Honey, Cinnamon, Lemons Ch. 01-08

'Don't worry, you don't really notice it. It's dark and you can't see anything. I usually read a book for twenty minutes. I get nervous, too. But it's better than flying: that scares me stiff.'

She laughed. 'Oh, I love flying. But the tunnel! It's the thought of being so deep underground with all that water above you.'

'Best not to think about it. I hate the thought of all that air beneath you when you fly!'

'Yeah, it's fantastic! Like being a bird! The tunnel's like being a mole, or a worm! I could do with a drink. Do you think I've time to get one before we go in?'

'Of course. The buffet car's open all the way through anyway. It'll help you pass the time; take your mind off it.'

As she walked off down the carriage, he watched her broad hips and long narrow back, and wished she was wearing shorts so that he could see her legs. When she came back ten minutes later there had been no movement of the train. Her eyes were bright and as she squeezed back into her seat her tied-up bunch of hair brushed his cheek. He caught a whiff of red wine on her breath as she leant towards him, and saw minute pink sparkles on her gold moustache: she cleaned them off with a long pink tongue, then told him, 'There's people on the track. Not here, in France, they think we'll be moving soon.'

'I hope so, I hate hanging around like this. I wont relax till I'm in France.'

'Where are you going to?'

'Brussels.'

'Snap! Do you live there?'

'No, just visiting. What about you? I presume you don't live there if you haven't been on the Eurostar before.'

'No. I'm an artist and I'm going there on business.'

'I thought artists got on with their painting rather than making business trips.'

'I'm not a painter but I am professional; we do need to talk business occasionally. I need to raise funding for an installation in Brussels. I do mixed media. Fabrics, light, objects, sounds, movement. My installations need setting up and they take up a lot of room. I have to get the money from somewhere.'

'Sorry, I'm old and old-fashioned. I paint, but I don't call myself an artist, just someone who makes pictures. I don't actually sell stuff, not really; I give some to friends. I'm going to work on a portrait while I'm abroad. I hope you get your funds.'

'Thank you! Who will you be painting?'

'Oh, a relation. My granddaughter, actually.'

'That's nice. Are you married then?'

'No, I'm divorced. But we didn't have children. My granddaughter's from another relationship a long time ago. I only met her for the first time recently. It's all a bit complicated actually.'

The train began to move, and they entered the tunnel. The air cooled, and the sound of the wheels became louder: they sensed the slight downward slope of the track. Not usually one to strike up conversations with strangers or make easy small-talk, for once he was finding it reassuring to be distracted from his own thoughts by inconsequential chat with an attractive woman. He hoped she would continue to talk to him, but determined not to tell her too much personal stuff; better to let her do the talking.

She opened her laptop and started to tap. As she typed she spoke in a low and husky voice. 'This is one of my pieces; it's a performance piece. Called Evolution Number Nine' - she pronounced the word to rhyme with revolution.

He had to lean towards her to see the screen, and her hair tickled his cheek. She was lying naked on a white sheet with her legs apart. She put her hands behind her head and raised her body by arching her back to thrust her middle section high, supported by her hands and feet like an acrobat. From her waist hung red silken strips of cloth which shimmered and resembled flowing blood. From her vagina hung a string of what looked like soft toys. A latex baby, a monkey, a cat, a bear, a fish or dolphin, and so on down the evolutionary line ending with what looked like a Star of David in sparkly material. She moved around crab-like, dragging her progeny with her. He saw flashes; presumably there were art-lovers, or businessmen, out of sight taking pictures.

'We are all animals, and we evolved from star material. My work name is Lynxie. I'm essentially feline, and my body is part of my work output.'

'Oh, I see. And the animals are showing evolution?'

'Yes, I'm glad you got that; lots don't. Did you spot the John Lennon reference? You should because that must be your generation.'

'Revolution Number Nine. Yes I got it.'

'Evolution and revolution. Re-evolution. We evolve, then we re-evolve by way of revolution. Although we have evolved from so-called lower forms, we are at one with them across time and also in our present time. We need revolution to atone for our arrogance. Atonement. At-one-ment.'

'Ah...' He nodded as though in appreciation of a profound insight.

'My atonement is by identifying with the feline and expressing the feline with my body. My identification in general is my Generality, the specific choice of feline is my Specificity. Not many people have a Generality other than with other humans, and Specificity only with themselves.'

'Mmmm.' He needed to yawn, and covered it by stroking his chin and taking a deep thoughtful breath.

'I never insult someone by comparing them with an animal, like a cockroach or hyena, because all animals have their nature to be respected: they evolved purposefully to fulfil a necessary role. They weren't put there by a god to be vicious or evil, they just chose to evolve into a useful part of evolution's plan. What are you deep inside?'

'I don't know.'

'You are an old soul.'

'I know that! I'm seventy.'

'I didn't mean that. Not your chronological age in this body; your soul-age. Very ancient. I can feel it.'

He had heard it all before, in the sixties, and his heart sank as she continued talking, mixing muddled philosophy with hard-nosed business talk about markets and selling angles. As with Richard Branson, the talk was 'cool' but the money-making instinct was obvious.

'I am 'Lynxie' because of the associations.' The name sounded vaguely familiar. 'Lynx the cat, social links, weblinks, blinks, Blynxie, Banksie, triggered associations when you see my name. Slinky Lynxie blinks as she slinks. Squats in the gutter and leaves her stinks! See my I-dent and immediately a thought chain takes you all over the place.' She tapped keys and a stylised image of a feline appeared on her laptop screen, a blinking slinking golden feline walking on the spot, with Lynxie written below it. From time to time it squatted and pissed a golden shower which splashed all over her name. 'I do stencil graffiti of it all over the place' and she showed him photos of her I-dent on old brick walls, fences, a Rolls Royce.

He awoke with a start and she was still going on. '...percentages, points, knock-ons, it's always the same, it gets so boring!' He half slept again, but was able to make appreciative sounds from time to time.

#

Suddenly the coach filled with light and the train noise died as they emerged into the open air of France. She smiled and blinked and licked her lips. 'Oh, we made it! France at last!'

Her phone rang, with the sound of a big cat roaring. She excused herself and squeezed past him, saying 'Lynxie. Oh Hi Vix, how are you? Oh I always meet someone, you know me...'

#

When she returned she seemed thoughtful and preoccupied, fiddling with her mouse, making the cursor go round in circles. She turned to him, stared frankly for a couple of seconds, then gave him her gappy smile and said 'I've been prattling on a lot, I know; it's what I do. Tell me about you for a change. Name?'

'Tom. Tom Toomey.'

'Pleased to meet you. Elizabeth Linklater; but that's a bit of a mouthful so you can call me Lynxie. And, Tom Toomey, where are you from?' He felt his stomach churn as he suddenly understood the gold hair and gappy smile.

'London. Teddington. I've been happily married for 35 years. I'm retired.'

'What did you do before you retired?'

'I was a teacher.'

'Aaw, that's great! I could never teach, I'm far too impatient to deal with kids. What did they call you at school? Mr Gloomy?'

'Oh, you mean what did the kids call me? I don't know. Have you got any kids?'

'No. But I am asking zee questions!'

'I am actually rather shy about talking about myself. Sorry!

'Well I'd better shut up for a bit then, give you some peace; Tommy Toomey, Mr Gloomy. Where does your granddaughter live?'

'Oh, Brussels; well not exactly in the centre, more on the outskirts. I'm not really sure where, she's going to meet me and drive me to her place.'

'She's meeting you at the station? That's nice.'

'Yes. She's not married. She's thirty, works for the EU, but don't ask what she does, I never could understand it. Actually, would you mind if I tried to snooze for a bit? I mean it's nice talking to you, but I didn't sleep too well last night, worried about the journey probably.'

'Sorry, I've been a bit selfish; you do look a bit tired. I'd better let you get some shuteye. Actually you don't look old enough to have a granddaughter of thirty.'

'Thank you. I certainly feel old enough just now. I need my afternoon nap!'

He settled back in his seat, closed his eyes and pretended to relax. After a few minutes he heard her typing, slowly and quietly. He cracked his eyelids open a touch and thought he saw her using some messaging programme. He wondered what she was up to, then again fell to musing about her furry body.

#

He was awoken by the tannoy announcing the approach to Lille; he shook himself awake and stood up. 'I've got to make a couple of calls.'

He took his trolley off the rack and swayed towards the back of the train. 'See you in a minute.'

When the train stopped he got off and hurried along with the flow of passengers, up the escalator to find the ticket office.

#

Half an hour later he was on a TGV with a ticket to Bordeaux in his shirt pocket, feeling a little safer and, with a double seat to himself, able to stretch his legs a little and doze off. He was woken by a ticket inspector, who was not happy to see that his ticket had not been composted.

'It is absolutely obligatory that all tickets are composted before boarding the train, monsieur!'

'I am very sorry, monsieur.'

'Ah, English. Next time you travel, you must follow the correct procedure. Bon voyage.'

#

At 9:35 on the dot he alighted at Poitiers station, feeling exhausted and extremely hungry. He emerged from the building into a warm, dark evening, looked around for refuge and spotted the Hotel Terminus across the road, at the foot of the steep hill up to the old city. He trundled wearily across and entered, feeling shattered by the worst day of his life.

CHAPTER SIX: FRIDAY. Tim and Sab meet for the first time; they make love in the chateau.

He woke the next morning at 9 o'clock with a rested body and an empty mind. Then memories of the previous evening started to trickle back.

At the hotel reception desk a tall scrawny woman in her fifties had stared at him unsmilingly, her orange-streaked hair up and the corners of her mouth down. Her dress was long, black and ghoulish, her eyes set in kohled sockets and her lipstick dark-red, almost black. Then her face had adjusted itself into a smile and her eyes and teeth had shone out insincerely in the gloom of the lobby.

'Good evening,' she said in English.

'Good evening, I'd like a room for tonight if you have one free'

'Passport.'

'Oh!' He began to fumble and pat his pockets and then dug into his shopping trolley. He nervously placed his passport on the desk. She glanced at his photo then at his face. She seemed satisfied with what she saw and slapped an enormous key-fob down next to his passport.

'Fifty Euros if you pay in advance, cash. Fifty-five if not, and I would have to keep your passport until you depart, for police reasons.'

'Oh, cash, that's fine. Thank you.' He slid a fifty-euro note from his wallet and handed it to her. He half expected her to slip it into her cleavage, but she was too skinny for that: she surprised him by tucking it into her bunched-up hair, just above the ear. He discreetly retrieved his passport, and she pointed out the tiny lift. 'Second floor.'

'Oh thank you, is it possible to eat here?'

'I am afraid it is too late, but there is a creperie close by. The hotel is locked at twenty-three thirty -- eleven thirty: if you are late there is a ten euro charge.' He nodded gratefully and turned towards the lift. She called after him. 'Breakfast ends at nine-thirty! Bon appetit.'

He left his trolley in his room, then went out into the warm night with just his wallet, passport and mobile. The creperie had a noisy bar with a giant TV close to the restaurant area, and he watched the drinkers and the screen as he ate his supper and sipped his way through a half-litre of rosé. He saw horses racing, a football match, a crashed train seen from a helicopter, a crowded beach, horses again, this time pulling tiny chariots controlled by crouching jockeys.

He made it back to the hotel just before eleven-thirty and the desk was now occupied by a gaunt elderly man wearing a beret, who could have been the husband or brother of Madame. 'It is terrible, Monsieur, the train.' Tim wondered what he meant: his train had been as comfortable as could be expected by a tall person, and it had been on time. He nodded politely and went straight to his room. He was surprised and pleased to see a miniature bottle of whisky and a tumbler on his bedside table: the spirit burned his throat as he knocked it back straight from the bottle in one go, then he fell into bed and a deep sleep.

#

And now, on a fine morning, he was awake and hungry again, and it was quarter past nine. He dressed hurriedly and went down to reception, where Madame glanced at her watch and nodded towards the dining room door before following him in: no other guests were there, and he chose a table for two facing the street window. She coughed discreetly and he turned and saw her gesture towards a table spread with hotel breakfast. She watched him like a hawk as he filled a plate with croissants, cheese and jam, and took a bowl, cutlery and a mini-box of cereal. He went back to fetch coffee and cold milk, and helped himself to an apple and a small packet of biscuits. And a pot of yoghurt. A car hooted outside and there was a squeal of tyres, and he pocketed two bread rolls while she was distracted.

'When do I have to leave my room, Madame?'

'Ten-thirty, Monsieur.' She stood like a sentry by the food table while he ate his breakfast, except for a minute or two when a client arrived at reception and he was able to fill his pockets.

After breakfast he retired to his room and made a rapid but thorough morning toilet, without shaving. He removed the plastic bag lining the bathroom bin and used it to stow his breakfast remains. When he went down again the reception area was empty so he left his key on the desk and wandered across to the station. He sat down on the one empty bench on the forecourt and turned on his mobile. He was relieved to find that internet was available and he composed, with difficulty in the bright sunlight, an e-mail to Sabat, telling her where he was, and wondering nervously and politely if she would mind him popping by to see her, not to stay, just to say hello. The sun was now hitting the back of his neck and starting to burn. Surprisingly, he received a reply almost immediately.

From: Sab673

To: timbloo

OMG, you don't hang around! Get a train from Poitiers to Montmorillon, there should be one about 12 noon. I'll meet you at Monty station and you must come back to my place! If you're footloose and fancy free, that is! Go check the train time and get a ticket, now! Mail me back when you are sorted. Love and licks! XXX

Outside the station shop was a display of straw hats. He thought they looked rather feminine, but he managed to find one with a wide brim which fitted him--he could always remove the ribbon trimmings later. He bought it, together with a briquette and a packet of the mildest cigarettes they could find him. Once he had his train ticket safely in his hand he punched it immediately in the composteur machine, to make sure he didn't forget to do it later.

Back on his bench he lit up and sucked down the smoke greedily, then mailed Sab with the train time. When he looked up he saw a scruffy young man making a shaky but determined beeline towards him. He asked for a cigarette, in French. Tim played dumb, shrugging his shoulders and spreading his hands helplessly, and the man's eyes glazed over while Tim was still miming. 'Cunt,' Scruff said in French, and wandered off.

Tim finished his cigarette and lit another surreptitiously, turning away from Scruff, who was wandering around from one smoker to the next without, apparently, having much luck. A mixed couple of gendarmes were keeping a close eye on him, the man a burly brute with a close cropped head and blue chin, the woman a sexy blonde with a ponytail sticking out from the back of her baseball cap and a sexy automatic pistol in a sexy holster at her sexy hip. Tim on the run felt an affinity with Scruff. He got up and accosted him in what he hoped sounded like fluent French. 'What did you call me before?'

'I called you a good gentleman.'

'Well, you were wrong, I was a cunt. Now I shall be a good gentleman.' He pulled out the bag of breakfast leftovers and handed it over, then offered his cigarette packet. 'Do you want a fag?'

'Yes monsieur, thank you.'

Tim lit him, then gave him the lighter and the packet. 'If the flics ask you, say we are old friends. My name is Tommy.' Scruff touched his temple in salute, repeated the name 'Tommy,' then tapped his chest and said 'Jean-Marc,' and walked off briskly as if he was about lawful business. The cops watched him but didn't interfere. The woman smiled at Tim as they sauntered past and said, 'You are too kind, monsieur.'

#

The train was not crowded. It pulled out punctually at 12:05 and almost immediately entered a short tunnel. Tim blinked when it came out into the sunshine again and already they seemed to have left the city and were rolling along through a green tunnel of trackside trees and stone cutting-walls. Soon, the view opened up to show countryside, almost English in character. There were brown cows in hedgerowed fields; farm buildings of tumbledown breezeblock and mossy tiles; and sheet metal roofs sheltering open-sided barns full of hay and farm machinery. The fields showed blue reflections of the sky in the low water-logged corners, despite the hot, dry weather. Tim took it all in eagerly, feeling slightly sick with anticipation, drumming his fingers on the little folding table. The train stopped twice, at twenty-minute intervals, and each time it slowed for a station they passed through suburbs of bungalows and small factories, and finally sidings and grain or gravel silos just before the halt. All the station buildings had the same style, elegant two high-storied boxes with steep slate roofs and the station name on the front in fading brown-painted lettering, all very old-fashioned. Once, to his left, he spotted two large cooling towers, each with a vast white plume rising to join the few natural clouds already hanging in the blue sky.

As he stepped down onto the gravel platform at Montmorillon, he saw Sab waiting for him, smaller than he had expected, in white baggy cotton pants tied in at the ankle, and a pale green sleeveless top. Her dark hair was tied back, and her skin was copper-coloured; her white teeth shone as she moved forward to greet him. He smiled back but was conscious of his own old tobacco-stained teeth and his cigarette smell, and was overcome with shyness. She grabbed him round the arms and kissed him on both cheeks, and he smelt her sweet garlicky breath as she said, 'Hi sexy! You are so tall!'