Honey, Cinnamon, Lemons Ch. 11-12

They ran through the rain together, Paul laughing hysterically and still crowing his triumph: in truth, Sab ran, Paul jogged, and Tim lurched along as best he could, gasping for breath, heart pounding. Sab was still fiddling with the door lock when the two men arrived and ducked into the shelter of the arched doorway to the stable courtyard. Just as the door began to yield, the rain stopped dead and the sun burst through and Paul doubled up with laughter, 'Fuckin' weather in this place! Talk about changeable with scattered showers!'

Sab's phone rung and she pulled it out along with a small automatic pistol which she immediately thrust back into her pocket. 'Sab! Hi.' She listened for a few seconds, then burst out laughing and continued in French. 'Oh hallo Gilou. What? We've won? Great! OK. five minutes. Wait; what about our drunken friend? Oh good! See you soon. Bye.'

She turned to Tim and Paul. 'You've won! They're just about to dish out the prizes. We better get back.'

'Oh, fuck that! It'll only be a cheap plastic cup and a bottle of wine each. And what about that idiot?'

'Oh come on, Paul, you can't let them down. Daniel's had a talk with Gilou and he's been taken home; he won't give us any trouble. You've got to show your face. Don't be high and mighty. Your village needs you. Tell him, Tim.'

'Well, is it really necessary? I think I might be inclined to give it a miss. What do you think, Paul?'

'We'd better go I s'pose. Sab's always right. Come on, the rain's stopped and they'll all be waiting. Mustn't piss off the peasants.'

Back at the church, the buvette was crowded, and a cheer went up as they arrived. Behind the church an excited crowd was watching a cherry-picker hoisting a couple of men up towards the blasted roof.

'Fuck! That was quick! Do they often do this sort of thing?'

'The commune depot's just behind the church. I guess they have to make sure it's safe. Can't have bits of slate coming down on people.'

The crowd was shouted back away from the danger area, and attention shifted to the prize-giving ceremony. Paul and Tim were announced as competition winners and had to go up to be presented with their prizes. Each received a bag containing a cap, a t-shirt and a bottle of red Bordeaux, and an enormous cup was handed over; as they lifted it together, Tim was surprised by its lightness—it really was plastic, for all its shininess and ornate design.

A man with a large camera ran forward, knelt before them and flashed off several photos. Tim noticed two women pushing forward through the crowd, one with short, gold curly hair, and the other with a bush of long golden hair tied back behind her head. He felt his knees go weak.

'I've got to get out of here. I need the bog, desperately!'

'Oh Tim, you can wait, surely!'

'Sorry, I've gotta go!'

'Why do you keep calling him Tim?'

He darted out of the square and ran back as fast as he could, heart pounding and head spinning. As he reached the door, he saw Augustine standing in her doorway.

'Bonjour Augustine. Can you help me? Please! I have to leave now. In two minutes.'

She looked at him sharply, then said, 'Come into my house.'

'I just need to get something first. Thank you.' He grabbed her hand and kissed it.

In his studio he stuffed his passport, wallet and laptop into his shopping trolley then grabbed the two paintings and darted back down the stairs. He looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of pursuit, and he saw Augustine gesturing him to cross over to her house; she led him through to the rear terrace and down to the garden. 'Follow me.' She took him up the garden and through a door in the high rear wall and they were inside a huge barn of a building.

'Tommy, what are you going to do? Where do you want to go?'

'Malthus.'

'I will get someone to drive you there, but not until about ten o'clock. She surprised him by taking a mobile phone from her cardigan pocket and he listened as she spoke softly to someone. 'Malthus....Ten o' clock. It is very confidential; like the old times, you understand....Gilou, do this for me....You will not see the passenger, and you will know nothing of any of this afterwards....You will not speak together....You will be going to check for tracks, sanglier, deer, anything....You will think of something. Good. I will see you tomorrow.'

She turned to Tim. 'You must wait here until he comes. You will not speak, and he will not see you. You will sit in the back of his van at nine forty-five and you will not show your face. Gilou talks to himself. Whatever he says you will not reply.'

'Augustine, thank you! But, I need some wood, sticks or something, and some rope or string.'

She waved her stick towards the end of the barn, where there was a long workbench cluttered with tools and accumulated junk. 'Find what you need here. His van is over there.' He saw a white van at the other end of the barn, facing a pair of large wooden doors. She pulled him down to give him the cheek kisses, two each side, and her eyes sparkled in the half light of the barn. 'May God be with you.' She turned then and left without looking back. He walked over to the van and tried the back door; it opened and he saw that there were no rear seats, just a crumpled heap of tarpaulin, a petrol-can and a couple of sacks; he could settle in there easily out of site when the time came.

By the workbench he found some old scraps of timber battening and used a rusty saw to cut off four lengths the size of his paintings. He placed one picture face up on the bench, and arranged the battens along the four sides of the canvas. The other painting went wet side down on top of the battens, and he used hairy twine to bind the whole lot together. The paintings were now face to face, but separated by the wood round the edges so as to avoid smudging the still wet paint; he fashioned a loop of twine to act as a handle.

He sat on a sack and waited. His heart was pounding and his head was buzzing. He needed a pee but was scared to leave the shelter of the barn, so he did it in a dark corner and kicked dust over the puddle.

#

At nine forty-five he got into the van and arranged himself and his canvases and trolley under the tarpaulin. His right foot began to tremble violently, and he lay down on his side and tried to relax. Images of bloody Daniel invaded his mind, and the two golden women coming for him. It took five minutes for his foot to calm down, and then all he could do was wait.

A quarter of an hour later the barn doors scraped and creaked, the van lurched as someone heavy settled into the front seat, and the van door slammed shut. The driver began to talk to himself. 'So, Malthus. It's late but just enough light with this moon. At least I won't have anybody looking at me or talking to me. Understand?' The van shook and lurched as he started the engine and engaged first gear with a crunch, then they moved off, bumping slowly along until they made a right turn, then a left, and began to pick up speed. Tim adjusted his position so that he could see the sky through the rear window, a black expanse dotted with star points and the misty spread of the milky way.

Five minutes later lights flashed and Gilou slowed down and stopped; another vehicle crept past them and pulled up, and the back of the van was illuminated by a flashing blue glow. Heavy footsteps crunched across gravel. 'Good evening, Gilou. Alright?'

'Bernard! How's it going? Quiet night?'

'Not bad. I only stopped you out of boredom. Off to La Courlandiere?'

'Just doing the rounds. See what paths the little buggers are using. Wanna come and see? Take a drop?'

'Naa, can't tonight. Françoise well?'

'Fine, thanks. Nicole?'

'As well as one can expect! Aunt Augustine?'

'Fine, as always.'

Well, good luck. See you soon. By the way, they're looking for an Englishman.'

'Who is?'

'English police. Keep your eyes open, but no approaches. Just let me know if you see anything. Have a good evening.'

'And you.'

The gendarme crunched off, did a u-turn and headed north.

Tim was in a cold sweat. His foot was trembling again and he waited for Gilou to say something, but he simply began to whistle tunelessly through his teeth.

Montmorillon came and went, a white glow of streetlamps, and then there was a fifteen minute drive through moonlit countryside until orange lights appeared and he presumed they had reached a village or town. Gilou slowed down and took a left turn; the tyres crunched over gravel, then they pulled up. 'I need a piss; I'll just stop here in Malthus. I'll go behind the shelter where I won't be seen. Fortunately there is no-one around. Better be careful not to trip and fall down the steps to the road when the lights go out at ten thirty.'

Once Gilou was out of the van, Tim watched him cautiously through the side window and, when he had disappeared behind a thatched open-fronted cabin, he himself slipped out and ducked inside, rolled under a bench across the rear of the shelter and waited. Gilou came back fiddling with his flies, lit a cheroot, coughed and spat, then got back into the van and drove off, leaving Tim listening to the noise of the engine gradually fading away, feeling very alone in a strange village.

Although it was warm, he shivered. Then he slapped his cheeks to pull himself together; he was afraid, but he knew that Polly must be fairly close and that gave him some comfort. A light rain began to fall; the heaviness of the earlier storm had dissipated, the air felt fresher and cleaner, the raindrops were small and sparkled orange as they misted down slowly in the lamplight, and he sat there alone in the shelter forcing himself to feel exhilarated and free. He lit a cigarette.

He was staring fascinated at a cloud of moths circling in the halo of a street light, with a couple of feeding bats zigzagging in and out of the swarm, when the light and all the others in the village suddenly went out and complete darkness enclosed him, touching him. He felt a light brush against his ear and shivered. He pulled on his cigarette and the faint light drove away the moths, ghosts and fears; each time he drew on the cigarette he closed his eyes against the tobacco glow to try and retain his night vision. After a few minutes his eyes adjusted and he could just pick out features, houses opposite him, one or two large trees, and a sky full of stars. One of them was slowly moving across the starry background — it flashed regularly, obviously a plane heading south towards the freedom of Limoges, Bordeaux or Spain. The rain had stopped, and he looked round the edge of the shelter and saw a bright three-quarter moon, which silvered the wet roofs of the village. He shivered and decided he had to look for Polly's house, although he didn't know what he would do if he found it - it was late to go knocking on her door. It could only be a little after ten thirty, but in this small village the population probably retired and arose early; he could see no house lights.

He had to do something. If he found the house and there was no sign of life, he could come back to the shelter for the night, unless he spotted a better place to sleep, perhaps in her garden shed if she had one.

But if he slept in the shelter he might be spotted by early risers. Perhaps he would be better behind it, out of sight. On the other hand, if Gilou pissed there, probably others did; he didn't fancy the idea.

He remembered the gardener's advice: he had to identify his goal, focus on it and then launch himself towards it without fear of failure. He stood up decisively: it was time to act and what would be would be!

Her address was 13 Route de Montmorillon. Since they had arrived from the direction of Montmorillon, he reckoned that the main road must be Route de Montmorillon. So he only had to reach the road and strike off left or right and inspect the house numbers.

He tucked the canvasses under his right arm and held the trolley above the gravel to avoid noise, and started to edge his way to his left, where he knew the main road was. His back was against a wet hedge, and he used it as a guide to keep him from circling in the darkness, placing one foot at a time to his left, feeling for the void which would tell him he had reached the steps Gilou had mentioned. At last his left toe found no support and he stopped. He groped with his left arm and found a cold wet metal handrail, then he carefully turned to face the drop ahead. He edged forward until both toes were over the edge of the top step, then carefully lowered a foot to the next. He counted six steps until he finally reached the bottom. He saw light off to his right, and heard the sound of a car engine. He froze and waited until the headlights illuminated the road to his left, memorising every feature in the few seconds it took the car to pass. He knew now he was standing beside a shop of some sort, and he edged his way along the plate-glass window till he reached the door. He ducked into the shallow recess, put down his canvasses and trolley and waited for his eyes to adjust.

Opposite where he stood he could make out the dark bulk of buildings, and moonlight on wet slate roofs. They were slightly to his left; to the right there seemed to be just a hedge, no buildings.

He could just discern a plaque or sign on the wall to the left of the shop doorway, and he groped until he could feel its thickness standing out from the wall. He sparked his lighter and managed to see the number 18; if that was 18 Route de Montmorillon then he must be close to Polly's house, but on the wrong side of the road. He squinted into the darkness and saw a faint light showing through shutter cracks opposite; apart from this weak glow, the whole village appeared to have shut down for the night. A car approached from his left, and as it neared and passed he saw that there were two houses almost opposite; that the pavement was about six feet wide on both sides and that the carriageway appeared fairly smooth and safe. His night vision had gone again, so he lit a cigarette and waited for another vehicle.

He had just lit a third cigarette, keeping his eyes shut against the glare, when he again saw light in the distance to his left. As soon as he could see the kerb clearly, he moved forward and walked briskly across the road, then pressed himself to the house wall as a lorry went by; before the light died he read the label on the house's mail box - DUPONT Pierre, 15.

He started to edge along the front of the house in what he hoped was the right direction. After a few yards his head struck an obstacle, metallic, hollow. He squinted through tear-wet eyes and saw that it was a mailbox, stupidly fixed to the wall so that it stuck out over the pavement. He blinked away his tears and worked his way past it. He immediately hit his head again, this time less painfully, and at the same time he heard a bell and then felt another clunk as it swung back and hit him again on the forehead. He reeled back, startled, and bashed the back of his head on the mailbox, hard. He staggered forwards and felt his knees go, and as he sunk to the pavement a metal shutter swung open and light streamed out of the house and he received the swinging metal full in the face. A woman called out 'Who's there?' and before he passed out he heard her voice, 'Oh God! I'm sorry! James?', felt soft arms take him under the shoulders and a waft of warm perfume as his face fell against her soft body.

CHAPTER TWELVE. SUNDAY. Tim and Polly meet - again - a romantic supper and a moonlit night.

Polly woke up first.

She was wearing an old nightie, for modesty's sake. He was naked. She had managed to pull his clothes off him the night before, but couldn't get pyjamas onto his unconscious body. Before she had got him onto the sofa-bed in the living room she had checked him where he lay on the parquet floor for vital signs; his pulse was regular, breathing deep and slow, colour OK. She'd wiped his head clean of blood and there was no significant injury, just scrapes on the back of his head and his right cheekbone, and a bit of blood around his nostrils. And he'd wet himself.

She stripped and cleaned him where he lay, then whispered, 'James, just got to pop you into bed, can you help me?'

He had moaned and stirred his limbs, tried to push himself up to a sitting position, but hadn't opened his eyes. She got him onto the bed and gently eased him back with his head on a cushion, towel-covered against bloodstains.

She covered him with a sheet, climbed in next to him, and lay on her side studying his profile. He needed a shave, but he looked reasonably well, a little drawn, but apparently not suffering from his head bumps. She touched his hip and he sighed and rolled to face her, forcing her right to the edge of the bed. He was warm, not trembling or shivering. She whispered, 'Move over Mr Greedy, I'm falling out of bed'

'Sorry Sab.' He rolled over to face the wall and she was more comfortable. She lay awake as long as she could, listening to his breathing as would a worried mother with a new baby, but eventually nodded off, wondering who Sab was.

And now she was awake.

He seemed to be fine, relaxed and half snoring. She slipped out of bed, went upstairs for a knickers and a cotton frock, stepped into her flip-flops at the front door, and walked across to the boulangerie. The street was quite busy, as always on Sunday morning, since most of the shops would be closed the next day; today the grocery shop and tobacconist opened only in the morning and just one of the two village boulangeries was available for the fresh bread which was a necessity. People from the surrounding area had come in to buy cigarettes and lottery cards, fruit flans for family lunch and armfuls of bread for themselves and their neighbours. She knew most of them at least by sight and was greeted by almost everyone, either with a wave across the street or polite kisses or handshakes: the sun was shining and the air was warm and she loved her little village. She bought two pains au chocolat, four croissants and a baguette.

When she came back into the living room he was lying with his eyes open; he turned towards her and smiled, but he looked worried. She sat on the bed and bent to kiss him good morning but he held her back gently; 'No Polly, you mustn't kiss me.' It hurt her to hear that, but she told herself not to be so sensitive; he was an old Englishman and not used to such intimacies, which the French found natural - mere politeness.

'Sorry, James, it's a French thing. How do you feel? Are you hungry?'

'I'm OK, thank you, Polly. I'm starving.'

'Not woozy at all?'

'No, I'm OK apart from a sore head at the back.' He raised his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, and winced. 'And my nose is a bit tender.'

'Aaaaaw. Just take it easy, stay on your side and I'll get you a dressing gown and we can have breakfast if you're up to it. Won't be a tick'

'She left him alone while he slipped on the gown; he heard a kettle and the chink of china and cutlery, then she tapped on the living-room door. 'Are you decent?'

'Yes, come in.'

She brought in a steaming cafetiere, plates, butter, knives, and laid them out on the round dining table by the wide front window. She swung the casements into the room, fiddled with the stiff shutters until they swung out and the sun poured in, then pulled them back together and fixed them nearly shut with a loop of string; the sun was so powerful that the room was still brightly lit. 'If we have them wide open it'll be like an oven in here in half an hour.'

'Polly, I'm so sorry to turn up like this.'

'That's OK, don't worry. I mean it is a surprise, seeing you so soon, and without warning, but it's lovely!. How did you get here? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?'