Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat (9 page)

‘Oh, my!’

Hearing a gasp he turned and saw Abeille gazing back at him with a finger in her mouth, the picture of innocence.

‘Silly me! I guess my hand must have slipped.’

‘
Sacrebleu!
’

Climbing on to the bed, Monsieur Pamplemousse poked his head out through the porthole as far as it would go.

‘
C’est impossible!
’

They were passing slowly through a wooded section of the canal and Abeille’s garments were clearly visible some twenty or thirty metres away, impaled on the branches of an overhanging tree, like someone’s washing hanging out to dry or, in this case, get wetter still.

‘
Nom d’un nom!
’

Abeille paused in her drying. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’ she asked.

‘I am afraid,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘your négligée is lost beyond recall.’

‘I can recall it,’ said Abeille firmly. ‘So will JayCee. It’s Arnold Scaasi and he picked up the bill!’

Tossing the towel to one side, she climbed onto the bed. ‘You’ll just have to get hold of something to replace it, won’t you?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed gloomily out of the porthole. Outward signs of civilisation in any shape or form were conspicuous by their absence. Neither Yves St Laurent, nor any of his colleagues in the rue Matignon, had seen fit to open up a boutique on the banks of the Canal de Bourgogne, and he could hardly blame them. Trade would not be brisk at any time of the year.

‘You may have to wait a little while,’ he said.

‘I’m not going any place.’ Abeille lay back and adopted a cycling on the back position. ‘How about you?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at her and then at Pommes Frites. Clutching his forehead, he realised his hand was trembling. Dressing as quickly as possible, he placed himself strategically between the bed and the door.

‘If you mean what I think you mean, I’m afraid that is not possible.’

‘Not possible?’ Abeille free-wheeled for a moment.

‘I have given my word,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘You’ve done what?’

‘I have given my word,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse virtuously. ‘As a Frenchman.’

Abeille lay back and began pedalling again. ‘That’s all right, then.
Pas de problème
as you folks over here say.’

‘You do not understand. I do not wish to sound like a lecturer, but …’

‘What time is it?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. ‘It is almost ten o’clock.’ Had anyone suggested to him over breakfast that before an hour had passed he would find himself caught between a bloodhound stuck in a porthole and a naked female doing her
bicyclette
exercises on his bed, he would have laughed in their face.

Abeille sat bolt upright. ‘Jesus, the lecture! I forgot to tell you. They’ve brought it forward to this morning because of the weather. I saw a notice on the way up.’

Busy with his own thoughts, Monsieur Pamplemousse absorbed the information without totally registering the implications.

‘Will you be giving it in the lounge,’ asked Abeille, taking up her cycling position again, ‘or shall we invite them all down here?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse turned to the wardrobe. ‘You are welcome to borrow one of my suits.’

‘And have JayCee catch me in it?’

It was a compelling argument.

‘I will be back as soon as I possibly can,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse unhappily. ‘Right?’

‘Right!’ Abeille resumed her pedalling. ‘Have a nice day!’

‘Hands up,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘all those who suffer from gridlock problems in their cellar.’

Twelve hands shot up. Colonel Massingham bestowed on him a look of contempt. There was one in every class.

‘Badly?’ enquired Monsieur Pamplemousse of the others.

‘Like there was no tomorrow,’ said one of their number.

‘I have my pre-phyloxera Bordeaux mixed in with my ’85s.’ The speaker looked as though he couldn’t be more than thirty. It was always sobering when tragedy struck the young.

Monsieur Pamplemousse waited patiently while unfamiliar phrases like ‘capacity management’, ‘distressed produce’ and ‘non-viable situation’ were bandied about.

He gazed out of the window in search of inspiration. The sycamore trees lining the banks of the Canal de Bourgogne were laden with mistletoe. It looked as though Burgundy might be in for a hard winter. Early frosts following hard on the rain would be bad news; a repeat of the three weeks of torrential rain and hailstorms in the summer of ’83 which had caused widespread rot. Beyond the trees, lights from a solitary house stood out like a beacon in the gloom. A torrent of brown water raced past the house down a narrow lane, disgorging into a drainage ditch running parallel to the canal. Further along the bank a man in oilskins was attending to a flood gate. A small cabin cruiser went slowly past in the opposite direction. The man at the wheel waved. Small white faces were pressed against the cabin windows.

Pencils poised, his audience awaited the pearls of wisdom for which, he reflected, they had doubtless paid good money.

‘I can tell you a worse problem,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In all the villages and towns around here everyone has their own private store of wine. If this rain keeps on their cellars will, in time, become flooded.’

Almost beginning to enjoy himself, he pointed to a man in the back row.

‘What happens then?’

‘Sir, I guess they’ll have to man the pumps – get going with the squeegees and start mopping up.’

‘They could call out the fire brigade,’ suggested another.

‘Sir. How about holding underwater parties?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse waited for the hubbub to die down as others joined in the chorus of ideas.

‘The worst problem of all,’ he continued, ‘is the fact that inevitably wine labels will become detached. Until the bottles are opened, positive identification will be impossible.’

Gloom settled over the assembly as the full magnitude of the disaster became apparent.

‘They’re going to be saddled with a heck of a lot of blind tastings,’ remarked a man in the front row.

‘
Exactement!
’

‘Looking on the bright side,’ Colonel Massingham rose to his feet, ‘does it not also suggest a simple answer to the problem we are meant to be discussing. That of gridlock. Gridlock in cities only arises because a large number of people all want to go in different directions at the same time. Gridlock in the cellar arises out of a desire by many people for neatness – putting a case of twelve bottles of wine into a single row – either vertically or horizontally. Surely, in these days of computerisation that is an unnecessary constriction …’

While Colonel Massingham was talking, Monsieur Pamplemousse allowed his attention to wander. There would be no stopping the Colonel once he got the bit between his teeth.

Martin hurried through the saloon on his way forward. Misreading the situation, he raised his eyebrows sympathetically. Monsieur Pamplemousse held his hands apart, palm uppermost, with an air of resignation, although in fact he was only too happy to opt out of his responsibilities.

‘… an elegant solution might be to devise a system – much as they do in theatres – where letters of the alphabet going in one direction are combined with seat numbers running at right angles. Provided the entries on the computer are kept up to date, individual bottles can be placed anywhere you like in the system and committed to the computer’s memory. It is only a matter of calling them up when necessary …’

Sensing a change in the sound of the engine, Monsieur Pamplemousse realised
Le Creuset
was about to enter another lock. He suddenly remembered Pommes Frites.

‘… mind if I use your blackboard, old boy?’

‘
Avec plaisir.
’ Monsieur Pamplemousse bowed to Colonel Massingham, converting his negative response to Martin into a more expansive gesture of welcome.

Taking advantage of the diversion, he slipped out through the door of the saloon onto the deck and made his way towards the front of the vessel. He was just in time, for
Le Creuset
was already nosing its way gently towards the gates at the far end of
the lock. As the inside of the saloon behind him grew dark someone switched on a spotlight over the blackboard.

Martin held up his hand to signal stop – from his position behind the galley it was impossible for Sven to see the prow. Taking advantage of the flurry of activity, Monsieur Pamplemousse leant over the side of the rail. He breathed a sigh of relief. The rounded granite corner at the entrance to the lock, worn smooth by countless encounters over the years with other, less well handled craft, was achieving what human hands had earlier failed to do. Slowly and inexorably, as
Le Creuset
pulled against the mooring rope already wound in a slip knot round a bollard, the stern swung back against the wall of the lock and acted as a giant ram. It was only a matter of moments before the inevitable happened and Pommes Frites disappeared into the bowels of the barge.

Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed himself, offering up a silent prayer of thanks on behalf of his friend. What with one thing and another Saint Francis, patron saint of
chiens
, must be having a busy morning.

He glanced back towards the saloon. Colonel Massingham was in his element, and for the time being at least all eyes were on the blackboard as he expounded at length on his theory.

Making his way down the stairs and along the companionway on the lower deck, Monsieur
Pamplemousse had almost reached his quarters when he noticed the door to the adjoining cabin was slightly ajar. He paused as a wild thought entered his mind. Had the occupant been upstairs? He couldn’t remember. There was one sure way to find out.

He gave the door a gentle tap. It moved slightly, but otherwise there was no noticeable response.

Glancing quickly over his shoulder to make sure no one else was around, he gave a push. The door swung open freely to his touch. The cabin was in darkness. The curtains over both portholes were tightly drawn. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him with his foot. As he turned and felt for the light switch he experienced a sharp pain in his ear, almost as though the lobe had been gripped by a pair of pincers. Instinctively reaching up to brush away what he assumed was an insect, he nearly jumped out of his skin as his hand made contact with human flesh and he felt a tongue, moist and probing, enter his right auricle.

Arms encircled him, holding him tightly in their grasp. Momentarily caught off balance, he found himself being half carried, half dragged across the room. It crossed his mind to wonder fleetingly if he had returned to his own cabin by mistake; or whether he was caught up in some wild dream. But it was all too real; he could hear the sound of rushing water outside as the lock began to fill. Toppling forwards
out of control, he overbalanced and in reaching out to save himself encountered a pearl necklace.

Hands reached out and clasped his, tearing them away and forcing them remorselessly downwards on a slow and undulating journey until, accompanied by a succession of moans and groans of ecstasy, they reached their destination. Having lingered there for a short but undeniably pleasurable while, they were led onwards yet again, between silk and flesh until the two parted company and the former went its separate way.

The same guiding hands, having released his, then began expertly searching for other targets nearer home. Closing his eyes, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried thinking of France and of President Chirac, whilst at the same time making a mental note of where the garments had landed. There was a price to pay for everything in this world, and if it were a case of supply and demand, then so be it. Statistically, he would have to accept the possibility of becoming yet another anonymous victim of market forces calling the tune.

‘Ssh!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse managed a strangled cry.

He was in no position to put a finger to his lips, but the cries of ‘Take me! Take me!’ were becoming too loud for comfort. Any moment now someone was going to start banging on the dividing wall; or worse still, from the floor above. He was doing his best.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was all over. His assailant gave a final shudder and pushed him away.

As the figure beneath him rose from the bed it felt as though a sudden hailstorm had broken out. A spattering of tiny round objects landed on his head. Reaching up, he parted the curtains and saw the boat had already reached the top of the lock. Through the gap a
rain-soaked
concrete tortoise stared him in the eye.

He heard a gasp from behind.

‘You!’ The woman stared at him. ‘I thought …’ She shook her head and screwed her eyes tightly shut for a moment or two as she fought to regain her composure.

‘Never mind,’ she said at last.

Given the circumstances, it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse as an odd comment to make. It was the nearest thing he had ever come to being ravished and all she could think of to say was ‘never mind’; a typical piece of British understatement uttered in the clipped tones of her class. As if that made everything all right.

He bent down and under the guise of looking for pearls found what he was looking for. ‘May I? A little souvenir to remember this moment by.’ In the circumstances he felt it was the least she could do.

Mrs Massingham gave a curt nod and held the door open for him, her free hand clutching her naked throat.

A moment later he was outside in the corridor. It was as though the whole thing had never happened.

Staggering on his way, Monsieur Pamplemousse recalled Truffert’s theory that some women went to pieces the moment they got on board ship. According to him, older married ones were often the worst. Truffert should know; he had spent some time in the Merchant Navy, had signed on for three more years when in fact his tour was up. But a canal boat?

Reaching the comparative safety of his own cabin, he was about to enter it when he heard another door being opened at the far end of the companionway. Looking round, he saw Boniface emerge from his quarters. He must have come on board again at the last stop. He had a furtive, tiptoeing air about him, as though about to embark on a pre-arranged rendezvous. Seeing Monsieur Pamplemousse, he gave a start, waved nervously, then disappeared back the way he had come.

Monsieur Pamplemousse put two and two together and made five, deducting two for bad timing.

Abeille was lying on his bed reading a book with a lurid cover. Pommes Frites lay stretched out beside her, licking himself. They both looked up as he entered. If Pommes Frites had suffered at all from his unhappy experience there were no visible signs; rather to the contrary – he looked extremely happy with his lot, as well he might. Certainly his tail was still in good working order.

‘You were quick,’ said Abeille. ‘Don’t say you’ve given the talk already?’

‘I have sub-contracted,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is in good hands. In the meantime I have a little present for you. I am afraid it is somewhat minimal, but it was the best I could do in the circumstances.’

‘Gee!’ Abeille sat up and ran her fingers expertly through the soft silk. ‘Janet Reger.

‘Hey!’ Her expression suddenly changed. ‘They’re still warm!’

Leaping to her feet, she made for the open porthole and threw the garments out. ‘What do you take me for?’ she demanded shrilly. ‘Some kind of hooker? Where did you get them, huh?’

‘Ssh!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked round nervously.

‘Was that you banging away next door?’ demanded Abeille.

‘It was for your sake,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘Please do not think for one moment that I was enjoying myself.’

‘For
my
sake? Hogwash!’ Abeille flung herself back down on the bed and grabbed her book.

Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to point out that she was holding it upside down. ‘Are you cross about something?’ he asked.

‘Me? Cross? No, why should I be?’ She turned a page.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at her indignantly.

Given all he had just been through, it would have been nice to receive a modicum of thanks for his pains rather than brickbats.

‘“Blow, blow thou winter wind, thou art not so unkind as man’s ingratitude”.’

It was one of only two English quotations he could remember from his school days and the first time he’d ever had an opportunity to make use of it.

‘Come again?’ At least it had caught her attention.

‘Shakespeare,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Yeah? I might have known. That’s the kind of thing he would say. I bet he didn’t have to wait around in his birthday suit for hours on end before he thought it up either.’

She was about to turn over another page when they both heard a familiar voice in the corridor outside.

‘Hunn! Is that you, Hunn?’

‘Jesus!’ hissed Abeille. ‘Not again.’

Leaping from the bed she made a wild dash for the safety of the shower. As the light came on and water flowed, Monsieur Pamplemousse began removing his trousers. It was a purely reflex action, the only thing to do in the circumstances, but he was beginning to feel more and more as though he had been caught up in a Feydeau farce from which there was no escape.

Alive to the general panic, Pommes Frites sprang into action on his own account and made a dive for the nearest porthole. His judgement and sense of
timing were as impeccable as ever, but back legs scrabbling for a foothold on the bedhead testified to the fact that the net result was clearly a mirror image of his earlier effort.