Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft (4 page)

She was wearing a loose-fitting jump suit. Dark green, the colour of her eyes. She might have been a garage mechanic for all it did for her figure, but as she leaned forward he was very conscious that what was underneath was the whole person and nothing but the person. Only someone confident enough to know the effect that would have could have got away with wearing it. Or perhaps she didn’t care.

‘Well, do I pass?’

He came down to earth with a jerk. ‘I’m sorry. To be truthful, it is very rude of me, I know … but I was wondering what you do for a living.’

‘And?’

‘You don’t look as though you are on holiday and you are not a housewife. At least, you do not drive like one.’

‘You can tell a housewife by the way she drives?’ She was mocking him, and yet it was done with good humour.

‘Not exactly. But it is a process of elimination.’ He felt he might be on dangerous ground. ‘Housewives who own a BMW 325i are in the minority. If it is their husband’s car, then they usually drive with care – they are frightened of scratching it.’

‘Being married doesn’t necessarily turn you into a housewife, nor does it stop you doing something you enjoy doing well.’

Outside La Turballe they met a long line of traffic. She overtook two cars quickly and easily, then slipped into a gap behind a third.

‘You are also good at making decisions.’

‘Housewives do not make decisions?’ Again it was said with a half smile.

‘Constantly. Thousands every day. But on the whole they are minor ones. They are not usually a matter of life and death …’

He broke off, allowing her to concentrate as she pulled out to overtake the car in front. They passed a rose-filled garden, then hedgerows with occasional patches of yellow gorse. The countryside was in full bloom. He could see giant clover and daisies everywhere. Fields of camomile bordered the road.

‘That is very perspicacious of you.’ She laughed. ‘You will never guess.’

It was a challenge he found hard to resist. Suddenly, it was like playing a television game. It gave him the freedom to make wild statements. He almost asked to see her ‘mime’.

‘If I found myself in a tight corner I wouldn’t mind having you beside me and I wouldn’t worry about you as I might about others.’

‘What a strange thing to say. Are you often in a tight corner?’

‘Occasionally. I used to be at one time.’

It was her turn to look intrigued. She stole a quick sideways glance as they dropped in behind another lorry.

‘Tell me more.’

He avoided the question. ‘I couldn’t help noticing your hands just now. They are well cared for, and yet they are also very strong. You also, if I may say so, have an extremely good figure. For what you do you must keep very fit, or vice versa.’

‘That is true.’

‘Fit and strong, so you must do it regularly.’

‘That is also true.’

‘And you are happy in your work?’

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, ‘Very. It is my life. I am lucky. To be fit and well and to have work that also makes you happy is a great blessing. I couldn’t wish for more.’

That, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, is not the total and absolute truth. There are other things you wish for. He wondered what they were.

‘And you? Are you happy in
your
work?’

‘Very.’ A quarter of an hour before he wouldn’t have said that. A quarter of an hour ago, standing in the rain beside his overturned car, he had been far from happy. ‘I couldn’t wish for more either.’

‘I think perhaps you enjoy food. There is a fresh stain on your tie, and you have – please forgive me …’ for the first time she sounded embarrassed, unsure of herself. ‘You have been eating garlic recently.’

He was about to deny it. Nothing he’d eaten for
déjeuner
had contained a scrap of garlic. Then he remembered that Doucette had given him a plate of
saucisson
for breakfast on account of the journey. Between them, he and Pommes Frites had eaten the lot.

She was one up. ‘Yes, I do like food. That is
my
life.’

‘And that puts you in danger?’

Before he had time to answer, a signpost for Port St. Augustin came into view. She flicked the indicator and pulled over to the left to enter an intersection. They waited for traffic coming the other way to pass.

‘Sometimes. It is a throwback from my previous work. If it is true that some people tend to attract problems, then I tend to attract “situations”. Or perhaps I look for them.’ He rarely brought it into conversation, preferring to remain anonymous, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he was saying it now. ‘For many years I was with the Paris
Sûreté.
’

She clicked her fingers. ‘Of course, I knew I had seen you
somewhere before. Or rather, not you, your picture. You have an unusual name.’

‘Pamplemousse. I was sometimes in the
journaux
.’ That was an understatement. There had been a time when, for one reason or another, it felt as though he was never out of them. Once, after being involved in a notorious case which had hit the headlines, he’d even had a feature article written about him in
Paris Match.
It had pursued him for years.

Seeing a gap in the traffic, she glanced quickly in both directions before accelerating off the main road.

He was suddenly conscious of a change in the atmosphere. It was as though a shutter had come down. She seemed nervous and kept looking in the mirror. He wondered if she had noticed something. On the pretext of seeing how Pommes Frites was getting on he turned round in his seat and took a quick look out of the back window. A dark blue van was just turning off the main road. It was too far away to identify, but the girl evidently saw it too, for he felt her accelerate and they took the next corner at a speed which startled him.

Unobtrusively, he slid his hand down and tightened his safety belt. But he needn’t have worried. His companion was much too busy with her own thoughts to notice. The earthy, almost animal-like quality he had noticed earlier was now even more apparent. She was like a deer on the run. Tense, alert …

‘
Alors
!’ As they reached the outskirts of Port St. Augustin he glimpsed a row of posters and the penny dropped.

‘You are with a circus!’

She nodded. He relaxed again. Now that he knew, it all fell into place. Her name was Yasmin. The first poster had shown her dressed in a black jacket and fishnet tights. She was holding a top hat in one hand while she kept a group of lions at bay with a whip. In the second she had been flying through the air high above the ring holding on to a trapeze by one foot. They were both artist’s impressions, and no doubt he’d given full rein to his imagination, but the likeness was there.
She must be doing well to be driving a nearly new BMW. It was intriguing. He had never met a circus artist before. If the advertisements were anything to go by, no wonder she oozed confidence.

‘You are a girl of many parts.’

She shrugged. ‘In a small travelling circus like ours you have to be. We all do many things.’ For a moment she relaxed and became animated again.

‘I would like to come and see you.’

By now they were almost in the middle of the town. The harbour lay to the right and through an alleyway he caught a glimpse of the sea.

‘That would be nice. Look …’ She pulled up sharply. ‘I am afraid I shan’t be able to take you to your hotel after all. I must drop you here.’

‘
D’accord
. It was kind of you to bring us this far.’ He wanted to say more, but for the first time on the journey he felt tongue-tied.

‘Please hurry.’ She stared back the way they had come and he saw an expression almost of fear in her eyes. She suddenly looked very small and vulnerable.

‘Of course.’ He was out of the car in a flash. Ever alert to his master’s wishes, Pommes Frites followed suit.

Monsieur Pamplemousse paused as he shut the door. ‘Thank you once again. If I can be of any help, at any time, I shall be at the Ty Coz. You know my name. You can leave a message.’

‘Thank you.’ She sounded genuinely grateful and he wondered if she would indeed take up the offer.

He hardly had time to shut the boot before she was on her way again. The BMW disappeared round the next corner, towards the harbour, just as the van came into view. As it slowed to negotiate the intersection he caught a glimpse of the driver. Around his neck was a gold cross on a chain. Their eyes met for a brief second and Pamplemousse knew he had seen him somewhere before. The van was on hire. It was a Renault with a local registration. Taking out his notebook he
flipped through the pages and added its number to the day’s notes. It might be worth a telephone call when he got to the hotel.

The garage next to the
Mairie
was closed, but if his memory served him right there used to be one near the harbour which refuelled the fishermen’s boats as well. In those days he hadn’t owned a car. He and Doucette had taken the train to St. Nazaire and then caught the
autobus
. It had been a big adventure. He looked at his watch again. It was twenty to seven, but the garage might still be open. It was worth a try.

Feeling out of place in his Paris suit, Monsieur Pamplemousse gathered up the luggage and set off, his thoughts still very much on the girl. Reminders of her were pasted up everywhere, on walls and telegraph poles.

Following on behind, Pommes Frites wore his resigned expression. He knew the signs. His master was smitten.

When they reached the harbour it became clear that all the action was at the other end of the promenade. The circus was located on a patch of scrubland a little way back from the beach. The ‘big top’, shielded from the prevailing wind by a group of caravans and lorries, was festooned with coloured lights. A low-pitched continuous grinding sound interspersed with the spasmodic crack of rifle-fire could be heard from the fairground alongside it. He wondered how many other parts the girl played. Perhaps even now she was already drumming up custom for the hoop-la. It was a hard life.

The Quai Jules Verne was as he remembered it, except it was now called Quai Général de Gaulle. In fairness, the latter had a better claim. Jules Verne had only once in his life been to Port St. Augustin, and that only on a school outing from his home town of Nantes.

The old cobbled street leading back to the centre of town now had a ‘No Entry’ sign. It had been turned into a shopping precinct. The cobbles had been re-laid and everywhere there were concrete tubs filled with flowers. It was lined on either side with expensive-looking boutiques displaying the
latest Paris fashions. There was even a bookshop.

Benches were dotted along the promenade, sandwiched between waste bins whose black plastic liners peeped out from beneath garish orange lids.

Three nuns came towards him. It was a good omen. To meet one or more was supposed to bring good fortune, provided you didn’t see their backs. Three was especially lucky. It would make up for the earlier episode. He let them go past.

Much to his relief, the garage was still there. And it was open. Apart from a row of modern pumps, it had hardly changed. In the old days they had been worked by hand.

‘
Pas de problème, Monsieur.
’ The owner seemed only too pleased at the prospect of an evening job outside the town. He would finish what he was doing – ten minutes at the most – then he would take
Monsieur
to his hotel, go and collect the car before it got dark and deliver it later that night. Yes, he had heard good reports of the Ty Coz, but it was not for local people. It was for the tourists.

Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to stroll along to the end of the promenade in order to have a quick look at the circus, but he decided instead to spend the time looking round the tiny port. Tomorrow evening would be soon enough.

A new car-park had been built and was chock-a-block. There were also many more yachts in the harbour than he remembered, the smaller ones moving gently on the swell from the incoming tide. In the old days it had been full of fishing boats. The local florist must do well. The larger the yacht, the bigger the investment in flowers. Some of them looked too immaculate and lived-in ever to put to sea.

The waitresses in the Hôtel du Port were getting ready for dinner, their starched
coiffes
bobbing up and down as they bent over the tables. There would probably be a rush of early diners wanting to go to the circus afterwards. The Hôtel now boasted an enormous electrically operated blind to protect those facing westward from the setting sun. The bathrooms
would have expensive tiles and the latest plumbing. At least the dark, solid, old-fashioned Breton furniture was still there. It was probably too heavy to move and no one else would want it anyway. It summed up modern France in a way. One foot firmly planted in the twenty-first century, the other deeply rooted in the past. In Paris uniformed men riding
Caninettes
searched the pavements for evidence of canine misdemeanours – Pommes Frites led a hunted life these days: he could hardly call his
merde
his own – while their colleagues looking after the gutters still used rolls of old carpet tied up with string to divert the water which gushed down every day from the heights of Montmartre, for the very simple reason that no one had come up with a better idea. It was the same here. The old public wash-house was still intact and looked well used, but the
pissotière
had been replaced by a concrete and steel
Sanisette.
Its predecessor had smelled to high heaven in August – worse than the fish market – but at least it had been free. Not that financial considerations seemed to make any difference these days. As he strolled past it a man carrying a small brown valise slipped a coin in the slot and stood waiting. There was a brief snatch of music as the door slid open and then closed behind him. Everything was done to music these days. Even
Le Guide
had been forced to introduce a symbol for piped music in restaurants, a loudspeaker rampant.

Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly paused in his musings, hardly able to believe his eyes. On one of the benches further along the promenade, deeply immersed in a
journal,
sat a familiar figure. It hardly seemed possible, and yet, come to think of it, why not? Brittany was very much a home from home for lots of English families, some of whom took their holidays there year after year. It had always been that way. He well remembered their strange habit of marking the level of wine left in the bottle before they went upstairs to bed at night. He’d always thought of it as ‘the English habit’, although he’d since learnt it was far from typical.