbank, I leaped to safety.

  I looked up just in time to see my crazy invention veer off into a tree and dismantle itself with a sickening crunch.

  To my amazement, I was still in one piece. Battered and bruised and caked in freezing mud, yes, but otherwise unscathed. But it was only when I heard a groan behind me that I discovered Camille hadn’t been so lucky. She was sitting in a muddy hollow, clutching her ankle in agony.

  “Are you OK?” I gasped, rushing back to help her.

  “Of course I’m not, you idiot!” she snarled, wincing in pain. “I think you’ve broken it.”

  Ten minutes later I finally staggered into the square, my boots clogged with heavy clay. The exertion of carrying Camille all the way up the hill had made my lungs burn, and I was certain I was about to be sick. But I knew my only hope of redeeming something from this disaster was to get her to a doctor as fast as my legs could carry her.

  Victor’s wife, Dominique, saw me first and came rushing out to help, quickly followed by Félix. He and Victor lifted Camille off my back and carried her into the café, while I collapsed onto a seat outside, retching from exhaustion.

  A few minutes later, through the doorway, I saw Victor hang up the receiver of the old black Bakelite pay phone.

  “Please,” I asked falteringly. “How is she?”

  “We won’t know for sure till the doctor gets here from Boutonne.” He scowled. “What on earth were you doing out there?”

  “It was the new design we were talking about,” I muttered. “We were testing it and it…” I trailed off, too ashamed to admit the full story.

  He looked at me and shook his head, disgusted. “I suppose it’s something you didn’t drown her, at least.”

  It was about ten minutes later that I finally saw my father striding across the square, accompanied by Bertrand.

  “Is it true?” he hissed, his eyes blazing. “You deliberately defied me and now Camille has been injured?”

  “Luca, please,” Bertrand protested. “If you want to blame someone, blame me.”

  But Papa wasn’t listening. His jet-black eyes were drilling into me with scorn. “After what happened at the motor show, I thought you might have learned something. But you willfully persisted with this idiotic scheme. Well, I hope you’re satisfied.”

  I looked at my feet, utterly ashamed. Just then the café door flew open and Félix emerged.

  “How is she?” I asked, glancing up anxiously.

  “This is Camille’s father,” Bertrand explained to my father.

  “I am so sorry for my son’s idiotic behavior,” Papa began, but Félix held a hand up to stop him.

  “The fault is mine,” Félix grunted. “If I had welded the seat properly, Camille would never have fallen off.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing—and nor, clearly, could my father. “Camille’s ankle is fine,” he assured me. “Sprained, nothing more. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to help her home.” He nodded to my father, then headed back inside.

  I let out a sigh as I felt the knot of tension start to unravel in my guts.

  “So,” Bertrand announced brightly. “No long-term harm caused after all.”

  But Papa was having none of it.

  “You’re lucky,” he told me, simmering. “But this doesn’t change anything. Go and pack your things.”

  Before I could mumble another apology, he was striding back across th
e square.

  Bertrand took his pipe out of his pocket, stuffed it with several pinches of tobacco, then lit it. The tobacco glowed orange in the growing darkness as he sucked several mouthfuls into his cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry…,” I began. “The test-drive was a complete disaster.”

  “Nonsense,” Bertrand declared. “You have very successfully proved how not to design your car.”

  “I did that, all right,” I moaned.

  “Surely you didn’t expect to get it right first go?” Bertrand exclaimed. “Even your father wouldn’t be so arrogant as to presume that!”

  “What use is it now anyway?” I grumbled. “You heard him. I’m going home tomorrow.”

  “You forget…” Bertrand smiled mysteriously. “Some things aren’t meant to be. The rest aren’t meant to be yet.”

  —

  Dinner that night was eaten in complete silence. It was pointless trying to apologize any more to my father—he’d made it perfectly clear that he had nothing further to say. So as soon as I’d finished my food, I excused myself from the table and left the room despondently.

  As I closed the door, I hovered outside, hoping that my wounded silence might persuade him to have a change of heart. But I didn’t hold out much hope. I knew how stubborn Papa could be once he’d set his mind on something. Especially when he was in a furious mood like this.

  I leaned my ear against the paneled door and listened closely.

  At first there was silence. I imagined Bertrand trying to fill his pipe or clean his spectacles again.

  “It’s funny,” I heard him say after a moment.

  “What?” my father grunted.

  “Today I saw someone willing to take risks,” he continued. “Willing to make a fool of himself for something he truly believed in. The only thing is, it wasn’t you. It was Angelo.”

  My eyes bulged wider and I leaned in closer to hear how my father would react.

  “The difference is that Angelo took risks with somebody else’s life,” he replied sharply. “He could have killed the girl.”