Colours of the South

by Leah Hope

  The dog was now sitting directly in front of Gil, tail still wagging nineteen to the dozen. Gil reached out and scratched the dog’s head and ears. “Where have you come from eh? Haven’t seen you around here before have we?”

  “There’s a name tag on his collar,” said Bridget, running her hands through the dog’s thick golden brown coat. “Oh, it’s just a phone number, we could ring it, and find out where he lives, perhaps he’s lost.”

  Gil started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Bridget, slightly puzzled.

  “I was just remembering that dog you fed for a week when we were kids on that holiday in Cornwall, convinced it was a starving stray.”

  “Well the address on his tag was miles away, how was I to know his owners had just moved and lived just around the corner?!” Bridget said, still obviously embarrassed.

  “I think I’ll take a walk up the lane with him, there’s a few farms up there and I bet he’s from one of them. Come on boy,” said Gil as he walked around the side of the house in the direction of the lane. The dog bounded ahead of him, clearly delighted at the thought of a walk with his new “master”.

  “Bring him back if you don’t find out where he lives,” Bridget shouted after him, “there’s a couple of cold sausages in the fridge he can have if he’s hungry.”

  Gil returned alone no more than ten minutes later. “What did I tell you, he lives at the next farm along. As I got near the gate, there was a kid playing outside and he called him, his name’s Sultan by the way, the dog I mean, not the kid, and the ungrateful mutt ran towards him without even giving me a thank you for taking him home!”

  “Well at least we know he’s not a stray,” said Bridget, with the tiniest hint of disappointment in her voice. “Come on, we’d better be getting ready, we don’t want to be late for dinner,” she said, glancing down at her watch.

  *

  Gil and Bridget crossed the square to the terrace in front of the Mirabeau, hoping that the remaining empty table was theirs. They squeezed past a large table, where it seemed a dozen or so of their fellow countrymen and women were already making the most of the local wine. Nick, who thrived on a captive audience, was in full flow.

  “So my dad says to my mum, ‘Look Rita, if the boy wants to stay on in France for the rest of the summer, why should we stand in his way, there’s plenty of time for him to settle down.’ He’s a great bloke my dad, I think he regrets not travelling more when he was young so he’s more than happy to see me doing what he never got the chance to do.”

  “So you’ll be here for a bit longer then?” said one of the party eagerly, a rather spotty teenage girl who had obviously fallen for Nick’s charms.

  “Yes, until the autumn at least but then me and my girlfriend are off travelling around the far east, if I can persuade my old man to stump up that is,” said Nick, oblivious to the heart he had just broken.

  Gil and Bridget sat down and had no more than two minutes to wait until Pete appeared with the menus.

  “G’day possums! How are we on this beaute of a day, looking forward to some delicious tucker I hope?”

  Gil and Bridget grimaced to each other, but there was no doubting the Australian’s enthusiasm for his food and genuine warmth for his customers.

  “We’re fine thanks, but it’s been a tad too hot for us today, we’re still struggling to get used to this heat,” said Gil.

  “If you think this is hot, you should go to Alice, Alice Springs that is, I used to run a little bar there and in December and January it was often over 45 degrees, got to 50 sometimes, the place almost melted.”

  “I think we’ll stick with France then,” said Bridget, almost wilting at the thought.

  “Well I’ll leave you good people with the menus for a few minutes, can I get you your usual beer Gil?” Gil nodded.

  “Nothing for me thanks,” said Bridget.

  “I can’t make my mind up,” said Bridget, “the salmon looks nice but so does the duck.”

  “Well I’m going to have the steak-frites,” said Gil. “I don’t think I’ll bother with a starter.”

  “Me neither, but if you’re going to have the steak, I’ll have the duck, then we can share a bottle of red,” said Bridget.

  When Pete returned to the table with Gil’s beer, he knelt down beside the table, beckoning them to move closer.

  “I nearly forgot,” he whispered, glancing anxiously to his left and right. “We’ve heard they’ve found the gun that shot Bernard Sellier, a hunting rifle apparently, right there in the bushes near to where he was lying, you wonder why they didn’t find it sooner.”

  “How did you find out?” asked Gil.

  “Well there was a lot of activity this morning at the back of the Mairie and then a couple of the Gendarmes who come here regularly for lunch popped in and told me, they told me to keep it to myself mind you, so I’ve not told a soul,” he said, not realising what he had just said.

  “Do they know who the rifle belongs to?” asked Bridget. “I mean, it should be fairly easy to find out.”

  “Not as easy as you’d think,” Pete replied. “Half the village probably owns a hunting rifle, I’ve even got one myself somewhere. It’s not like the UK, the French aren’t as squeamish as you Brits, most people in the countryside shoot for the pot.”

  “Well at least the gun’s off the street, so that’s a good thing,” said Bridget, clearly relieved. “I wonder if there’s any prints on it, but maybe the killer wore gloves,” she went on.

  “You’ve been reading too many detective stories haven’t you!” said Pete. “But it’s a good point, I’ll keep my ears to the ground, so watch this space!”

  “I really hope that finding the gun means they’re close to catching the killer,” said Bridget as she sipped her coffee after their meal.

  “Let’s just hope there were some prints on it otherwise I don’t see how it’ll help,” said Gil, “if what Pete says about half the village owning a gun is true.”

  “You’re bound to need a licence to own a rifle though, so why don’t the police just speak to everyone registered as owning one and ask to see it, if they can’t produce it then they should be taken in for questioning,” said Bridget.

  “That’s a very good point Miss Marple,” said Gil, “but I expect the police have thought of that,” said Gil, calling for the bill.

  Chapter Twelve

  The following day dawned slightly overcast which gave Bridget the perfect excuse to spend the morning baking.

  “I’ll need to pop into the village to get some eggs for the cakes I promised to make for tea at Helen’s this afternoon,” Bridget said to Gil the following morning. “Do you want to come?”

  “No thanks, I want to have a look at the car, I think the tracking’s out a bit, probably that pothole I hit on the road up to the lake. I’m going to take it out for a bit of a spin to see if I need to get it to a garage. You go on, I’ll see you later.”

  Bridget headed for the square and for Best of British where she found both Tony and Heather behind the counter.

  “I’d like a dozen organic eggs please and do you have any food colouring?” Bridget said after exchanging pleasantries. “I need red and blue.”

  “We’ve certainly got the eggs but I’ll need to check in the stockroom for the food colouring,” said Tony.

  “Are you having a baking day today?” Heather asked as she put two boxes of eggs on the counter.

  “Just a morning, Doug and Helen have invited us for afternoon tea and I promised I would make some cakes,” said Bridget, suddenly hoping she hadn’t put her foot in it by mentioning a social occasion that Tony and Heather probably hadn’t been invited to.

  “Sounds lovely,” Heather went on, “I wish we had time to stop for afternoon tea now and again.”

  Bridget wasn’t sure if Heather’s response made her feel any better or not.

  “Yes, Gil and I are really looking forward to it, especially as Helen has invited her neighbour, Bé
atrice Blanchard. I’m looking forward to hearing her tales of village life in the old days.”

  “Old Béatrice doesn’t give much away, especially if she doesn’t take to you,” said Heather, “so don’t raise your hopes too much.”

  “Well we’ll just have to make sure she does, won’t we?!” said Bridget.

  Tony returned with two bottles of food colouring. “Here we are, I knew we had some somewhere, are you baking today?”

  Heather repeated the story of Gil and Bridget’s invitation to tea. Seeing Tony’s face fall as Heather’s had Bridget said, “I tell you what, I’ll make some extra cakes for you, is there anywhere I can leave them if you’re not back by the time we set off?”

  “That would be lovely, thank you Bridget, we’ll probably be here until gone eight tonight but there’s a window open in the kitchen so you can pop them through there. Have a good time won’t you!”

  *

  Gil rang Doug and Helen’s doorbell at 3.50 precisely.

  “I’m feeling a bit nervous about meeting Béatrice Blanchard now, after what Heather said about her. I hope she doesn’t turn out to be an old dragon!” said Bridget.

  Doug answered the door with his usual cheery greeting.

  “Come on through, Helen’s just popped next door to collect Béatrice, she’s a little bit unsteady on her feet these days and needs a helping hand.”

  They followed Doug through the house to the now familiar garden at the back, except that this time a yellow and white striped awning had been pulled out several metres from the back of the house so that almost the whole of the terrace was in the shade.

  “Béatrice doesn’t like the hot sun,” said Doug, seeing Bridget glance at the awning.

  “I don’t blame her, it is very hot again now isn’t it, after the cloudy start?” said Bridge, appreciating the extra shade herself. “Maybe you’d better put these in the fridge until later,” she went on, handing Doug the box of cakes.

  He couldn’t resist taking a peek. “These look scrummy, I haven’t had cupcakes since I was a kid, mine’s the chocolate one!”

  Moments later Bridget looked up to see Helen step through the French doors with a visibly frail old woman on her left arm. Since Helen had first mentioned her, Bridget had been dying to meet Béatrice and now, here she was, just a few feet away. As Helen brought her nearer, Doug stood up so that he and Helen could steer their elderly guest into a comfortable chair next to Gil.

  “She doesn’t speak a word of English,” whispered Doug to Gil, “so you’ll have to get Helen to translate.”

  “Béatrice, allow me to introduce our very good friends from England, Gil and Bridget Honeyman,” Helen said loudly in French.

  Gil and Bridget stood up and shook the old woman’s deeply veined and wrinkled right hand.

  “Enchantée Madame, enchantée Monsieur,” said Béatrice, in a voice that was barely more than a whisper.

  Gil and Bridget each returned the greeting in French.

  Béatrice Blanchard was a tiny wisp of a woman who looked as if the gentlest summer breeze could blow her over. Her thin face was as wrinkled as her hands and what was left of her grey hair was piled up into a bun at the back of her head, giving her an almost skeletal appearance. Bridget was surprised to notice the absence of any glasses, which gave her an unimpeded view of the sharp, piercing blue eyes of the French woman who stared back at her. Despite the heat, Béatrice was dressed in a thick, high necked black dress with a grey cardigan over the top, a double strand of long black beads hung from her thin neck. She wore thick woollen black stockings, her tiny feet encased in flat, black, lace-up shoes. She looks like someone out of an old black and white photograph Bridget thought to herself, but I bet those eyes don’t miss a thing.

  Béatrice leaned towards Helen slightly and spoke in a voice that was almost inaudible to the others sitting around the table. Helen smiled and answered Béatrice who said something further before turning towards Gil and Bridget.

  “She wanted to know how long you two have been married so I explained that you are brother and sister, not husband and wife. She told me that you had better hurry up if you want to find love before you get too old!” Helen giggled.

  This wasn’t the first time that strangers had mistaken Gil and Bridget for a married couple. Bridget’s usual, now well-rehearsed, response to comments on their single status was that they were perfectly happy as they were, thank you very much. However, not wishing to sound ungrateful for Béatrice’s concern, she instructed Helen to say, “You are quite right, we will do our best to follow your kind advice.”

  “I think it’s time for tea,” said Doug, jumping up and rubbing his hands together. “I can’t bear the thought of those cakes sitting uneaten in the fridge any longer! You’d better stay here Helen, to translate, you understand Béatrice better than me. I’ll bring everything out.”

  “Will Max and Genevieve be joining us?” Bridget asked Helen.

  “No not today, they’ve gone to see Genni’s grandmother again. Since they’re both going to be very busy at work over the next few months, as are Genni’s parents at the restaurant, so they thought they would fit in another visit while they’re here.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of them, I’m sure it will be much appreciated,” said Bridget.

  While they waited for Doug, conversation turned to small talk about England, the weather and the beautiful garden that Helen had created.

  “Béatrice loves flowers,” said Helen, “so I make sure she has a fresh vase full every week.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Bridget, “she’s lucky to have such thoughtful neighbours.”

  “She helped us so much when we first arrived, she was kindness itself, so it’s the least we can do,” Helen replied.

  “Tea’s up!” said Doug, as he returned from the kitchen and set down a huge tray on the middle of the table. On the bottom tier of a cake stand there were tiny, crust-less triangular sandwiches filled with a choice of smoked salmon, chicken or egg and cress. On the middle tier, there were slices of buttered malt loaf, which Helen had made, and on the top tier, an assortment of Bridget’s delicious looking cupcakes. There were chocolate ones topped with delicate tiny pink rosebuds, zesty lemon ones covered in yellow and white daisies, white chocolate ones covered with glittery silver sprinkles and dainty heart shaped ones, covered in red, white and blue stars, “The colours of both the British and French flags,” Bridget had explained. Helen put two of each type of sandwich on to Béatrice’s plate while everyone else was invited to help themselves. Gil took Helen at her word and piled four of each onto his white bone china plate.

  “Gil, there are others you know!” said Bridget in horror.

  “Don’t worry,” said Helen, “there are plenty more inside!”

  Silence reigned while everyone tucked in heartily.

  “She might be old but she’s still got quite an appetite,” Gil whispered to Bridget as Béatrice motioned to Helen to put a third cupcake on her plate

  “Shh, she might hear you!” said Bridget.

  As Doug cleared away after they had all eaten their fill, Béatrice sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. Bridget mouthed, “Is she going to sleep?” but Helen shook her head.

  “Did you enjoy your tea Béatrice?” Helen asked.

  Her reply of, “Delicieux, merci bien,” needed no translation.

  Bridget decided that she could wait no longer to start up conversation with Béatrice and said to Helen, “Could you ask her how long she’s lived in the village?” Bridget knew what the answer would be but thought it was a safe opening gambit.

  “All my life,” came the somewhat predictable that Bridget had been expecting.

  “Could you ask her if she’s seen many changes in that time Helen?”

  “Many, some good, some bad,” came the frustratingly unenlightening response, via Helen.

  Everyone’s right, she really doesn’t give much away, Bridget thought to herself, wondering if she dare a
sk a more direct question. Gil sat forward in his chair, sensing that his sister was gearing herself up for the question she had been dying to ask.

  “Helen, could you ask Béatrice what she thinks about the murder of Bernard Sellier?”

  “I’ll have a go,” said Helen, “but don’t be surprised if she’s non-committal.”

  Béatrice thought for a moment and then replied quietly to Helen’s question.

  “Hmm, I’m not sure what to make of that. She said, ‘As you sow, so you shall reap,’” Helen replied, but was interrupted by some more words from Béatrice. “I’m not quite sure I understood all of that either but I think she’s saying something like, ‘Old sins cast long shadows,’, but I could be wrong,” said Helen.

  “That’s rather enigmatic, isn’t it, do you know what she’s referring to?” Gil asked.

  “I’ll see if she’ll explain a bit more,” said Helen, who was now intrigued by her neighbour’s words herself.

  “What do you mean by that Béatrice?”

  The old woman shook her head and closed her eyes for what seemed like an eternity to her now enthralled audience. But just as everyone thought that she was not going to be drawn any further, she sat up and beckoned Helen to move even closer.

  The suspense for the others was unbearable as Béatrice spoke quietly to Helen, sometimes shaking her head, gesturing with her hands or looking upwards to the heavens. Bridget, perched on the edge of her seat, couldn’t take her eyes off the old woman’s face and quietly cursed herself for not carrying on with French lessons. After what seemed another eternity, Helen leaned over and put her hand on Béatrice’s and seemed to be uttering soothing words.

  “What did she say?” gasped Bridget, almost unable to breathe.

  “She wasn’t very clear, I’m not sure if her memory is fading her or if she knows more than she’s willing to let on,” said Helen to a visibly disappointed Bridget. “But she did make it clear that she was no friend of Bernard Sellier and that he’s always been, ‘a bad lot’.” Helen went on, “She said that she’s annoyed with herself that her memory is so bad and she wishes that she could remember more details.”