That Will Do Nicely (18 page)

"Terrific. In other words we're going to be up all night." She was annoyed.

"It does look that way, but it’s the last time we'll have to travel like this."

"It had better be!" s
he threatened unable to stifle another yawn.

As events turned out, the wait at Arles turned out to be the highlight of the trip from Geneva. When they left the train at Arles, the station porter confirmed that the train to Narbonne did indeed leave at 02.11
a.m. Pascoe also asked where they could rest and if possible, get something to eat. The porter's directions took them a half mile from the station, where they found a café, illuminated by the lights of a nearby boules piste. Although it looked to be in darkness, Pascoe knew that it was probably the shutters that prevented its light escaping. The door yielded to his touch. Inside, there were several tables occupied by as villainous-looking a bunch of men as anyone could wish to find. All conversation stopped; every pair of eyes staring in their direction.

"Bonsoir messieurs." Pascoe uttered to everyone in general and as if by magic, the chatter started again. The barman, who looked mean enough to take on all his customers single-han
ded, wiped his hands on a checkered cloth looped through his belt as he came over to them. Pascoe's 'bonsoir' seemed to be carefully accepted by the man.

"C'est possible manger ici?"
Pascoe asked of the barman, motioning to Sam to sit at the table nearest the bar. The man glanced at his watch.

"C'est
tard," He grumbled, gruffly, complaining about the time.

"Je sais, mais il faut attendre le train a deux heure onze, et ma femme est fatigué et enceinte." At this, the barman's face broke into a smile.

"D'accord monsieur. Felicitations a vous et madame! he said, scurrying off in the direction of the kitchen. He returned with a full tray and placed a litre carafe of coarse red wine, paté, cheese and two baguettes on the table before them. Pascoe thanked him. Sam looked on amazed.

"What the hell did you say to him to get all this? I thought they were going to eat us alive when we came in."

"I told him that we had to wait until two o'clock for the train and that we were tired and hungry and that you were a little bit pregnant."

"Thanks a lot," s
he said, kicking his shin under the table.

"It did the trick didn't it?"

The meal, washed down with the heavy fruity wine of the region, turned out to be a feast. For once, Pascoe did not have to ask whether the camembert was ripe. It was perfection! 

When they had eaten their fill, they went outside and watched the boulistes at work. The floodlights revealed eight men playing. Sam watched carefully, trying to work out how the game was played, but in the end Pascoe had to explain it to her. After they had been watching for 20 minutes or so, a phone call took one of the players away from the game. Pascoe being the only spare man
around was asked to replace him. Sam watched with interest.

First, one of the men threw a little white wooden ball, the 'cochonet' some ten or twelve metres out onto the stony ground, then scribed a half-circle in the dirt, with the toe of his shoe. The man stood behind the mark he had made and crouched down with both knees fully bent. Then carefully cradling the boule in both hands, the man gave it a final wipe with a grubby cloth, sighted along his outstretched right arm,
and then pitched the heavy metal sphere into the air in a high looping trajectory. Sparks flew from a flint as the boule dashed itself on the ground. The spin on the ball brought it to a stop some 20 centimeters from the 'cochonet'. Next was Pascoe's turn. His ball, with less style flew even higher and to the astonishment of the other men, rolled two centimeters closer to the little wooden ball.

"Bravo," came the cry from the others, but Pascoe's glory was short lived, as the next player's ball hit his, full-on, and propelled it out of the piste and even out of the game, leaving itself next to and touching the cochonet. The player
s were expert and even Sam was full of admiration for the way they handled their balls. In the end, honor was done and the game finished with Pascoe buying a round of drinks for all the players, a round which cost him less than 20 francs! They made the 2.11 a.m., train to Narbonne in good time, well fed, pleasantly tired and in high spirits.

They eventually reached Carcassonne at twenty past five on the Saturday morning, after changing trains at Narbonne on the Mediterranean coast. They were exhausted from their near twelve hour journey, and were grateful to find refuge in the station's three star Terminus Hotel. They slept in until two o'clock.

If they had known of the events going on in London, they would probably have derived a little less pleasure in their exploration of the walled mediaeval city of Carcassonne. Ignorance was certainly bliss!

Pascoe's first concern that afternoon had been to find a car in which to continue their travels
; not a hire car, because of the necessary production of a driving license, but something ordinary and second-hand; an 'occasion' as the French described it. They had tried three garages before he found what he was looking for.., a second-hand Citroen deux chevaux. Sam laughed when she saw it and thought he was joking and it wasn't until later, when they were driving into the walled city itself that she began to see its advantages; its roll-back fabric top which gave her a grandstand view as Pascoe drove through the narrow cobbled streets of the city. It was the sort of car you either loved or hated.

The exterior wall of the city was formidable, rising to some 80 feet. Whether the tops of the crenellated walls and watch towers were clad with timber to protect against weather or arrows, Sam could only surmise. Once across the first draw bridge and through the outer
defenses, they were brought to a halt not by some fantastic defensive device, but by an incongruous red traffic light barring the way. The streets were so narrow, as to permit only the width of one car. The streets themselves had hardly changed from mediaeval times... the buildings, though original, were now occupied by souvenir shops. Several hundred yards further on, the narrow street widened out into the cathedral square and they were forced to park their car and continue their exploration on foot.

"Do you like playing the tourist?" Pascoe asked her.

"I like it a hell of a lot better than gallivanting around France on a series of one night stands."

"Well, with luck, we shouldn't have to rush
anymore."

"That'll make a welcome change."

"How old do you think this place is?"

"About the same age as the Tower of London, I suppose." Pascoe burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"Your sense of history, darling. The Tower of London was built by the Normans, after 1066. Carcassonne was an old city then. Most of it dates from the sixth and seventh centuries, and some people believe there are parts which go back to the fourth century. I'll show you the tower where the Inquisition held court."

They spent the whole afternoon exploring the ancient ramparts, Pascoe playing the part of history professor, Sam the willing student. In the evening, they enjoyed a lazy, French-style dinner at a Hotel within the city walls. Afterwards they walked, arm in arm, most of the way around the floodlit city walls, before coaxing the 'deux chevaux' back to their room in the town.

"I hope that today makes up a little for yesterday, Sam."

"Do you know what would make it a perfect day for me?"

"What's that?"

Sam said nothing, but brushed her hand lightly against his thigh.

Farewell Carcassonne

They left Carcassonne early on the Sunday morning. Although the days were beginning to merge into one
another and it was becoming difficult to keep track of the time, Pascoe knew it was Sunday because the hotel had served croissants for breakfast - a luxury reserved for the Sabbath.

They took the D118 road south of the city and headed in the direction of Limoux and Quillan. The journey was a pleasant one, with the spring temperatures already hot enough to be able to have the roof rolled back all the time. The road was pretty, tree lined with plane trees in the French style and it meandered in tandem with the river Aude running alongside it. The further south they headed, the prettier the road became, as they
drove towards the foothills of the Pyrenees. In the 18 odd miles from Carcassonne the landscape changed from gently undulating wooded hillside, to the pine clad escarpments of the foothills. Suddenly, without any warning, they rounded a bend and found themselves in the twin villages of Couiza/Montazels.

Pascoe knew they were near journey's end. The village was unremarkable - in fact, the only curious thing about it was in its twin names, which divided the community on the map of the region in the same way as the river. The west bank of the river was Montazels, the east bank Couiza. Pascoe didn't know why.

He followed the road through the village and headed out in the direction of Quillan, the next large town, some five miles further on but surprised Sam by taking a minor road to the left, just before leaving the precincts of Couiza itself. Sam barely noticed the name on the signpost, but it was enough to set her mind thinking... Rennes-le-Château. Before they had travelled 100 yards the road started climbing dramatically.., the gradient nearly 1 in 6.The few buildings of the village petered out to be replaced by the rough scrub hillside on the right hand side of the car. The road wound on up the hillside, twisting back on itself through several hairpin bends before the gradient finally started to ease. The magnificence of the view increased, the higher they climbed. Across the valley to Sam's left could be seen a ruined castle called Coustaussa at the same height but on the other side of the valley. Five minutes later, the same ruins lay 1,000 feet below them receding in the distance. Sam was aware that the ruins were no longer opposite them, but now lay directly behind them. They had worked their way halfway around the mountain by the time they gained the summit. Pascoe stopped the car on a piece of waste ground which served as a car park for the village and climbed out of the car. With his arm around her shoulders, he walked her to the southernmost edge of the summit.

"Close your eyes," h
e instructed her.

"Why?"

"It’s a surprise!"

Pascoe covered her eyes with his free hand. Slowly he led her to the very edge of the precipice, before taking his hand away.

"You can open them now."

The view was overwhelming. From their location at the top of the mountain they could see clear across to the snow-capped peak of Mount Canigou, 25 miles further south in the Pyrenees, where it pierced the skyline at more than 9,000 feet.

"What do you think?"

"It's beautiful
... it's so beautiful it makes me want to cry."

"But you like it."

"I thought that was pretty obvious."

"I'll show you around." He took her hand and led her away from the edge before answering.

"I came here the first time some four years ago, alone and I was intrigued enough to come back again two years ago by car."

"How did you get here the first time then?"

"By train from Carcassonne to Montazels and then I walked."

"Must have taken you hours."

"A good hour and a half, but as you can see, it was worth it. Let's go and see if the church is open; it’s worth a look."

They walked down the narrow street, lined by ancient crumbling buildings and turned sharply left. The church lay ahead of them. When they reached it, the door was already open. The effigy of a devil, standing inside the door made Sam grip Pascoe's hand tight, but once inside, she was captivated by the strange
overelaborate decoration of the place. They stayed there for some time, neither of them speaking.

"Well, what did you make of it?" Pascoe asked her, as soon as they were outside in the fresh mountain air.

"I've got the strangest feeling I know something about this place. Why should I? I've certainly never been within a thousand miles of it before."

"I'll explain as we go."

They left the village taking same route for the first few hundred yards, but instead of following the road all the way down to the village of Couiza, they turned right at the crossroads a half mile from the summit and followed a much narrower track towards the mountains.

"You'd better start explaining." Sam demanded.

"Just a few more miles. Enjoy the scenery." The further they drove, the more fantastic the view became. They had covered about five miles from the village when the track ended in a farmyard. People came from the farmhouse and outbuildings, wary of the strangers in the car. Suddenly, a shout came from one of the men,

"It's O.K. everyone, it’s Tom Pascoe
, and he's brought someone with him by the look of it."

Pascoe didn't know who was the more surprised, Sam or his friends on the farm. The introductions were made and they were invited into the farmhouse, for tea and roasted chestnuts straight from the open fire. Sam suffered a brief culture shock. Inside the farmhouse, the conditions were
basic; to say the least... the best seats were on the floor and had been taken out of an old car. The ambience however was incredible and the three couples and their children seemed to be completely happy in their isolation. Pascoe explained that they were self-contained on the farm and completely catered for themselves. The surprise was that they were English. What a group of English people were doing farming a rough hillside in the foot-hills of the Pyrenees, Sam could only guess at. Pascoe explained the reasons for his visit.

"I'm looking for some land and farm buildings to buy, in this area." Pascoe announced.

"Why?" asked Terry, the eldest of the farm community.

"I want to hear this too,” added Sam.

"Remember, when I last saw you some two years ago, I mentioned holidays for artists, etc., well the time has come. I want to go ahead and I want to do it in this area. It’s ideal."

"What about the money?" a
sked Terry.

"The money is no longer a problem, is it Sam?"

"You could say that," said Sam.

"Will you help us?" Pascoe asked everybody.

"Sure, what do you want us to do?"

"Keep your ear to the ground for land for sale in the area. You know what I'm looking for, something like this, with beautiful landscapes all around. Preferably with some buildings, but not to worry if there aren't any as we can build from scratch. Discuss it among yourselves. If you like, you can sell me
a plot of land here to build on and I'll finance it completely, but as I know how you like your privacy, I shall understand if you don't want to get involved."

"When do you want to know by?"

"We've got two or three days left. We'll visit you on Wednesday afternoon."

They shook hands and kissed their way around the room before leaving. Everyone came into the farmyard to see them off and wave goodbye.

"I think you've got some explaining to do," said Sam, once they were out-of-sight of the farm.

Pascoe didn't back-track, but again turned sharply to the left when
they left the farmyard. Here the track was even narrower, a lot steeper and deeply rutted from the wheels of previous vehicles. They were soon lost in a fairy tale world of snow-capped mountain peaks and brackish streams, which repeatedly crossed their tracks. Once or twice Sam was scared witless by their sudden descent, as the car seemed to veer out of control towards massive rock outcrops which lay either side of the track, but the little deux-chevaux was built with this sort of terrain in mind and coped easily. Clinging onto the side of the car for dear life, Sam daren't ask any questions until they reached the valley floor where the track joined a metaled road. Pascoe pulled the car onto the verge.

"The next time you take me for a ride like that, Tom bloody Pascoe," she exploded," give me a bloody parachute! Where the hell are we and what are we doing here, miles from anywhere?"

"Alright, I'll try and explain. Technically, we're on the run and we don't know who if anyone is looking for us, but we must assume the worst - that they might be. Therefore, we need a base - somewhere to put down some roots, somewhere of our own to head for if the going gets tough."

"But why here, in France?"

"We haven't broken any laws in France - we're here legitimately. Also, wherever we go we've got to cart all the money around and we'll need to open bank accounts."

"That still doesn't explain this location, we're miles from anywhere. We could be on the other side of the world for all I know. What made you choose this place?"

"Because it is so remote. These mountains have hidden vast secrets and treasures for at least 4,000 years and nobody has done more than accidentally stumble across the traces of them from time to time. Even then, they didn't know what they had found."

"What secrets and treasures?"

"Those of the Merovingians and Visigoths, the Carolingians, Cathars and the Knights Templar."

"And the village with the strange church
?"

"Rennes le Ch
âteau, you probably read the book about 'The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail', or saw the television programs."

"So that's why it seemed familiar. So you're serious about the artists
' holidays and buying an old farm."

"Deadly serious. It would be an ideal way to invest some of the money and it would give us an interest, running the place for that purpose a few months of the year; the rest of the time we could travel and see the world."

"Any other reasons?"

"One very good practical one. It concerns opening a bank account here in France."

"Go on."

"Well we can both open an account here tomorrow, if we wish, but it would be 'une compte étrangère', a foreigner's account with severe restrictions."

"How would we get an ordinary account."

"Ah, for that, you need to own property. If you can produce the deeds to your property, you're entitled to an ordinary account, so I thought if we had to buy, then why not here, where we can make the best use of it."

"I see. You've given it quite some thought. What am I supposed to do?"

"Join the enterprise."

"But all my training has been in computers, what would I know about running a holiday camp?"

"Do you want to be in computers the rest of your life? You certainly won't be content teaching, with all that money burning a hole in your pocket."

"You know, I've never actually thought about what I would do if we pulled it off. I never dared imagine we would. I just shut the thought of failing out of my mind."

"That's understandable, but think about it now. Here, we'll be safe from anyone looking for us, if they ever do. It's beautiful country, full of legend; a great
center for artists with all the beauty around us and a great climate. Even in October, the temperature's still in the seventies."

"It is a little out of the way."

"Sure, but not as remote as you think. We're only about a two hour drive from Toulouse and a two hour flight from Toulouse to London, so we can be back home in less than half a day. Will you think about it?"

"Of course. What d
oes the sign over there, say?" asked Sam, changing the subject and pointing towards the nearby river bank.

"It marks the grotto of the Madelaine."

"What's that exactly?"

"A cave, the other side of the little stream which runs in the gorge over there," said Pascoe, pointing through the trees. "It marks the source of two springs - one contains iron, the other sulphur. They both feed the spa which is where we will spend the night."

"Did you say a spa, like a health spa?"

"Yes, just down the road at Rennes-les-Bains, founded by the Romans. You'll enjoy taking the waters
... I believe they're most refreshing. I'll even scrub your back if you want." Pascoe chuckled to himself as he started the car in the direction of the village.

Although he had no way of knowing how events were progressing in England, Pascoe had planned for the eventual discovery of his fraudulent che
ques and continued to act accordingly. In addition to the general sightseeing that morning he knew he would also have to give the banks their final instructions. So, when he and Sam checked out of the Spa Hotel the next morning, although Sam's interest was captivated solely by the beauty of the locale, he kept an eye open for a post office where he would be able to make the necessary calls. The problem was that international calls from tiny remote villages were sure to be remembered. With this in mind, he turned the deux chevaux in the direction of Perpignan on the Mediterranean coast, where the main post office would meet his needs.