The Bottom Line (21 page)

Throughout the weekend Janine refused to answer questions about where she'd been, what she'd been doing or what her intentions were. Then, on the Sunday evening, after she had undergone the most severe punishment to date, had been thoroughly serviced and soothed, she asked me a question.

‘A couple of weeks ago,' she began.

‘Yes?'

‘You thought quite seriously about punishing me in front of Roland, didn't you?' she asked.

‘Yes,' I admitted. ‘I came quite close to it.'

‘So what stopped you?'

‘There were two reasons,' I told her. ‘Firstly, it would have been very humiliating for you to be stripped naked and spanked in front of someone we were not on intimate terms with. I'm not sure that alone stopped me, though.'

‘So what did stop you?'

‘The knowledge of how embarrassed Roland would have been,' I told her.

This clearly satisfied her and the subject was not broached again, though I did wonder to myself just how Roland would have reacted. She cuddled up to me in bed, departed while I was still asleep and I began my third wifeless week in succession. I was sufficiently presumptuous to assume that Friday would see her ready for me in the car, with another present neatly wrapped and intended for use that weekend.

When I went down on the Friday evening, however, Janine was waiting for me at the entrance to the car-park. ‘Oh dear,' I said to her, ‘no present this week?'

‘Oh yes,' she replied, ‘there's a present all right, but it's too big to conceal.'

‘I don't understand,' I said. ‘If it's too big to conceal, where is it?'

She laughed at me and said, ‘You'll find out soon enough.'

I knew that with Janine in that kittenish mood I would gain nothing by pursuing the matter, so I didn't pursue it, but walked with her towards the car. As we approached it I realised someone was sitting in the front passenger seat, stopped and was about to warn Janine to be careful, when she told me there was nothing to worry about. Again I took her at her word and carried on walking. The figure in the front seat was a large one, that much I could see before we were really in range. I walked right up to the car and pulled open the front passenger door, and sitting there, with a sheepish grin on his face and a brand new leather riding-crop across his lap, was Roland.

 

 

 

Laurent was the only passenger to get off the train. It was a warm afternoon in early June and he faced a journey of twelve kilometres to his parents' farm, twelve kilometres he might have to walk, carrying his luggage with him. It was a kilometre into town, and from there he might get one of the occasional buses on the minor road which covered the next seven kilometres of the journey, or he might even be able to hitch a lift; the fact that he was still in uniform would probably help. The last four kilometres were on a narrow lane and all uphill, but any passing vehicle would probably stop for him.

He had hoped that there might perhaps be somebody else getting off the train and being taken at least as far as town - the small provincial town that, until his call-up, was as far as he had ever travelled.

Shrugging his shoulders as he slung his bag over his shoulder, he began to walk. When he reached the town he walked straight through, pausing only to check that there had been no obvious changes to the usual, or even to the less usual, facilities. For the next two kilometres not a single vehicle went in his direction. Shortly afterwards a couple of cars passed by, but neither driver was interested in the hitchhiker in army uniform.

The third one stopped, however, and was able to drop Laurent at the junction where the little lane set off up the hillside towards the tiny hamlet. Now he faced a real choice: climb gently up the four kilometres of metalled lane, or strike off more steeply but more directly up the old drove road, which would halve the distance but remove any chance of another lift. He decided to risk the lane for the first stretch, at least to the point where its zigzags took it across the dusty track which, centuries earlier, had been used for the local livestock.

Again nobody seemed to be going in his direction. He had passed the first intersection and almost reached the second, ready to abandon the lane and lug his bag up the steeper gradient, when he heard a horn. Looking round he saw an ancient van pulling up just behind him, and the driver getting out.

‘Laurent?'

‘Yes, I'm Laurent. Who are you?'

‘Oh, you won't remember me, but I know your dad and he asked me to look out for you if I was coming this way. Would you like a lift to the village?'

Such an offer was not to be refused, Laurent reflecting that in another two minutes he would have been round the corner on the dusty track and no longer visible from the road. He swung his bag into the van and climbed in after it. The driver introduced himself as the owner of a smallholding just beyond the hamlet, and the journey was passed amicably enough in the sort of idle chatter which is shared by two people who have never met before but who have a number of shared acquaintances and experiences. Laurent was dropped at the door and a journey that could easily have taken three or four hours was over in an hour and a half.

He entered his parents' cottage. The living room was empty but he could hear noises in the small scullery behind it, and shouted a hello. A woman rushed out of the scullery, obviously ready to deal with any intruder who had dared to enter her cottage without so much as a knock, but her threatening expression changed to one of surprise when she saw her son.

‘Laurent!' she exclaimed. ‘But you're too early. We're not ready for you. We didn't expect you for a couple of hours yet!'

‘I'm sorry, maman,' he replied. ‘Shall I go away and come back later?'

‘Oh Laurent,' she said, recovering herself, ‘you look wonderful. It's so good to see you. Come and give me a hug.' She held open her arms, and the next few minutes were spent embracing, Laurent's mother delighted to see her son after a long absence, though slightly worried that everything might be not quite as it should because of his unexpectedly early arrival. Yet the living room, though shabbily furnished, succeeded in looking both very clean and very homely. After a few sentences of greeting and explanation, Laurent asked where his father was and what time he was expected back.

‘He's in the long field,' maman answered, ‘and he won't be back for another couple of hours yet. Why don't you have a wash and get changed and then go out to meet him? He'll be delighted to see you. He's been telling everyone you're due back today. He asked Darrigade to keep an eye open for you if he went into town, so that's how you got a lift. Perhaps you'd like a drink before you get changed, I know there's some beer left specially for you.'

Laurent accepted the beer gratefully, feeling hot and dusty after his journey. Then he had a look round the cottage where he had spent almost his whole life until the army sent for him. The living room was large and shady, the windows being quite small. Behind it were the scullery and washhouse, and that covered the whole of the ground floor. Upstairs there were two bedrooms, but it was here that a major change had taken place during his last spell away for, tucked under the eaves where the junk room had been, there was now a small room with shower, washbasin, lavatory and bidet.

He had not known of the improvement since no letters passed between him and his parents while he was away. He travelled home only for long periods of leave, and on parting told his parents when he next expected to be home. Weekend leaves were usually spent in the town nearest to wherever he happened to be quartered. So the change came as a pleasant surprise, the more so since leaving home had taught him that he lived in one of the most backward regions of the country. Few of his military friends still lived in houses with an outside privy, or in villages with a bus service that ran only once a week.

True, there were more frequent buses on the little road out of town but, only on market days in town did a bus condescend to climb up to the isolated hamlet - one into town in the morning and another one back in the late afternoon. And yet, he reflected as he showered and changed, he liked where he lived. The very lack of sophistication gave it a charm that he enjoyed, and though the few farmers who still lived up there were all quite poor, they enjoyed good health, good food and generally good relations.

His mother shouting up to ask whether he was going out into the fields interrupted his reveries. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt he went back downstairs, embraced maman again and set off to look for papa.

It was a couple of hours before they returned, deep in conversation, their arms round one another's shoulders and both bronzed from being outdoors. They were greeted by the sort of aromatic smell that, in the late afternoon, would be coming out of similar cottages all over the massif, the smell of good country cooking. On the table were plates of raw mountain ham, a large bowl of salad and a whole crusty loaf.

When they eventually sat down a bottle of red wine had been added, a red wine which was both very cheap and surprisingly mellow, since it came from the local area of small vintners who pooled their yield to form the
cave co-operative
, and whose wines rarely travelled further than each others' houses and the shops and bars in the town.

The ham was followed by a rich wild boar stew. Laurent knew the boar would have been killed, butchered and hung locally, and that it would not be cooked until it was exactly right - and so it proved. In addition to the usual field vegetables, it was flavoured with a variety of different mushrooms upon which he commented favourably. His father chuckled.

‘Mathilde and I picked them yesterday,' maman explained. ‘You remember Mathilde, don't you?'

‘Yes, I remember her,' he replied, ‘but I'm not sure I would recognise her now.'

‘She's a fine girl,' his father joined in. ‘Hardworking, too - make somebody a good wife.'

It seemed to Laurent that warning glances were exchanged at this point between his parents, but he said nothing and the conversation quickly took another turn. After the wild boar came a huge hunk of the local hard cheese and then a bowl full of fresh cherries. Finally, in a rare celebratory acknowledgement of his return to home, the village and the land, a glass of
marc du pays
, the strong spirit in which last year's cherries were one of the most easily identifiable ingredients.

They didn't stay up chatting until the small hours, and there being no pub or bar in the village, Laurent didn't even go out to meet his mates over a glass or two. He and his parents knew that they would have plenty of time for reminiscences, for plans, for discussion. Maman cleared away the dishes and busied herself in the kitchen, as was her custom, while Laurent and papa chatted in a desultory fashion over the final drink.

Eventually Laurent stood up, kissed both parents on the cheek and turned towards the staircase, when his mother stopped him.

‘There's no hurry in the morning,' she said. ‘Sleep in if you want to. You can have your breakfast in bed for once. I'm sure that'll be a nice treat.'

Again there was the hint of a glance between his parents, but he thanked maman for the offer and went up to bed. He finished his unpacking, bestowed his worldly goods as suited him and went to bed feeling content with himself, his parents and the world in general.

 

He wasn't sure just what noise it was which woke him up, but the daylight was already streaming in through the thin curtains. Again there was a delicious smell, and he turned over to determine its source. On a tray by his bed were a jug of coffee, another jug of hot milk, several slices of
pain campagnard
and a bowl of jam, cherry no doubt. But that was not what startled him. Watching him as he turned over and then walking over to the window to open his curtains was a stranger, and a female stranger at that.

‘Good morning, Laurent,' the stranger said, making it clear that she at least thought she was in the right place. ‘Did you sleep well?'

‘Good morning,' he stuttered. ‘But who are you and what are you doing here?'

‘Well,' she said, ‘your maman asked whether I would like to bring up your breakfast. You don't recognise me?'

‘Yes, of course,' he said, struggling as one does in the presence of someone whose face is familiar but whose name seems irretrievable. ‘You're Mathilde, aren't you?' he asked, suddenly inspired.

‘But of course I am,' she replied, as she resumed her task of opening the curtains. ‘It's a wonderful day.'

She remained where she was, between the bed and the window, leaning on the lower part of the windowsill in such a way that her hips jutted into the room. She was comfortably built, Laurent could see that, not plump perhaps, but with an attractive curve to her bottom. Without even thinking about what he was doing, Laurent stretched out a hand and rested it on the right cheek of that shapely bottom. There was no reaction, certainly no attempt to remove the hand, no flinching, not even a little wriggle. He squeezed slightly and moved his hand around, realising as he did so that there appeared to be no garment beneath her skirt.