Basil Ackroyd's France

Futile deceptions - chapters 1 & 2

Copyright 2014 Douglas Spencer Wallis

CHAPTER ONE

Basil Ackroyd gripped the wrought iron railings of the town hall steps as he tried to make some sense of the morning’s disastrous start. Spitting tobacco and cursing, he glowered at the main square of his realm, where the sun cast dappled patterns through the trees onto the ancient cobbles of Durac.

On the other side of the square all was quiet save for the soft hiss of the café’s ancient coffee machine. The morning sunlight flooded through the door of the Café du Centre and lit the fine tracery of dust on the windows. The battered zinc bar reflected the rays onto the ceiling. Glancing up from his obsessive round of polishing, the barman watched as Mayor Ackroyd slammed the front door of the Town Hall behind him.

Sid interrupted his attention to the beer pump handles and reached for the best Cognac bottle from the shelf behind him. Setting two glasses on the bar, he awaited the arrival of the senior official of the town.

Trailing a cloud of cigar smoke, Basil set out across the cobbles to the café. His corpulent frame thrust through the glass door, cheeks puffing as he muttered to himself. Bumping into a plastic chair, he fixed it with a confrontational stare before pushing it roughly aside. His shaggy eyebrows were dishevelled and a lock of hair fell across his lined forehead.

The barman kept his silence until the worthy was seated on a stool and had nodded agreement to the proffered bottle. ‘Fine again today,’ Sid ventured.

Basil gathered the glass of cognac and downed it. 'Harrumph!'

The head of the commune, although blessed with an athletic physique in his youth, had allowed the pleasures of the flesh to render him somewhat out of condition. His swarthy complexion had taken the ravages of the sun well, but he now found the heat difficult. He did not like the sun and it was his habit to curse it whenever the subject arose, but today he just sat there and twiddled the glass between his stubby fingers, peering into its depths.

‘We’re in for a hot one today all right,’ Sid said.

‘Who bloody cares?’ Ackroyd hunched his neck deeper into his collar.

Flicking his cloth over his shoulder, Sid un-stoppered the Cognac in a business-like way once more. ‘Will you have a second?’

The Mayor nodded.

‘Are you all right, Basil? You seem a bit out of sorts this morning.’

‘Hardly bloody surprising!’ Basil snapped. ‘I’ve had that twittering crook of a Conseiller Général, Leconte, on the phone for the last half an hour. What a prat!’

‘Ah! Not good news?’ Sid lent on the bar in interest.

‘What? With that motherless pillock? God, I don’t know what the country is coming to when they let clueless berks like that get to positions of authority.’ The liquor sloshed down his thickset neck.

‘Quite; not the most sympathetic of characters around.’

The lofty President of the Conseiller Général, Monsieur Leconte, a man with an all-consuming passion for self-aggrandizement, was charged with the well-being of the region.

‘Trying to interfere again, I expect,’ Sid said.

‘Who does the idiot think he is? Sticking his snotty little nose in my affairs will get his ass kicked, even if I have to go and do it myself.’

Sid noted the fine spray of spittle flying from Basil’s moustache as it caught the sunbeams from the doorway. The barman nodded with solemnity at Basil’s indignation. ‘Overstepped the mark has he then?’

‘It’s bloody outrageous, Sid! I won’t stand for it. I won’t!’ The glass was thrust across the bar for a refill.

‘What’s it all about then?’

‘They’ve burnt down the gendarmerie in Auchac. He has the bloody cheek to blame me!’

This caught Sid by surprise; he was not expecting a revelation of this magnitude. Basil’s involvement in a major outrage like this was a bit beyond his normal problems, Auchac being the regional administrative centre.

‘Who has?’ Sid asked.

‘Those brain-damaged Free Rural France idiots, that’s who. Why they don’t shoot them like I should’ve done I can’t understand.’

Basil had surprised some young lads sticking up Free Rural France posters some months back and had let loose with his shotgun; the judicial enquiries continued to rumble on. He had weathered the worst of the storm, though, and was unlikely to receive more than a warning about discharging a firearm too close to a highway.

‘Why blame you?’ Refilling both their glasses, Sid relished the prospect of the Mayor’s colourful explanation.

‘He maintains it’s because I kicked those other bloody freeloaders out of the recreation hall last year. What the hell is happening to the world, Sid? They came here dead set on rape and pillage, buggered up the town fête, got pissed up on free community booze and took half the young town wenches hostage in the hall.’ Scattering ash about the bar, he jabbed his cigar in Sid’s direction. ‘Then! Then! Have the bloody nerve to claim it for FRF Freedom Fighters.’ Pink patches were beginning to spread beneath the tan on his pendulous cheeks. ‘And then have the arrogance to get upset when I burn the buggers out! What do they expect? Cretinous savages!’

The glass was banged down on the bar.

‘Was it the same ones who torched the gendarmerie, then?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’ Basil sent a billow of cigar smoke towards the ceiling. ‘This sounds a bit more heavyweight to me. Probably got their dads to help them; they couldn’t open a box of matches by themselves.’

‘Who said you’re implicated?’

‘They didn’t have to explain; they stuck a bloody great straw figure up on top of the building before they set fire to it.’ Sparks cascaded down his shirt as Basil prodded his ample front. ‘Had my name on its chest!’ Basil brushed his chest free of cigar ash. ‘Pompous ass Leconte got all bloody uppity. Says he’s going to make a national issue of it. I’d have none of it. The prick!’

‘Ah, I see. Oh well, look on the bright side, it will make the news. No such thing as bad publicity they say.’ Sid instinctively moved backwards as Basil snorted and pushed back his stool.

‘Trust you to come out with something really bloody silly,’ he said and stamped out of the door, hands deep in his jacket pockets.

‘No such thing as bad publicity? Pah! Prattish thing to say,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘That’s what got me here in the first bloody place.’ Many years before, adverse publicity in his hometown in England had forced him to resign his very lucrative post and move swiftly to France. ‘Who would get off their bloody backside to get the streets swept if it wasn’t for me?’ Basil grumbled as he ripped down an out-of-date handbill from the community notice board and threw it in the bin.

Since becoming Mayor, Basil had taken to the administration of the local community with a gusto and imagination that would never have been possible in England. Here in France he had discovered he was entirely responsible for decisions, without the petty interference he had been hampered by in his home country; not even the local councillors had a say. To his delight he found that he could raise local taxes, spend community cash, grant planning permissions and embark on local development projects virtually unquestioned. To his further rapture he found that the waning nature of this bucolic idyll was considered by those wonderful bureaucrats in Brussels to fall into that delectable classification of "underdeveloped". For the correction of this lamentable state of affairs, they gave him virtually any cash he asked for to carry out "regeneration". It had been like letting a child loose in a toyshop. His skills had blossomed in the sun.

Squinting against that same morning sun, some kilometres away in Auchac, gendarme Capitaine Jean Paul Beauclaire grappled with his bewilderment. He looked down distractedly at the droplets of black, greasy water gliding off the shining polish of his shoes. He could trace the rivulet that cascaded over the edge of the gutter back to what had been, up until 8:00am that morning, his headquarters. Three quarters of an hour ago his gendarmerie had been an early twentieth century building, considered by experts of municipal French architecture to be of considerable historical interest with its wealth of Art Deco detail.

Every first Thursday in the month at 8:00am there was a fire practice and evacuation of the building. All occupants had to muster in the courtyard behind. He had carefully selected this routine to minimize interruption of his staff’s work. He had insisted on the involvement of all personnel. It was well known.

That cloudless Thursday morning, the local fire station ignored the test signal as agreed and Capitaine Beauclaire had stood at the yard gates, his steady eyes surveying with considerable satisfaction the occupants filing in an orderly manner from the headquarters by the outside fire escape. Instructed not to use the lifts or the large, ornate central staircase, even the civilian staff knew this drill and left by way of the noisy steel steps.

Last to descend had been the contract window cleaner. On hearing the alarm he had casually lowered a sandbag from the parapet of the building using his cage’s pulley system. As it descended, the first indication that the day’s routine was to be different appeared from below in the street; a large effigy of a man with an exaggerated bushy moustache and dressed in a black suit slowly rose up the street side of the building on the other end of the rope. Across the rotund stomach stretched a diagonal tri-colour sash emblazoned with the name "ACKROYD" and the words "GO HOME". It was clearly discernible from the road but went unnoticed by those leaving the building at the rear.

The window cleaner, accompanied by his co-worker, left the upper storey by the fire exit. He had just opened the drain tap of a large drum, labelled "Surface Cleaner - Flammable", which poured silently down the marble internal staircase below the large, oval, stained glass dome.

In the courtyard “all present and correct” was recorded on the work sheet. Capitaine Beauclaire clasped his white gloves behind the rear flap of his immaculate uniform jacket, where they rested on his firm buttocks. He had allowed himself a slight smile of pride as he nodded to the two window cleaners, who briefly saluted as they left the yard. He did not see, of course, one of the window cleaners press a radio control button in his pocket as they drove away in their van from the street behind. Neither was he aware of the central stairwell of the empty building, now drenched in cleaning fluid vapour, erupting in flames.

The capitaine nodded his satisfaction to the sergeant and congratulated himself on the perfection of the turnout in neat rows with their backs to the headquarters building. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, a movement he found pulled in the already well-toned stomach muscles and added a vital centimetre or two to his stature when needed. He opened his mouth to start his customary lecture on aspects of discipline. His finely sculptured jaw, however, remained open as he and the sergeant watched the stained glass skylight from the stairwell explode, fountain-like, from the top of the building with a strangely muffled WRUMPH.

The assembled personnel were intrigued by the two men’s sunburnt faces gaping into space, illuminated by an unworldly orange light, but they knew better than to turn without the command. It was not until a shower of broken glass rained about them that they broke ranks.

The sergeant was the first to reach the door; he opened it, then quickly changed his mind, just in time to arrest a wall of fire that was bowling down the corridor towards him. The communication computer on the top floor had been rendered useless in the first few seconds of the fire and it took time for someone to rush to the nearest kiosk to call the fire brigade. They, of course, took some persuading to turn out, it being 8:00am on the first Thursday of the month, by which time the building was well ablaze.

The capitaine looked away from the destruction and studied his feet once more, watching with disgust as patches of unsavoury stains from the fire hoses spread up his crisp uniform trousers. Suddenly he realised how alone he was.

His long-time friend, the fire chief, walked almost leisurely over to where Capitaine Beauclaire was standing, a broad sympathetic grin on his face. ‘Not a lot else we can do, Jean Paul old man. They made a thoroughly professional job of it.’

He laid his hands on the capitaine’s tense shoulders in a comforting way that made the chief of the regional gendarmerie flinch.

‘Got to look on the good side though, my friend; at least your fire practice came in useful at last, eh?’

Beauclaire grimaced. Bile welled up in his throat and contracted his gorge into a suffocating knot that made him sob involuntarily.

‘Pardon, mon Capitaine, they’ve found the cleaners’ van,’ the young lieutenant panted out as he rushed to Beauclaire’s side, splashing through the puddles.

The capitaine showed no hint of understanding.

‘The cleaners’ van, Sir,’ the junior officer gently tried to nudge his chief’s memory, ‘the one used by the saboteurs; they found it at the train station.’

The gendarme stared balefully at the keen, young, intelligent face. Forcing his throat to respond he managed to speak. ‘So?’ he squawked.

‘They left all their working clothes and some gloves…’ the young man hesitated as he saw the cords on the capitaine’s neck tighten almost to breaking point, ‘… so no doubt it will be clear of prints.’

A small choke escaped his superior’s barely controlled face. Cautiously, the messenger continued.

‘There was a local stopping train for Toulouse that they could have caught…’ his eyes became transfixed by Beauclaire’s deeply cleft chin that was now jerking rhythmically, ‘… and left it at any station in the last half hour.’

Small ripples ran up and down Beauclaire’s jaw muscles. ‘They have got away, haven’t they?’ he croaked softly. ‘Bâtards!’

His embarrassed lieutenant bit his lip before nodding agreement to this assessment. ‘They left a message, Sir, at the van,’ the young man falteringly volunteered. ‘On it in fact, Sir, in spray paint.’

The capitaine’s eyes suddenly sharpened and, clearing his clogged throat with a rasping intake of breath, he demanded, ‘A message?’

The young man nodded reluctantly.

‘Well? What message? Speak, man!’

‘It was sprayed on the side of the van, Sir. On the left side…’

‘What did it say?’ Beauclaire whispered.

The young officer stiffened. Snatching a glance at the fire chief, he carefully read from the piece of paper in his hand:

"If Monsieur Propre can’t defend France, we will! FRF."

He spoke the words with great care as though reading from a tombstone.

Beauclaire reddened, his temples pounding. If there had been any doubt in his mind that his career was finished, this dashed his remaining hopes. ‘Connards! Bâtards!’ he spat out, flapping his immaculate white gloves violently against the seams of his trousers.

The lieutenant watched with increasing agitation; he had never before seen his chief exhibit emotion.

‘You know who they mean, don’t you? MONSIEUR PROPRE? Mr Clean? That’s me they are referring to. Me! You realize that? Eh? Connards!’

The young officer gave a hint of a nod.

‘And that blasted Arr...ch...hoid… This is what it is all about, Arsh...rhoid... Artch...oid... What an absurd English name for an absurd Englishman!’

He stamped the ground in a petulant rage, sending a spray of foul water over the younger man. The fire chief and the lieutenant exchanged awkward glances and found some reason to hurry off, leaving Beauclaire to his misery.

At this moment, when all his life’s training demanded that he should rationally assess the situation and act accordingly, he found that his only desire was to fight his way through the blood-red film that covered his vision and kick the shit out of some idiotic Englishman named Ackroyd. Kick him to a pulp. Then hunt down the unknown bastards who had destroyed his career, with the sole intention of ripping every vital organ from them with his bare hands. Compounding the torment that he fought was the overwhelming need to find a darkened corner and cry himself to death.

As Basil stamped off across the market square of Durac, a clattering called Sid’s attention to the vain attempts of a grey-bearded cyclist to prop up his machine against a lamppost outside. The third try met with some success and the tweed-jacketed gent entered the bar, furiously scrabbling through his pockets. Upon reaching the bar stool a crash from the road elicited a deep sigh and a shrug of his broad shoulders.

‘Effin’ contraption! Don’t know why I didn’t leave it on the effin’ floor in the first place.’ His hands eventually located a large and blackened pipe in a pocket. ‘Quelles sont les nouvelles, Sid? Our worthy commissar nearly flattened me just now. Some sort of crisis? Has he seen that Tony Blair looks like winning the election back home?’

‘Politics a bit nearer to here; it would appear he’s had a bit of a run in with Conseiller Leconte this morning.’ Sid slid a demi pression of beer in the direction of the newcomer, who was by now carrying out a detailed search of his trouser and cardigan pockets. The barman passed a box of matches to Herbert, bringing a grateful end to the frantic delving.

‘Ah ha! The wretched thorn in the side of free local government has found yet another petty point of order with which to beard our revered chief, has he?’ he asked the barman.

A long draught from the beer left a frothy half-moon to enhance the beaming grin spreading across Herbert’s bearded face.

‘Indeed, ’tis so, master clock mender, a little matter of a gendarmerie being razed to the ground by fire in our fine regional centre.’

‘Cor lummy! You don’t say? Mild-mannered Basil has resorted to torching more public buildings, has he?’

‘What’s this, darlings? Basil gone feral with his fire lust?’ cooed a blonde lady festooned in gold bracelets and beads, stretching her well-respected bosom over the bar to kiss Sid and turning to bestow similar favours on his customer. She sat at the bar and kicked off her shoes.

‘No, not directly, Julia. He has only been blamed for it,’ Sid said; he knew how to spin out a flimsy story.

‘Come on, man, spit it out. What’s the dirt?’ A vigorous cloud of smoke spread from the gnarled pipe of the clock mender.

‘Yes, Sidney my lover, do tell all.’ Long coral fingernails dunked a cube of sugar into a balloon of calvados.

‘Well it appears that…’ Sid was cut off in mid-sentence by the phone. ‘Hang on two ticks.’

‘He is infuriating, that patron of ours, don’t you think, Herby sweetie? I can’t imagine what possible connection there is between our dear old grumpy Mayor and a burnt-out police station. Can you?’

A smart man in immaculate cream slacks and linen shirt joined them. ‘His name across the front, that’s what.’ He swung an elegant leg over a bar stool, carefully positioned his handbag on a dry portion of the bar and swept his fine hands across his freckled brow to tidy his already neat, if receding, wispy hair.

Herbert grunted. ‘Blimey. What brings you in here at this hour, Guy? It’s a touch risqué for you to start this early, isn’t it?’

‘Couldn’t resist it, old boy. I just had to know if you had seen the news flash about the destruction of the headquarters of those delightful flics in Auchac.’ This last was directed at Sid, who had returned to his station behind the bar.

‘So it’s made the headlines, has it then?’ Sid asked.

‘Not half, mine host! Just a rosé if you could, Sid. Flames up to the sky, taking all before them, and bang in the middle, a very passable effigy of Basil Ackroyd with his name embroidered on his pinny.’

‘But they can’t blame him for that, surely, Sidney?’ Julia massaged her instep vigorously. ‘I mean, I know he just loves publicity, but that would be taking things just a teensy weensy bit too far, even for Basil.’

‘Ah ha! But the Conseiller Général, the silly queen Monsieur Leconte, is in on the act, isn’t he?’ Guy chortled.

Herbert snorted out a vast cloud of smoke and, raising his eyes to the ceiling, turned to Sid. ‘Come on, you tell us, what’s the connection? What did our leader have to say?’

‘He’s been in already, has he? I could tell he wasn’t in a good humour when I saw him kick Olga’s poor little dog as I went into Henri’s shop just now.’ Julia carefully pulled a small blob of mascara from one of her long eyelashes. ‘It’ll catch him unawares one day and give him a good dose of tetanus. Have you seen the state of its teeth?’

‘Do stop prattling on, Julia. Let’s hear what Sid’s got to say,’ Herbert said.

‘Who’s a grumpy old clock mender, then? You never used to be sharp with me, did you? Suffering post menopause depression are we, sweetie?’ She gently tweaked his bewhiskered cheek.

‘Get on with it, Sid; she’ll send me mad in a minute.’

‘Children! Children!’ Sid raised his hands for silence and recounted his conversation with Basil. ‘I can report that Mayor Ackroyd is indignant that he should attract either criticism or blame.’

‘He bloody would be, wouldn’t he? He’s never accepted the blame for any of his cock-ups, has he?’ Herbert said, and pushed his glass through yet another blast of smoke towards the beer pumps.

Sid went outside to arrange the tables and waved across the centre of the square to Olga. She was performing her morning ritual of cleaning the glass door of the pharmacy on the other side of the dirt patch. Sid obsessed about keeping his bar clean but that obsession did not extend to windows and other ‘housework’.

This patch of ground, used for games of boules, was surrounded by trees of great age. Olga flapped her duster at the blue sky with a smile that clearly expressed her contentment with the balmy weather. Sid sniffed the air as he looked around at the ancient town. Henri’s bakery wafted tempting hints of fluffy creations that mixed in with the passing hint of tobacco smoke. The boule park smelt of damp earth, lingering from the water emptied there after the cleaning of the pavement outside the newsagent’s. Here the rack of papers was being scraped across the ground to its place below a striped parasol, scattering a flock of pigeons that left a cascade of fine feathers as they circled up from the square to the church bell tower.

The old Priory was at its most charming, outlined by the morning sun. Below it the crumbling towers of Porte de l’Est overshadowed the only other street in this cramped quarter, Rue Grande Fosse. It cut directly down the side of the hill and its massively stoned pavé was climbable by only the most determined aged ladies who still lingered in this side of town.

Tucked in this side street, Basil made his way to an inconspicuous door with a brass plate by its side and was ushered inside. Carefully dropping a pistachio nut shell in the wastepaper bin, Abdul Bin Avay lent back in his chair and chewed reflectively as he studied his visitor.

Basil savagely bit the end off his cigar and seared its tip with the smoky flame that flared from the table lighter in the shape of an oil derrick. The dark room was poorly illuminated by an elaborate, pierced brass chandelier; its one small light bulb struggled to achieve a pale yellow colour. The only other light was shed on a mahogany table by a lamp with a green glass shade above a terracotta bust of Napoleon. To the side of the desk was a large, old leather armchair. Into this sank the Mayor of Durac, in a shower of small incandescent ash particles and a mist of white smoke.

‘Basil, my dear old friend, I am overjoyed to see you so early in the morning. On such a lovely day, too.’ Maître Abdul Bin Avay gestured to the faint shafts of sunlight that had managed to squeeze past the closed shutters. ‘Is this a visit of social dimensions or in the nature of official business?’ His hand hovered above the button on a large timer, which nestled among the piles of ribbon tied folders which filled his desktop and most of the room. ‘Perhaps you wish to seek my professional services?’

‘Keep your bloody hand off that meter of yours! I’ll tell you when you can start charging. What I want is a bit of off-the-record opinion, not another ruddy bill,' Basil told him firmly.

Abdul Bin Avay’s was the only legal practice in town and he was not ashamed to benefit from the monopoly. However, the Mayor had the services of the government legal offices at his disposal should he wish to use them. The lawyer’s discretion in matters borderline regarding political or judicial propriety assured that he received a degree of patronage from the Mayor when he did not wish to broadcast his affairs.

‘Quite so, Basil old chum.’ Abdul Bin Avay glanced at his watch nonetheless. ‘May I have the privilege to offer you coffee?’ This was not a question; a small boy had appeared and was already setting the cup and a glass of water on a brass-topped table beside Basil’s chair. The dark face of the notaire cracked into a crescent of gleaming teeth. ‘Not further trouble from that young lady tourist you helped out, I trust?’

‘Hell no! No, your letter seemed to do the trick there. No, this is serious.’ He heaved himself upright in the chair, only to sink back further into its leathery depths. ‘Have you seen the news this morning?’

‘The early morning one. I like to get around the tenants first thing before they get away. If I leave it to the evening, I’m lost. It is a most dreadful business to have to deal with the working classes, you know.’ The notaire shook his head sadly. ‘No morals at all. Tell me, have I missed an event of great importance? Beside that most dreadful attack on the gendarmerie?’

‘That, oh wise one from the east, is the matter in hand.’ Downing his cup in one gulp, Basil grimaced and spat back some grounds; he had never become used to Arabian coffee. He swilled his mouth with water, then recounted the morning’s pronouncements from the Conseiller Général. ‘What do you make of that, eh?’ he asked.

The grin had long since vanished and all that could be seen were two brown orbs glimmering in the gloom behind the desk.

‘This is indeed serious,’ came the considered reply. Basil could discern the feverish activity behind the intelligent eyes. ‘I assume you have no room for manoeuvre in this year’s municipal funding?’

‘Got it in one, my mystical mentor.’

A manicured hand slowly caressed the legal expert’s beak-like nose, creating a brief flash of electric blue light from the jewel-encrusted watch.

‘May I assume further,’ the brow creased slightly, ‘my closest of allies, that our small quasi-official joint venture in the field of regional development could be in jeopardy?' His eyebrows rose a further fraction as Basil expelled smoke towards the ceiling and nodded.

‘Worse than that, my old darling; if that tit Leconte manages to get the cuts in cash he is threatening, you and I may be faced with paying back some of that which we have borrowed from the municipal bank account.’

Abdul Bin Avay stood languidly and walked slowly to a heavily carved cupboard. Silently he poured a brandy, which he handed to the Mayor, and a lemonade, which he took back to his seat.

‘As you say, dear friend, worse indeed.’ He studied the bubbles rising in his glass. ‘Do I assume this could prove as big an embarrassment to you as it would to me?’

‘It is your ability to grasp complex concepts that endears you to me, Abdul. We are indeed embarrassed and I feel we must apply our collective intellect to problem solving. Don’t you agree?’

‘Indeed. One thing is certain beyond all doubt, is it not, Monsieur Le Mayor? We must forestall Monsieur Leconte’s aspirations.’

‘I agree, Maître Bin Avay. That bastard Leconte must be stopped at all costs.’

‘You can rely on me to apply my every waking hour to finding a solution,’ the solicitor said with determination. ‘First I will investigate any legal ways to achieve our aim.’

‘For my part, you can be assured, I will investigate all possible illegal means at our disposal.’

‘I expected no less from you, old chap.’ The solicitor patted Basil’s shoulder as he showed him out of the door. ‘I’ll call you when I’ve had a good poke around.’

Hurrying across the road towards the back door of the Town Hall, Basil noted a broken glass in a street lamp. ‘Does no one around here get their bloody eyes from the ground?’ he hissed through his teeth. He would have to arrange for the roads department to come and change it. Why do they think they deserve to be paid? he thought to himself. ‘Wages, huh!’ Little did the bloody slackers know it, but they would be dammed lucky to get paid next month if that tick Leconte carried on with his vengeance campaign. What was he up to? Did he really just want to make life bloody difficult, which without doubt he bloody well was?

A posse of cats skittered before him and dived over the wall into the gully of the La Grande Fosse. This quaint medieval relic was the main reason for the poverty of the area around the East Gate. Town planning in earlier years had been a pragmatic affair and it was well known that the prevailing wind blew from the west. Building a walled city, as it was in its heyday, required some provision for sanitation, particularly when the area experienced its occasional short periods of torrential rain. Naturally the open sewer that served this purpose was built to the eastern side, thus saving the populace the worst of its stench. Even more naturally the area around La Grande Fosse contained the least desirable real estate and attracted a lower class of medieval property development.

These considerations were probably more relevant to Durac than most early centres of population because it was the Moors who introduced the medicinal crop of senna pods; they had brought their civilization from Spain, across the majestic natural barrier of the Pyrenees which sparkled with snow the length of the horizon. This crop later filled the coffers of the worthy medieval burghers. Well-filled also were the rudimentary sanitary arrangements of the time and La Grande Fosse was kept in constant flood. This had a depressing effect on house values around the Porte de l’Est, values that had never really recovered to this day.

Within the town, the ancient burghers had built their gracious mansions to take advantage of the cooling winds and greater space afforded by the less steep western hill; their city gate was the Grande Portaille, a splendid edifice with two magnificent towers, one containing a bell tower. History does not recount why the town was later graced with a clock in the second tower; there was already a fine old clock in one of the two towers of the church clinging to the rock face of the town, facing the neighbouring community of La Boue. This wealth of timepieces kept the town horologer well occupied, maintaining synchronisation between the two.

The twisting streets were steep and went all the way up to the small priory at the summit of the plug of rock that was the town’s foundations. There was a large westerly terrace high over the rest of the town’s roofs, with ancient trees that offered welcome shade. This faced the prevailing westerly breeze, which made it a most agreeable place for the elders of the community to congregate in the hot evenings of summer.

When they first arrived in Durac, Basil and his father, Archibald, had acquired unoccupied buildings in the town from which they had secured profit in a variety of ways. Archibald had started from the top by passing long evenings drinking with the last remaining monk who had lived in the priory.

The order that ran the priory founded by Montague the Uncertain had had a somewhat dubious reputation and, in latter years, parents had been reluctant to enlist their young male offspring there unless they exhibited a definite bent towards their practices. Brother Julian, or Jules, as he preferred to be called, had been the sole occupant of the priory for some years after a terrible coach crash had killed all his brother monks on the way back from a vacation on a Greek island that catered for specialist all-male holidays. He had been suitably distraught when given the news, and to avoid unwanted press coverage went into solitary retreat for a time.

Truth be told, he had not been overly distressed, as he was invariably the one left behind when they went on holiday. Despite his earnest struggles with his soul, this had begun to piss him off considerably, so he had spent his solitary retreat cataloguing the substantial cellars of the monastery, for which he later obtained a handsome price in a confidential sale. He had retained a modest but quality cellarage for his own use and resolved not to enlist further brothers to the order. So it would have continued if Archibald, no mean wine lover himself, had not taken to sharing a glass or two with Jules on the broad green of the priory each evening.

One day Archibald sowed the seeds of an idea that later blossomed into a deal being struck between the two. A straight swap was arranged for the priory of Montague the Uncertain and a hotel for young men in Amsterdam that Archibald’s brother, Anthony, was keen to retire from for health reasons. The transaction was carried out with distant notaries and escaped just about everyone’s notice until Jules was administering to the needs of single youths in his Amsterdam hotel and Archibald had moved the builders in to the priory. He converted the priory into an old persons’ home, with the aid of generous regional and European grants. Over a period of time, he persuaded the aging residents of surrounding properties to sell their bothersome homes at nominal prices in return for a subsidized life of luxury in the priory. When he had reached full occupancy, he bludgeoned the regional authorities into taking over the upkeep of the home, by the simple expedient of threatening to close it down and sell the building to a hotel group.

It was from this direction that a golf cart now careered into the square and screeched to a halt under the trees. Raucous laughter accompanied the discharge of four elderly occupants, the last of whom had to be disentangled from his Zimmer frame.

‘Christ, here comes the Bradley gang; I’m off,’ Herbert grunted, as he downed the last of his beer. ‘Slate that for me, Sid,’ he called as he headed out past the giggling group whose entrance occasioned his departure. Bending to pick up his cycle, he shot into the air with a howl, as one of the newcomers poked him up the rear with his walking stick.

‘Morning, ducky!’ The assailant cackled as he slipped, as deftly as his age would permit, out of reach of the blow aimed at him by the clock mender.

‘I’ll bloody swing for you one day, you geriatric delinquent!’ Herbert roared as he scratched around in the gutter for his pipe.

The four were past him and busily arranging themselves at their habitual table by the time he rode off to open his workshop. ‘No respect for the older generation, that one,’ rasped the tobacco-ravaged voice of Ben Bradley, undisputed leader of the senior citizens. ‘Set ’em up, Sid, it’s been a long, hard journey.’

‘I’ve told you before, Ben: don’t come down that hill from the Priory with that car of yours out of gear. You’re a danger to pedestrians, belting in here at that speed. You nearly had poor old Martha on her back!’

‘Nah! Been there! Done that! Years ago. I tell yer, lad, it wasn’t worth the effort and all them gin and tonics.’

Two of the elderly men hammered the table in fits of laughter, whilst the third set up a tattoo on his Zimmer frame with a companion’s white stick.

‘Keep your voices down, lads. I don’t want any trouble this early in the morning,’ Sid said in a resigned voice, knowing that by lunchtime this table usually formed the centre of a general disturbance that only hunger would break up. ‘It only needs one more warning from Klaus and the Mayor will put speed bumps down the hill.’

‘What, our dear little Basil? Not him, Sid, not this month. From what we’ve just been watching on TV he has bigger problems to worry about.’ Ben snorted. ‘More in the line of a burning problem, eh, lads?’

‘You’ve seen the news then?’ Guy said.

‘Been more than the news there has; the Conseiller Général has been on and made a public broadcast, blaming our beloved Mayor for inciting riot. Then he went on to express “the regional assembly’s public disassociating” with Basil’s “extremist actions”.’

‘Golly, I bet that gets Basil steamed up a bit,’ Guy said.

‘If it don’t, then the next bit will; whingeing little git, Leconte, then said that he fully sympathized with the aims and aspirations of the FRF and their natural desire to express their views. He hoped it would not extend to burning any more public buildings to the ground.’

At this the four old men downed their glasses of rosé in unison as they cackled with laughter.

‘Same again, lads?’

‘Phoo! How does he cope with that lot?’ Julia exclaimed, heaving her shoes back on. ‘Must be off, dears; see you later.’

The clients of the Café du Centre observed her comfortably padded behind with silent admiration as she crossed the square to her boutique.

All except Guy, who had walked to the back of the bar where Sid had discreetly tucked his television away. Guy scanned the channels until he found the local station. A dark-haired man of silken smoothness, sporting a moustache that resembled that of a silent movie star, was talking earnestly to a young female reporter.

‘Oh I say, just look, he’s back on the box. Do come and see,’ he called to the daydreaming assembly of customers who had just been joined by the postman and the chief clerk from the bank. They turned their attention to the newscast, which was evidently being transmitted from in front of the smouldering carcass of the regional gendarmerie.

‘What action do you intend to carry out against the FRF, Conseiller Leconte?’

The seasoned politician shrugged his shoulders and looked deep into the lens. ‘Naturally we cannot condone any criminal act and we would like those who have carried out this outrage to surrender to the rule of law. But one must temper one’s judgement by considering the extreme provocation that is presented by the regional Mayor, who will not tolerate the natural desire of the French nationals to some self-determination in an area where they are an ethnic minority.’ He wagged a finger at the camera to emphasize the last few words.

‘Which particular form of self-determination do you refer to, Conseiller Leconte?’

‘The natural desires that any people would have for their native country, within which they find themselves a minority among strangers, of course. It is natural. These are proud people.’ He pouted his lips and spread his hands in supplication.

‘Don’t they have equal rights with all other members of Europe?’

With hardly a hint that he had heard the question, the man’s expression turned to abject apology. ‘I regret that is all I have time for at this critical time. I am sure you understand I have many things to attend to. Thank you.’ A brief and serious smile and he was gone.

The young reporter turned to the camera. ‘There we must end our special report for the moment, with a shock announcement that Conseiller Leconte intends to seek agreement with the Sous-Préfet to deduct the cost of rebuilding the gendarmerie from central funding to Durac.’

Sid leaned over and turned off the set as uproar burst out in the bar.

‘Sylvie!’ Basil bellowed as he sat at his desk in the Mayor’s parlour.

The secretary scuttled in through the ceiling-high doors that were set into the richly panelled walls. She skidded to a halt on the marble floor. Sylvie indulged herself in fashion and never ceased to amaze and charm Basil with the daring of the modern girl. She was good at her job, both charming and efficient - a well-rounded personality. Well rounded in every way, Basil mused. Ah, youth…

‘Good morning, my dear; what have I on the agenda for today?’

‘Nothing.’ With ineffective tugging movements she tried to tuck back a tress of hair that had fallen over her face, the half dozen silver bracelets on her wrist clattering loudly in the large room. ‘Except sorting out the VE parade details for Sunday, that is.’

‘God, is it that thing again? Copy last year’s will you, my dear? I’m going to be busy. Have you got last…’ He groaned inwardly as Sylvie shuffled the documents in her hand and stooped low to recover one that she had dropped, extending the elastic properties of her dress fabric to its design limits. ‘Err, um, you do have last year’s, don’t you?’ he croaked.

‘Got them in here, it’s no problem, but don’t forget your trousers.’ She passed him a docket. ‘They’re at the cleaner’s’. Your ceremonial trousers, remember?’

He accepted the receipt and tucked it in his top pocket. He always insisted on collecting his own dry-cleaning from the charming young lady who ran the shop that featured highly on his list of sites worth visiting.

‘Fine. Look, we’ve got work to do.’ He pointed at Sylvie with a stubby finger to add emphasis. It was good practicing his political gestures here, where he could just see his reflected image in the tall windows once he was seated behind his desk, which looked out over the town square. ‘We have a crisis on our hands.’

‘Coo! How exciting.’

‘Sylvie, you know I have always depended on you to support me in all that I strive for.’ He spread both hands out towards her.

‘Gosh, have you?’ she whispered softy.

‘Sylvie, the political pressures of serving our fine community have sometimes brought me low in spirit, but I have always been able to look at you and recharge my batteries, as it were.’ He clenched his fists to his chest.

Sylvie winced slightly and her top lip began to quiver. ‘Really? Are you all right? It’s not your age or nothing, is it?’

‘What?’ He had been in the act of rising slowly, arms stretching out as if to encompass the whole world. He was checked in his ascent. ‘What do you mean?’ He didn’t suffer interruptions to his inspirational outpourings lightly.

‘Nothing. Sorry. It’s just that me Mum keeps warning me to be careful because of your age.’

He stared at her firmly for an instant, his eyebrows forming a solid plank across his brow. Shaking his head slowly, he continued to rise from his seat and Sylvie stood her timid ground like a rabbit in a headlamp.

‘Sylvie, I don’t know what your mother is talking about. My age has nothing to do with this. I need you now more than ever before.’

‘That’s what she said I had to watch out for.’

Basil’s mouth hung open for several seconds. ‘What the hell are you talking about? I have a crisis and you keep babbling on about my age.’ His podgy hands rested firmly amid the papers on the desk before him and he glowered from beneath his beetled brow at the young girl. ‘My age has nothing to do with it! Kindly ask your mother to keep her nose out of my affairs.’

Sylvie bent over from her side of desk and wagged her finger at Basil. ‘She’s right, isn’t she? She said you would have a midway crisis and start talking smutty about affairs and things and now there you go doing it.’ She glowered at him with a moist lower lip defiantly pouting.

‘Midway what? Sylvie, we have a crisis regarding the community. The community! The community of Durac! It has nothing to do with me wanting a bloody affair with anyone. We’re having trouble at a municipal level - don’t you understand? I need you to do some bloody work.’

‘You don’t want no affair or nothing?’ The girl was obviously baffled and her lower lip curled downwards in a most provocative way.

‘No!’

‘Stupid bitch!’

‘What? Who?’

‘Me Mum! Always handing out free advice; she needs some herself, I reckon.’ Her slender shoulders slumped and she screwed her mouth wryly to one side. ‘Better get on with this work crisis thing then if you don’t want an affair.’

Basil looked at her in astonishment for a moment, then, taking a deep breath he straightened up. ‘Yes, where was I? Err, um, our fine metropolis is threatened by dark forces.’ His self-composure returned with the rhetoric. He glanced once more at his reflection in the window. ‘And our very way of life is in question by outsiders who could take all this away from us.’ He gestured to the room encompassing the Empire furniture and up to the splendid crystal chandelier.

‘They can’t do that!’ She slapped her sides and one shoulder of her dress slid down, exposing the mere hint of the plumpness of her breast.

Basil hesitated, but only briefly. ‘Exactly, Sylvie, and you must help me defend it for our proud citizens. You see, my dear, there are people outside our little community who seek to destroy our way of life, our very traditions.’

‘Are there?’

‘Yes, there are.’ He leant towards her and nodded his head slowly. ‘I need your help. Will you aid me in this desperate battle?’ His voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.

‘Oh, yes! Let’s get stuck in.’ A huge grin split her cheeks and, tugging her dress firmly back up onto a dainty shoulder, she proudly stuck out her chest. ‘I like a bit of action.’

‘That’s my girl.’ He strode around the desk and, placing his arm around her shoulder, slowly marched her around the room, looking down from time to time at her sparkling eyes to make sure he had her full attention. ‘Now, my dear, how is your older sister in Auchac, the one who works in the records department?’

‘Dorothée, you mean? Oh she is very well really, considering everything.’

‘Things are going well with her are they?’

‘Well, not really. Oh, I really shouldn’t say anything, but I’m sure you will keep it quiet, won’t you?’

‘Ha! What a question. Sylvie, my dear, you know me.’

‘Yes, well, of course. Well, she is having a bit of trouble over her husband. Well not over him, he is in a bit of trouble,’ she said in a confidential tone that did not lack a slight hint of relish.

‘I am devastated to hear that, my dear. Something they will be able to sort out I trust?’ They paced slowly around the marble column supporting the bust of De Gaulle.

‘Between you and me, I think they are in dead trouble. She found money was disappearing; she thought he had a bit on the side.’ She giggled. ‘Anyway she had a go at him and then he confessed. He is being blackmailed. It’s all terribly mixed up, I’m afraid.’

‘Blackmail? But they must go to the police, my dear.’

‘Yes, but that’s the worst of it. You see, it’s Inspector Gobblin, the Chief of the Auchac police.’

The Maire’s eyes widened to saucers and his moustache quivered violently as he desperately controlled his desire to grin widely. ‘Ah hem! Now, Sylvie, my sweetie, you know I will keep this strictly to myself. Are you telling me Inspector Gobblin is blackmailing your sister’s husband?’

‘Yes, it’s terrible, isn’t it?’ Sylvie said. ‘She don’t know what to do.’

‘What’s he got over… that’s to say, what did your brother-in-law do to get in this situation, my dear?’

‘Summit to do with drugs, I think; she wouldn’t say. You won’t breathe a word, will you? It’s a secret between me sister and me, but she needed to talk to someone.’

‘Quite so, Sylvie my dear; highly dangerous information.’ Especially, he thought, if used by an expert. ‘My dear, is there any way I could help this sister of yours, do you think?’

‘Not unless you could get rid of Inspector Gobblin. Not much chance of that, is there?’ She laughed.

Out of the mouths of babes, thought Basil. Inspector Gobblin was known to be eating out of the hand of Leconte. There must be some way of getting at the tick through the policeman and perhaps put a stop to Gobblin’s continued chuntering on about shooting at those bloody hooligans last year.

‘Who knows, my dear, who knows? It can do no harm to see what we can do. If your sweet sister could help me out with my current little problem, who knows what we may arrange, eh?’ He paused. ‘I just need to, er, find out a few personal details on our despicable Conseiller Leconte; a simple enough matter for Dorothée to run up on the computers at work, I’m sure.’

‘What sort of stuff are you looking for then? She gets to find out the strangest things where she works. You’d be amazed what people get up to,’ Sylvie said in an exaggerated whisper. They continued their stately stroll past the tapestries depicting the hunting exploits of the Dukes of Aquitaine. ‘I know she would help if you could put the screws on that pig, Inspector Gobblin.’

Basil looked down at her in mild amusement. ‘Put the screws on, eh? What a turn of phrase you have, my dear.’ He chuckled. ‘But you have a point. If the dear policeman is open to coercion it could help me to kick the ass of our charming Monsieur Leconte and perhaps aid your sister into the bargain. Let’s see what dirt she can find out. Anything could be of interest.’ He rubbed his hands together vigorously and grinned down at Sylvie. ‘This could be the most tremendous fun, don’t you think?’

With impeccable timing they approached the door and he propelled her from the room with a gentle squeeze of her bottom.

Leaning back on the closed door he surveyed his den, rubbed his hands together once more and chuckled quietly to himself.

‘Well, well! Whatever next, Monsieur Gobblin? A really corrupt police chief!’

Basil began to feel confident; perhaps he would be able to get out of this mess after all. He strolled slowly towards the ornate stone fireplace and inspected his fine moustache in the gilded mirror that flanked the chimneybreast. He had to admit that, despite having gained a small amount of bulk, he still had a very respectable presence, every inch the local political chief. A man you could trust. He had that on his side, much like his father before him. Well, perhaps not quite like his father; nobody trusted him and with good reason. Still, the old bugger got things done, nobody could deny that, even if his methods were open to suspicion at times.

Lindy Ackroyd floated on her back, listening to the birds singing in the trees and the pleasant gurgle of the fountains that played into the pool. Splashing some water in the air at a passing bug, she smiled at the cascade of light formed by the spray of droplets. The pool was in the grounds of a villa, built in 1957 by a wealthy Parisian in the style of a Spanish bodega, where Basil and his family had taken up residence after his marriage to Lindy. It was in a small area of suburbia by the road to Auchac, where the more affluent members of society had spurned the rustic charm of the medieval town for the comfort of modern or belle époque houses; most sported swimming pools and sizable, well-tended gardens.

The noise of a pick-up on the gravel drive snapped Lindy from her daydreaming. As she watched, her cleaning lady and close confidante jumped out and strode across the lawn towards the pool with energetic strides. She wished she could summon up that sort of vigour; Maria’s life was an endless bustle of things to get done.

‘Get organised, woman,’ Lindy said out loud.

‘Who, me?’ Maria asked as she sat on the edge of the pool and dangled her feet in the water.

‘Me,’ Lindy murmured to the sky.

‘How’s things?’ Maria’s olive-skinned face grinned down on Lindy as she kicked water over her face.

‘Nothing happened, as usual.’ Lindy swam to the side.

‘It got you talking to yourself, though. What d’you mean by “get organised”?’

‘I need to organise my life; it’s drifting past.’

‘Rubbish. You’ve got your life better organised than anyone I know.’ The stocky young girl handed Lindy her housecoat. Lindy shook her hair free of water like a labrador. ‘You never have to worry about anything. Well, almost nothing.’

‘Except Basil, you mean.’ Lindy laughed. ‘And how was your lord and master this morning?’

‘Too hung over to trouble me, thank God.’ Maria kicked the water again savagely.

‘I didn’t notice what mine was like this morning,’ Lindy mused as she draped the housecoat over her arm and strolled towards the house. ‘Not that it matters.’ She stopped to pick up a piece of one of the children’s construction toys from the lawn. ‘I’ll probably get the undiluted truth at lunch.’

‘That’s what I mean! You ain’t got no worries, you’re real organised. Everything worked out. You’ve even got that husband of yours just where you want him.’

‘No, you’re wrong, you know. I’m just kept apart from reality. He doesn’t think I’m able to arrange anything and you know he’s right.’

‘You started drinking already this morning?’ Maria took an exaggerated sniff of Lindy’s breath. ‘What about Pedro’s? Ain’t that organised?’

‘Basil will have a stroke if he finds out. God, all that money!’ They giggled together at the thought. ‘Any news from Pedro?’

‘He’s flying in tomorrow morning. All the orders are packed, so there are only the wages to do.’

‘I’ve got those ready; I’ll deal with them when I’m next at the airfield.’ Lindy added a pair of boy’s shorts to the increasing bundle of objects in her hand. ‘I suppose you’re right, but really, I must try and make more of my life, Maria. I’m not getting any younger and I’ve done nothing since I got married. Well, nothing worthwhile that is, except Pedro’s, and that’s half because of you. I would never have done it myself.’

‘What are you talking about, girl? It was you that suggested it in the first place.’

‘But you made me do it! I would have never dared.’

‘Only because that pig of a husband keeps you locked up like a mental case. Never even occurs to him that you can think. Look at the fuss when you first wanted to work there. All that rubbish; nonsense, it was.’

Basil had protested that it was not right for a wife of his to be working for a local trader, but Lindy had eventually persuaded him that it would give her an interest that was harmless and keep her out of trouble. He had been a pest for the first few months, constantly popping into the warehouse to check that no evil deed was in progress. She often thought he was genuinely disappointed at each unannounced visit to find her at the computer, busy with her work. Eventually he lost interest in her activities at the airstrip, as he did with most of her other activities, and ceased to visit; although he did keep up the constant “what you do there I can’t imagine, as if there aren’t things to do around the house”.

A yellow-eyed, wire-haired dog with a magnificent ginger moustache gambolled loose-limbed up to Maria and, placing his paws on her shoulders, planted a sloppy kiss on her protesting face.

‘Gerroff, Deefor! I wish you wouldn’t do that, you sloppy beast; you remind me of my old man.’ Maria sighed. ‘He’s just like that when he’s feeling sorry for himself. What with him and that bitching mother of his, it’s a joy to get here, away from it all.’

Lindy had taken a bottle of white wine from the fridge and was scuffling in a drawer. Maria passed her a corkscrew.

‘Thanks. Where was that?’ She was mildly surprised.

‘In the fruit bowl by the telephone.’

Slowly but expertly Lindy withdrew the cork and, holding two glasses in one hand, carefully measured out two equal level glasses

‘Yet another day.’ Maria grinned and set about the housework.

Through the French window, Lindy stared at the ornamental pool outside, with its grotesque pissing boy fountain playing water on its surface. It was beginning to really annoy her. Basil had chosen it, as he had chosen their house and furnishings when they were married. It was the last remaining disaster of his artistic endeavours.

‘What do I do about that horror?’ Lindy asked, almost to herself.

‘You’ll find a way, girl,’ Maria told her as she threw her the housecoat that Lindy had left draped over a door handle. ‘Same as you did the rest.’

‘He’s very proud of it.’ Lindy sighed and scraped the remains of breakfast into the bin.

‘He’s proud of everything. What’s got into you today, Lindy?’ Maria paused and lent on the handle of the broom. ‘Something happened?’

‘Nothing special.’ Lindy sat on the stairs. ‘My brother is coming through; made me think of the old home.’

‘Hey, you can’t go thinking about things like that, Lindy. Like me you’re here now and this is our life.’ Maria raised her glass. ‘It ain’t a bad life, is it? I wouldn’t go back to Portugal, that’s the truth.’

‘I know, it is good here, but my brother just reminds me, that’s all. He’s here for such a short time, passing through to see about the contracts. I’m meeting him at the airfield. I just hope Basil doesn’t take it into his head to go down there.’

‘You know, girl, you will have to tell that husband of yours one day. He’s bound to find out some way or another,’ Maria said.

‘I should have told him when we started, like you’re always telling me, but he would have found a way to stop me or, worse, try and take it over.’ Lindy laughed and finished her glass. ‘I took the easy way out as usual.’ Standing, she made her way upstairs, mulling over the situation.

Basil had taken all the decisions since they were married and she had too easily slipped into the habit of sitting to one side, mutely uninvolved. Typically, Basil construed this as confirmation that she really couldn’t understand what he was talking about and could be safely ignored on all subjects outside simple domestic arrangements. Well, thank God for his blind conviction. She had learned a great deal about making a penny or two from those endless hours listening to him scheming his way through life.

She tried to remember where she had left her housecoat. Here she was, living the life of Riley, why should she worry? Get organised. Huh, it wasn’t yet eleven thirty, housework done as best as it was going to be, and the rest of the day to herself. She slipped into a dress and was ready to go to lunch up the hill. She found the housecoat where she had left it at the bottom of the stairs.

‘I godder rush, Lindy,’ Maria called, clearing away the cleaning utensils.

‘Ta-ta Maria, love to mother-in-law.’ Lindy pecked her on the cheek.

‘Ha! The cow.’ Maria slapped Lindy on the rump. ‘Get yourself organised now!’ she shouted back as she sped down the hall to her vehicle. She gunned the pick-up away along the driveway of Ackroyd House, as Basil had modestly named it.

Lindy watched her leave and surveyed the house with some sense of contentment, which she could not understand, given that she had the desire for more in life. In the kitchen, Lindy washed up the glasses by hand and tucked them safely away from Basil’s view in the cupboard. She lobbed the empty bottle in the bin outside. Kissing the cat on the nose as it slept on the hallway table, she swept out of the house with a wicker basket over her arm and the dog trailing along behind her. Back in her usual high spirits, she set out to make the climb up through the West Gate to town.

Henri, the boulanger, was standing at his shop door on the corner when Lindy entered the square. He greeted her and kissed both her cheeks, as did the postman who was sorting through his bag on the back of his scooter outside the pharmacy on the opposite corner.

‘How that fart Ackroyd hooked her, I will never figure. Cor, what a handful!’ Blind Bill mused, hiding behind dark glasses at his café table.

Lindy turned with a sunny smile and waved across the square.

‘You’ll get yourself locked up one day with that act of yours, Blind Bill. Just you try it on my missus and see what happens,’ Sid warned.

‘No chance of that, Sid. No offence, like, but I saw what she did to you when you goosed young Francesca at the Bastille Day party.’

‘Don’t remind me, Bill. I still get an ache that side of my teeth sometimes.’

Lindy’s gently swaying hips pulled at the thin white cotton of her dress as she crossed to Josephine, the burly vegetable stallholder, who was setting up her wares. Wiping her hands on her apron, Josephine planted kisses on Lindy’s cheeks, and whispered something in her ear. Lindy burst into laughter and slapped Josephine affectionately across the bottom. She turned to look in the direction of the butcher, who was parking his van. As she passed, he threw out a bone for the dog.

‘No joking, though, what the hell did she see in him? You would have thought she would have dumped Basil by now and gone off with some young charmer,’ Fred chimed in, leaning his chin on his Zimmer frame.

‘Someone like you, I suppose?’

‘You know what I mean. She must be easily twenty years younger than him.’

‘Never. I heard there was only ten years in it.’

‘Ruddy hell, it’s difficult to tell who has had the best life. Old Basil must have gone some to look as old as he does. It can’t all be down to giving her a good time; she looks as bright as a button.’

Lindy’s hair swung in thick corn tresses around her shoulders, held in place by spangled grips just behind neat little ears that sported large button earrings of canary yellow, which matched her canvas shoes.

‘It’s not as though he cares a tuppenny hoot about her,’ Fred persisted. ‘It’s a ruddy waste. He wouldn’t notice if she ran off; unthinking bugger couldn’t -’

‘I don’t know, mate; what about the summer fête when there was all that trouble with the village hall? He got right upset then.’

‘Rubbish! That was just jealousy. He didn’t really care a toss; just got uppity with those lads, that’s all.’

‘He did that!’

‘Blowing raspberries at him.’

‘And telling him to speak better French. I thought he’d piss himself.’

‘What about when he saw Lindy with them tits of hers hanging out, free as -’

‘That’s enough now, lads, keep it clean!’ Sid interrupted, looking around the table top. ‘Come on, hand it over. Is it you, Ben? Is it you who nicked the rosé bottle?’

‘Sharp about it, lads!’ Ben shouted suddenly. ‘The car!’

Sure enough, their electric buggy was gradually disappearing from view as the market was erected about it.

‘Oi! Hang about! Wait for us!’ Ben Bradley hollered as he rushed over to recover the vehicle, hotly pursued by his companions, who dragged Fred with them, Zimmer frame clattering along behind.

‘Don’t think you’ve got away with it!’ Sid called after them. Looking down, he saw the bottle sitting innocently back on the table, slightly less full than when he had last seen it. He laughed softly.

The morning for Capitaine Jean Paul Beauclaire had got worse. He was standing indecisively on the pavement, churning his mounting list of woes over in his mind, when a firm hand patted him on the shoulder.

‘Cheer up, Beauclaire, my old friend. Come and have a plateful of oysters; that will put things in perspective,’ urged the fire chief, who had been walking towards his favourite lunchtime restaurant when he had come across the disconsolate capitaine.

‘Tiens! Things are in perspective all right; misery stretching into infinity.' Beauclaire sighed as he fell into step with his lunchtime companion.

‘Not like you to be defeatist, Beauclaire,’ The older man snorted. ‘You normally have a contingency plan tucked up your sleeve.’

‘I had never envisaged events like today’s.’ Beauclaire gave a sharp laugh. ‘Facing up to one’s imperfections is a harsh lesson, isn’t it?’

‘Not for me, old chap. I have to run through a catalogue of them each day from the missus. You should try getting married.’

‘No, thanks all the same, things look bad enough as they are.’ Beauclaire sighed deeply once again. ‘Besides, I have my career, or used to.’

‘Ah! Yes, the gendarmerie; your real love, eh? That’s your trouble, you know, you’re married to the force.’

His companion was right. He should have a woman to turn to. After all, he had nothing else now.

‘What were you doing coming out of the police HQ? Reporting a crime?’ The fireman laughed.

‘That is not even remotely funny, you know. I have been forced to use Gobblin’s facilities whilst I make arrangements of my own. It is not pleasant, I can tell you.’ The gendarme shuddered.

‘God! Poor old you. I mean that sincerely, old man. That Gobblin is the absolute bottom of the barrel. I can’t stand the creep. Who would be a policeman if that is what you have to be like to make Chief Inspector?’ The fireman spat in the gutter.

‘Yes, thank goodness I’m a gendarme and don’t have to get mixed up with that sort of scum,’ Beauclaire said with feeling. ‘Not that I’m liable to get much further where I am. I’ll probably lose the job.’

‘After all you have given.’

‘Yes, I took great pride in my service on behalf of…’ Beauclaire’s eyes welled with tears and he sniffed loudly He could not go on. How could he put into words that he had striven to perform his work with precision and correctness? ‘Now that self-same blind obedience has, I realise, probably ruined my career today.’

They walked on in an embarrassed silence for a short while, until they reached the café where they ordered seafood and a bottle of Pouille Fumé before resuming their conversation.

‘So what happens now, Beauclaire, old lad? Have you got to camp out with the police for a bit?’

‘I’ll have to; I can’t use my blasted communications at present. It’s so humiliating!’ Capitaine Beauclaire shook the useless handset in a gesture of feeble anger. ‘The frustration is I’m forced to go to this detestable Gobblin for assistance. A man I despise for his undisciplined character and lack of moral fibre, but I have no choice, and the brutish oaf gloats throughout.’

This outburst caught the fire chief a little off balance; regarding other officers, Beauclaire had always been the most self-controlled of men.

‘Well, I know the man is a slimy character, but I didn’t know you felt quite so strongly about him.’

Beauclaire snorted. ‘I am sure Gobblin actually likes the squalid morass of criminality and the befouled pile of noxious sub-humanity that commit petty misdemeanours.’

The fire chief raised his eyebrows. ‘Whereas you?’

‘Conversely,’ Beauclaire huffed. ‘I have far more consequential affairs to consider; at least, usually I have, but today was different. Today I had to seek aid from that common policeman, a man of no qualities discernible to me, except his well-known technique of toadying to the Conseiller Général, to whose patronage he owes his position.’

His dinner companion observed him intently over the rim of his glass and managed to suppress a smile. ‘He’s not being very helpful, then?’

‘On the contrary; he could not be accused of not co-operating. He was, in fact, the essence of fawning assistance, but he gloated as only a Gascon can. The most humiliating part of the whole fiasco was when the Ministère de la Défense called Gobblin’s office this morning on his encrypted line, and asked to speak to me. Instead of doing the decent thing and leaving the room so that we could converse in private, as a gentleman would have done, what did Gobblin do? He put the call on speaker so that every word could be heard! God, how I would like to forget the indignity of that call.’

Beauclaire’s face coloured and he stared blankly across the smoky dining room as the full horror of it came flooding back to him.

‘Beauclaire, are you there?’ the Ministère de la Défense had asked.

‘Yes, Ministère, it is I.’

‘I am told you have lost your headquarters. Is it true?’

‘Yes, Ministère, it is true. ‘

‘This is not very satisfactory is it, Beauclaire? I do not find this very comfortable from a political standpoint. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, Ministère, I do.’

‘I understand there is nothing left. I believe you had seventy five fully trained personnel standing to attention whilst two window cleaners destroyed a multi-million Euro command centre before your eyes. Am I correct?’

‘Yes, Ministère, you are.’

‘Fine. I have considered the situation and have discussed it with the chairman of the Conseiller Général, Monsieur Leconte. He is inclined to apportion a degree of blame onto the Mayor of Durac, whom he feels incited this outrage by his unprovoked attack on their supporters last year in a local incident. He feels that arrests should be made and the whole matter thoroughly exposed in a court of law to ensure the full political implications are made plain to the public. However, I personally do not endorse his views. Do you understand what I am saying?’

‘Yes, Ministère, I think I do.’

‘Good. Then understand my wishes. Find the terrorists and deal with them as we always have done. I want no one standing up in court and causing me political grief. Do it quickly. Do not cock it up. Do I make myself plain?’

‘Yes, Ministère, perfectly.’

The line had then gone dead and Gobblin had smirked and tapped the side of his nose.

‘My! I didn’t know you were on chatting terms with the Ministère.’

Now Beauclaire had gone into a hypnotic-like trance and the fire chief coughed to attract his attention.

‘You’re not getting a bit of a bee in your bonnet about this Gobblin are you? Won’t do to get in a fuss about everything, old lad.’

Beauclaire shook his head and managed a thin smile. ‘No. No, you’re right. I must retain a sense of proportion, of course. Hey, you old pig! You’ve nearly finished the oysters.’

Although Beauclaire had to force himself to control his emotions, he could still recall how he had implored God to destroy Gobblin and that alien Mayor of Durac and erase all that they had done to make life so miserable. But now, seeing his friend shovelling seafood into his generous face, he realised that, in fact, things might be worse and it was, after all, a gloriously sunny day and he really should not spoil his lunch.

Lunch with the family was an institution that Basil was most insistent should be observed. He owned the Basilac Spaghetti House in the square, an enterprise he had formulated whilst he was spending his third and last year attempting to pass his second year exams at Rome University. He had been particularly proud of the name. However, he took no pride in the food, which he approached as a problem to be overcome at the minimum cost. Few of the tourists enjoyed the food; not that Basil minded, because they normally only stayed one day.

‘Where is Daddy?’ Lindy asked young Jimmy and his elder sister, Wendy, as she passed them on the way to the restaurant kitchen. She handed Deefor’s lead to them and brushed a lock of hair from the young boy’s face. The children ignored her and continued poring over a sports game.

‘Bloody geriatrics! Euthanasia is too good for the lot of them.’

Lindy stood at the kitchen doorway and watched her husband with raised eyebrows. He extracted plate after plate of pasta from a steam-warming oven and attempted to squeeze the sauce back into a large pan, then flung the pasta into a colander in a sink. ‘Don’t blasted well help, will you? Rinse that lot and put it back in the fridge.’

It was evident that he was not in a mood to be trifled with and Lindy rolled up her sleeves and did as she was bidden.

‘I expect you want to know why I’m doing this, don’t you?’

‘I’m sure you have a reason, darling.’

‘That blasted old folks club from Bragnac are supposed to be coming for lunch.’

‘Oh, is that it?’

‘No it isn’t; that’s the blasted point! Blasted coach must be as decrepit as they are. It’s broken down and they don’t know when they will arrive. Well, they can damn well eat this lot when they get here, even if it’s tomorrow. I can’t afford to waste food.’ He threw the last of the pasta in the sink and scraped the final drops of sauce from the plates. ‘What a flaming day!’

‘Yes, darling.’

‘Don’t “darling” me! Stavros! Stavros! Where is the blasted half-wit? Probably spaced out on his twentieth spliff of the day. Stavros!’ Basil washed his hands of the red sauce and stormed around the room, vainly searching for the towel which Lindy was holding.

‘Vai?’

A tousled-haired individual mysteriously appeared, propped up against the doorpost to the yard. He sported a gigantic, spiky ginger moustache that bore traces of the standard red sauce that accompanied every dish in the house.

‘There you are! Where the hell have you been?’ Spying the towel, Basil wrenched it from Lindy’s hand.

‘Hout,’ the chef replied.

‘The almost dead from Bragnac are delayed; reheat their grub if they ever get here.’

Rubbing his hands on his stained, off-white t-shirt, the chef appeared in two minds about going home to bed or returning to the kitchen. He yawned, slowly scratched his rib cage and remained wedged against the doorpost.

‘DID YOU HEAR?’ Basil bellowed.

‘Vai.’

‘I give up! Come on, woman, I need a stiff one.’ Pushing Lindy before him, he aimed for the bar.

There were one or two early season tourists in the dingy room. An open-faced young waitress, with practically no clothes on save a white apron, was taking some orders. An oriental man was peering at the complex array of bottles arrayed along the back of the bar.

‘What do you want?’ the proprietor demanded.

‘Nothing. Thank you.’

‘Go and sit down then, and wait for the waitress.’

‘Thank you,’ came the enigmatic reply.

‘My pleasure. Now do as you’re told and go and sit down please.’

Basil turned away and set out a tray containing bottles of gin, tonic and brandy. He marched over to the table at the rear of the restaurant where his family were seated. As he placed the tray on the table, Lindy reached across and expertly poured herself a large gin and tonic in one fluid movement, using both hands. She consumed half of it before putting it down on the table.

To no one in particular, she asked, ‘Where is Willy?’

The youngest boy burst into a snigger and his sister kicked him savagely.

‘For God’s sake, woman, can’t you use his proper name? It’s William. You make him sound like something from Mills and Boon.’

‘Yes, darling. Where is he, Jimmy?’

The young boy continued to splutter with mirth.

‘James, not Jimmy!’

‘Yes, darling. Well, where is he?’

‘He’s behind the - OW!’ His sister had given him a hammer blow to the arm.

‘Here he is,’ Wendy said, pointing out the middle son who had stumbled into the room, hurriedly tucking in his shirt.

‘Don’t hit Jimmy like that, Wendy,’ Lindy said.

‘Dammit all, I give up woman! How many times do I have to say it?’

‘Yes, darling, I know; James, Gwendolyn and William. Where have you been, Willy?’ She received only a foolish grin for a reply.

‘What was it like?’ the youngest boy whispered.

‘What was what like?’ his mother demanded.

‘Nothing, he’s being daft, Mum.’ Wendy punched young James hard on the other arm and a general uproar ensued.

Lindy topped up her glass and stared thoughtfully at her eldest son. The arrival of food and wine ensured complete silence for several minutes as all but Lindy fell upon the food. She noted with interest, as she observed him over the rim of her glass, that William, unusually, had three helpings of pasta.

‘What a flaming day,’ Basil sighed, as he eventually pushed his plate away and wiped the sauce from his face.

‘So you said, darling.’

‘I don’t suppose you have even noticed, have you?’

‘No, darling.’ Lindy lent over and carefully wiped the red sauce from the two extremities of her youngest son’s face and shirt.

‘“No, darling”.’ Basil sighed deeply once more. ‘The end of the world would be a surprise to you. If you looked outside and the air was full of flaming ash and firestorms, the countryside aflame and lava engulfed the world, would you notice? No! Have you noticed the end of the world? “No, darling” is the best I would get out of you.’ Lindy blinked at him in incomprehension. ‘Oh! Forget it, woman, you wouldn’t understand anyway.’

Shrugging slightly, she emptied the last of her glass. ‘Yes, darling.’

He slumped in his chair and stared unseeingly around him. ‘What a day,’ Basil repeated.

‘Yes, darling.’

CHAPTER TWO

Basil slammed the door to the Mayor’s parlour behind him, grabbed the phone and called his henchman, Marcel. Marcel carried out the contracting work for the council; his building firm relied upon this work for its major income.

‘Marcel, you and I have got to talk urgently. Get here as soon as you can manage it, ok? But sooner if possible.’

Hardly had the handset touched the cradle when it rang. Basil scowled; he hated answering the phone but he knew that his secretary, Sylvie, would not have arrived back from lunch yet. In the end, exasperated by its ringing, he picked it up.

‘Yes?’ He intended to give nothing away.

‘Is that Mayor Basil Ackroyd by any chance?’ The voice was warm, elegant, feminine and French - an irresistible combination to Basil.

‘Who wants him?’ He had a sudden dread that it was the press, who Sylvie had managed to keep at bay all morning.

‘Claudine Dubois, of the Agatha Assurance Agency.’

‘What’s it about?’ There it was again, that desire to continue talking to the seductive voice, though half-suspecting it was a sales pitch.

‘I need to come and get the insurance claim for the recreation hall fire settled. Is that Mayor Ackroyd I am talking to?’

Thank god! He was in desperate need of the cash from the insurance claim.

‘It is indeed, my dear. How pleasant to talk to you,’ he said with sugary smoothness. ‘Now, let me see, when could I fit you in? Would this afternoon be convenient?’

‘Well, I had not expected to be with you that early, but I could change my itinerary if it would suit you.’

‘How wonderful. Will it take long?’ He gave the handset his most winsome smile.

‘Difficult to tell. Perhaps I had better arrange for a hotel just in case I need to stay over.’

‘No need, my dear. I will book you a room at Les Trois Gousses, our finest hotel. So I will see you this afternoon?’

‘In about half an hour.’

As he put the phone down he heard Sylvie come into her office. He poked his head around her door and smiled broadly.

‘Sylvie, my dear, how charming, you’ve changed since this morning.’ He liked to take a personal interest in his staff.

‘Do you like it?’ She half-turned so that Basil could see the rear more clearly as well.

‘Delightful, my dear. How on earth does it stay up?’

‘Oh, it’s got these little -’

‘NO! No need to show me, my dear. Now, I want you to block that blasted press mob again. I have a lady coming about the recreation hall insurance later - by the name of Dubois - and Marcel. Anyone else, unless you know them, must think I am attending my mother’s funeral.’

‘But your Mum died years ago, didn’t she? Haven’t you buried her yet?’

‘It’s a way to let me stay away without them thinking I am hiding; you understand, my dear? An honourable way to tell a fib.’

‘OK, Mr Mayor! Trust me to defend your honour.’

‘Saucy young lady! Watch out for those reporter types now.’ Basil beamed at her once more and returned to his office. Pulling out his personal address book, he furrowed his brow and set about his campaign.

‘Sid, how are you? And Veronique and the dog?’

Laden with bags, Lindy slumped at a table in the cool interior of the Café du Centre and rewarded Sid’s welcoming kisses with a sunny smile.

‘Very well, same as ever and arthritic, in that order, thanks. There you go, Deefordog.’ He put down an ashtray of water. ‘The usual mouthwash?’

‘Please. It’s been a long lunchtime.’

Sid produced a very tall gin and tonic. ‘His lordship on his usual sparkling form today, was he?’

‘He seemed to be rambling a bit more than usual.’ Lindy laughed.

Sid grinned and began to polish the tables. ‘He’s got a lot on his mind today, I expect.’

‘You may be right, Sid. I try not to take any notice - life seems easier that way.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Sid collected a tray-load of glasses and went behind the bar. ‘Bye the bye, Sandie McVee called in earlier and said to tell you she will take you home from her house in the pick-up, if you don’t mind cycling there.’

‘Thank goodness for that. I’m going to collect a 20 litre box of wine from her and it’s a pig to balance it on the back of the bike.’

‘I don’t know why you don’t get a car, Lindy, what with the family and all. Surely Basil isn’t that mean?’

Lindy waved her hand at him in mock horror. ‘Lord, I wouldn’t dare ask. Anyway it’s nothing like that. It’s just that I can’t drive, Sid.’

‘Get away! It’s never occurred to me that anybody couldn’t drive in this day and age.’

‘No, my ever protective master set his mind against it right from the beginning. Maintained I didn’t have the right mentality for it. I gave up asking in the end.’

‘Blow me! Couldn’t you take lessons on the QT, like?’

‘It’s not worth it, Sid. There’s only Francois Lefebvre’s school and he’s as thick as thieves with Basil.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to drive, though?’

‘Oh yes. I’d love to go to Toulouse and other places. I never get taken to art galleries or concerts. Still, there you go, that’s life.’ She got up, paid Sid and made off for home.

He rested his elbows on the bar and sighed, shaking his head slowly.

‘Still got the hots for Ackroyd’s missus have you, boy-oh?’ A small, stocky man with greased-down black hair and wearing baggy khaki shorts appeared at the bar.

‘Don’t be crude, Di. I just think she gets a raw deal. What’ll you have?’

‘Pastis, please. She is married to a creative genius.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Haven’t you read the latest town newsletter?’

‘Glanced through it, like. Why?

‘Did you digest the annual financial report?’

‘Can’t say I did.’

‘You should, Sid. It’s a work of outstanding fiction that would do justice to the likes of Tolstoy. He’s a creative genius, I tell you.’

‘You should know, Dai Jones, being an expert on literature and all. Why aren’t you at school anyway? They haven’t closed down early today have they?’

‘No, not at all. I’ve got to go and see my dear brother to arrange a minibus for some of the brats to go to a museum of cave paintings. Must be off. How much do I owe you?’

‘That’s all right, Jonesy, have it on me. Tell you what, though, could you do me a favour?’

‘For a free pastis I’m yours, boy-oh. Be gentle with me though.’

‘Could you ask your brother if he could teach someone to pass their driving test in one of his taxis? On the quiet?’

‘What’s wrong with old François?’

‘Badly connected: wrong mates.’

‘Ah! Do I smell a whiff of perfume in the air? He’s a great buddy of our Basil, isn’t he? It’s little Mrs Hot-Lips, isn’t it?’

‘Forget it, Jonesy, if you’re going to be smutty.’

‘Now, now! Don’t be so sensitive, Sid. Of course I’ll ask him, and mum’s the word, don’t you worry.’

As he tidied the cigarette packets behind the bar, Sid had a sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach. He had no doubt he was letting himself in for a lot of trouble. Just then his wife came in, effortlessly carrying a 25 kilo bag of potatoes under one arm and an aged poodle under the other. Yes, Sid thought, I must be careful.

The object of his thoughts was, by this time, on her bicycle travelling the road southwards. Once clear of the houses, she put her feet onto the frame and, tucking her dress between her legs, sped downhill with nothing but the noise of the tyres on the tarmac and the dog galloping by her side to compete with the birdsong and crickets. Spring flowers, fields and vineyards flickered past through the gaps between the trees lining each side.

A cock pheasant strode pompously into the road and, seeing the descending charge of bicycle and dog, lost his cool and fled the scene in a flurry of wide-eyed squawks and lost feathers, hotly pursued by Deefor, who abandoned the chase almost at once. The dog knew the futility of birds. He and his mistress careered downwards past the lake. An old man leaned on a hoe between his crops, laughing as he watched Lindy peddling into the distance.

Turning through a huge pair of stone gateposts that stood alone, rather self-consciously, at the side of the road, Lindy pelted down the dusty driveway between the neat rows of vines. Deefor sprinted ahead; he was on territory he knew well. Before he could reach the barn that marked the entrance to the farmyard, a golden labrador and a small white terrier of sorts met him at full pelt, barking and yelping, old friends frantically wagging tails.

In the yard a handsome woman, with red hair drawn back and a face covered in pale freckles, stood on the doorstep of the large farm. Fig trees, vines and bougainvillea cascaded from the walls of the spotless yard. Doves scattered as Lindy lent her bicycle against the wall.

‘You only just made it in time, girl,’ Sandie called.

Lindy followed her through the dark hallway. A grandfather clocked ticked solemnly and the walls were lined with Victorian oils of Scottish scenes. They emerged from the other side of the house onto a bricked terrace; it overlooked the slope to the river which formed a tree-lined wide arc before them. The river was as smooth as a mirror, save where it swirled around tree roots and the fish snapped bugs from the surface.

A table on the terrace held five glasses and two decanters, one draped in a moist muslin cloth. The women sat down and Sandie carefully poured straw-coloured wine from the chilled decanter into two glasses. Smiling at each other they performed an oft-enacted, solemn ceremony, slowly revolving their glasses in front of the sky to admire the colour, then lowering the rims to their noses; they slowly swirled the soft liquid, inhaling deeply. Pursing her lips, Lindy nodded gravely and Sandy nodded in affirmation.

‘Á ta santé.’

‘Á la tienne.’

They clinked their glasses lightly together, then inclined them towards the fifth glass, which was always set out for the husband who lingered in the Toulouse Teaching Hospital. They both gently took a sip. Holding the liquid for a second for the flavour to burst, they swallowed.

‘Good drop of plonk that, don’t you think, Lindy lassie?’

Nothing stirred, not even the westerly breeze, until suddenly the three dogs could be seen breaking cover from the vineyard and streaking for the river.

‘Bang goes the floor polishing.’

They sat in silence for some time, watching the birds and insects.

Sandie draped the muslin napkin over the white wine and poured two fresh glasses of pure ruby wine. This also was inspected, savoured and then drunk.

Lindy gave a sharp laugh. ‘Basil does talk such nonsense sometimes. Do you know, he went on about the countryside erupting in fire or something. I wasn’t really listening and didn’t have the heart to ask him what he meant.’ She stared with half-closed eyelids at the distant meander of the river. The dogs were returning, trailing a spray of water droplets that glittered in the sun. ‘I don’t know. I suppose deep down I must love him.’

‘You must. There is no other possible explanation.’ Sandie let out a disgusted snort.

‘He’s the only man I’ve ever really known, Sandie. I was sixteen, and he was a shining knight who saved me from a life of boredom. That’s what I thought I wanted and what I thought I had found. I know it’s difficult to believe.’ She helped herself to another glass of red wine.

‘What’s happened to set this off?’

Lindy held her glass at eye level; the sun reflected off the surface of the wine and into her face for brief seconds before she replied.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I saw today that the kids are growing up; it set me thinking. When Basil strode into my life I wasn’t much older than them. He was a chance of freedom and I really did love him then and I thought he loved me.’ She laughed softly. ‘Perhaps he did… I don’t know.’

‘He hasn’t looked at you as anything but a possession since you married him,’ Sandie snorted. ‘And you know it!’

‘I suppose that’s possible.’

‘It is so. It’s such a pity. I’ve watched it ever since he brought you here.’

‘Don’t, Sandie! I hate to be an object of pity. It’s not at all like that.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that, Lindy.’ Sandie reached out and held Lindy’s hand. ‘You forget, lassie, we were here long before they arrived; watched it all. A pair of rogues, his father and Basil were.’

‘Sandie, I’ve been thinking a lot recently about why I’m still here.’

‘Hmmm! Tell me then, lassie.’

‘Basil has done some things in the past that no one here knows about. Don’t ask me about them.’ Lindy waved her hand to fend off the inevitable question. ‘It may seem strange, but I feel safe with him, even though he’s totally unpredictable.’

Sandie sat and stared at Lindy for some moments and then leant over and felt her forehead. ‘You’re sickening for something; you’re not thinking straight,’ she said. ‘Time I took you home. Put the bike in the pick-up and I’ll fill up the wine vrac.’

The square livened up when the first of the reporters arrived outside the Town Hall after lunch, eager to follow up the story on Basil. They caused quite a stir straight away by blocking the front of Josephine’s vegetable stall and were moved on bodily by her with the help of several cuffs around the head. As a result, the crews congregated in front of the fish-stall; the owner managed to rid himself of them by spraying them with water and crushed ice. They retreated up the steps to the Town Hall and, after hammering on the door, started to harass Sylvie, much to the disgust of the market traders and townsfolk.

Inside the Town Hall, Basil had planned to phone around his political contacts throughout the region and call in a few favours in his fight to avoid the threatened regional grant cuts. He had soon found that he had gravely miscalculated the amount of favours he had in his account. Wim Plott, the Dutchman responsible for organising public works for the regional department, had typified the response. Basil winced as he listened to him.

‘Do you a favour? Come off it, man! You have forgotten last time, yes? I get you out of the shit about the missing gravel you somehow mislaid on the roadworks on the way to Condom. Then you have the goddamn nerve to charge me for collecting it!’

‘Come on, old boy,’ the somewhat flustered Basil protested. ‘Transport comes off a different account. I didn’t think it would hurt you any.’

‘That’s not the goddamn point is it, though? You left me to explain it to the Brussels auditors, didn’t you? Anyway, you can fight your own battles, yes. Your farting around with the FRF has given me problems enough; they have been covering the whole damn department with graffiti about you. You offering to foot the bill for the clean-up? That will be the day!’

‘Come off it, Wim. You can’t blame me for that.’

‘You have a better person I should blame, yes? Count me out. Yes!’

Dejectedly, Basil looked at the phone. Life was getting awfully difficult. If he didn’t get some support to stop Leconte, and soon, someone was going to start asking very awkward questions about the community coffers. And Basil did not have any convincing answers.

Staring up at him was the list of unhelpful bastards he had been speaking to, people he thought he could call on to be grateful and give him a bit of support, but not one of the creeps had done anything but chunter on about some petty grouse. Christ, Basil thought, people could be so bloody small-minded. Sitting there festering about some piddling little this and that, just waiting for him to ask a favour to put the boot in.

All day he had been turning over the increasingly worrying doubt that was growing in his mind about what was at the back of all this; Leconte must be up to something. He wasn’t doing it just for the fun of making life bloody awkward; there wasn’t much mileage in that for him. No, he must be up to something. He must be trying to start a campaign to get rid of Basil for some reason, but why? There were three years before the next election so Leconte would be hard pressed to keep this up for that amount of time. It couldn’t be as simple as that, could it? On the other hand, if it was that simple, then why?

Leconte must have someone else he wants in, but who? Must start making a list, Basil thought. It’s got to be someone local; you couldn’t trust a hell of a lot of the people around here. Any one of a hundred possible bastards would sell you down the river to get a hand in the action.

He shuffled his papers listlessly, a jumble of names. Why-oh-why had it always been like this, ever since childhood when his sister and mother used to gang up on him? They used to find things he had done wrong even if he didn’t know they were wrong. All the kids at school had been the same, as had the masters.

God almighty, it could be one of his friends. Devious bastards every man jack of them, but which one? Best to watch ’em all. God, how bloody typical of life. You could never trust anyone; no matter how much you bung ’em, you couldn’t trust one of them.

At least that was one good thing the old man had taught him; trust no one! But how was that devious bastard Leconte going to do it? There was only one possible way Basil could be kicked out before time and that was conviction for fraud; not even corruption would do the trick! That’s what it is, Basil thought suddenly. He’s trying to get me on fraud! Jesus! There were a few holes in the books. It would certainly be difficult to answer some direct questions right now, especially if someone had been primed to ask something awkward. No, he must avoid that at all costs.

Feeling that old prickly heat of apprehension, Basil decided to watch the news channel until the insurance representative arrived. To his horror, he saw on the screen the façade of where he was sitting and a small crowd of what he took to be reporters standing on the steps of the Marie. They were surrounding Sylvie, who was smiling and chatting away nineteen to the dozen.

The jumbled noise of several people, asking questions and scuffling as they jostled to get their microphone before the cameras, produced a sickening memory of the last few weeks he had spent in England, many years before. He was in no state to face the press. In panic, Basil realised that if he were to stand up they would see him through the window. In desperation, crouching on all fours, he crawled towards the curtains and began to close them.

‘Mr Ackroyd?’ a woman’s voice enquired.

Basil jerked round violently and, in doing so, ripped the cord away from the rail leaving the curtains only half drawn. ‘Get down!’ he commanded as he rolled over and attempted ineffectually to pull the curtains closed by the hem.

‘What?’

‘Get on the bloody floor, woman!’

‘What’s happening?’

‘Bloody questions... Why do women always ask bloody questions?’ he moaned in exasperation. The curtains would not budge; in frustration Basil tied the two bottom corners into a big knot, which did nothing at all to cover the view. ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ he muttered as he scrabbled across the floor to where an extremely smart young lady sat on her haunches in the corner.

‘Get out of the door!’ He indicated Sylvie’s office. Ducking down, they made a run for it, Basil instinctively locking the door behind him. ‘Who are you?’

‘Claudine Dubois, Agatha Assurance Agency. We have an appointment.’

‘So we do. So we do.’ Basil looked around furtively. ‘Which way did you come in? Round the back?’

‘Yes, your secretary told me to. She is having a bit of a problem on the front steps.’

‘Yes. Good girl, that. It’s just a bit of local difficulty. Let’s skip out the same way.’

Grabbing the woman’s arm he hustled her from the Town Hall and along the back street to the hotel, Les Trois Gousses. On the way he explained that there was a small political storm at present and he was better employed away from the press.

Marcel arrived and parked his truck on the pavement by the police station before he realised something was afoot. The locals were giving rousing support to Sylvie as she enjoyed her brief moment of fame, giving an impromptu press conference. She was doing well but he could tell when she’d had enough of it. He took Sylvie’s arm and led her through the throng, into the Town Hall. They could hear the TV in Basil’s room but could not get Basil to reply to their knocks and calls.

“He’s been locked in there quite some time now,” Sylvie said, looking worried.

Marcel decided that, as Basil had sounded agitated on the phone, he should take direct action. He fetched his sledgehammer and destroyed the Mayor’s parlour door lock.

Outside, the square was in an uproar. It was now full of market stallholders and their numerous customers stocking up for the weekend. Eventually the municipal policeman, Klaus Klinker, appeared at the door of the police station, rubbing away the sleep after his siesta. This was a habit that had never hindered his work, as very little happened directly after lunch in Durac; certainly not of a criminal nature, unless you counted alcohol-related offences, which the local magistrates had long ago given up counting as a crime any more serious than marijuana abuse. Buttoning up his tunic about his round little belly, he strolled over to the butcher’s stall.

‘What a sausage that was! The best boudin blanc ever! I had it for lunch, lightly poached in white wine with shallots. Delicious,’ he said, beaming and making a dramatic display of rubbing his stomach. ‘Say, what is going on here?’

‘Glad you liked it. With light mustard and calvados flambé?’ The butcher’s eyes watered. His countenance darkened as he gestured towards the mob with his cleaver. ‘Those pigs were giving Sylvie a hard time and Marcel has just gone crazy and tried to smash up the Town Hall.’

‘Marcel? Never! Why is he doing that? Basil will murder him.’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps you should go and find out?’

‘Do you think Marcel is drunk?’ Klaus’s round, sunny face briefly clouded with apprehension; the contractor had a record in this respect.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Perhaps I had better get over there.’ Straightening his cap and laying one hand on the top of his large brown leather pistol holster, he sauntered over to where the press brigade was fighting to get into the Town Hall’s front door. The crowd raised a loud cheer as Klaus Klinker exchanged handshakes and snatches of pleasantries with the locals on his way to the scene of the disturbance.

‘Excuse me.’ Klaus addressed a young television engineer, who glanced round.

‘Yeah?’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Piss off, granddad; I’m doing my job.’

Klaus was visibly shaken by this reply; he was never abused in Durac, except by the Mayor. Josephine lent easily over the policeman’s shoulder, and, grabbing the youth’s ear, hauled him out from the mêlée.

‘Answer the officer politely, lad!’ she bellowed.

‘Let go, you old bat!’ he screamed and kicked out furiously.

His first kick was the most effective, catching Klaus between the legs. The policeman folded over with the sound of a tyre deflating, tears bursting from his staring eyes. Josephine caught the lad a swinging left-hander, the kilo of leeks she was holding at the time assisting in pole-axing him down the stairs into the crowd. Shredded leeks sprayed over the astonished press who were jammed in the door.

‘He’s injured Klaus!’ was all Josephine had to shout to change the mood.

Suddenly the crowed were actively antagonistic towards the press. The young engineer, sensing the menace, dropped his equipment and hared off down the square and away. Someone hauled on the cable he had left behind and tugged an agonized reporter from inside the Town Hall, who appeared to have the microphone wire wound around his neck.

‘They’re going to kill me out here!’ were the last gagging words he transmitted.

Hearing this desperate alarm, the cameraman inside found himself confronted by Marcel with his sledgehammer in hand. He panicked and made a break for the back of the building, pushing two reporters aside in his rush and muttering ‘Mother! If there’s a killing I’m off!’

‘What did he say?’ one of the reporters asked his colleague over the chaos that was developing in the hallway.

‘Something about “mother”,’ the other replied as he jostled towards Sylvie.

‘I heard “killing”,’ the first said and, turning to Sylvie asked, ‘Where did you say the Mayor is?’

‘His mother’s funeral,’ Sylvie said.

Marcel walked in front of her and stuck his nose in the reporter’s face. ‘Buzz off, mate. Basil’s Mum is nothing to do with you. Go and look for some bloody terrorists or summit and leave Sylvie alone.’ With that, he marched the man down the hallway.

The second reporter slipped behind him and stood pressed close to Sylvie. He was the one with the spiky hair and dreamy eyes that had attracted Sylvie’s attention on the steps outside. He was at that moment standing with his arms either side of her against the wall, presumably to protect her from the heaving crush in the hallway.

‘Sylvie. It is Sylvie, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Quick, tell me: are you sure the Mayor isn’t here? He’s definitely attending to the arrangements for his mother’s funeral?’

His dreamy eyes filled her whole horizon, so close was his face to hers. ‘Oh! Honest, definitely he is.’ She squeezed every last intonation of sincerity into her voice; she so wanted him to believe her. ‘He said to make sure I told anyone who asked.’

‘This mother of his: where did she live?’

‘Down at the farm.’

‘Which farm?’

‘Ackroyd Farm, on the North Road.’

‘Thanks, Sylvie. See you later perhaps?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said to herself, ‘oh, yes please,’ as the dashing young man fought his way back to the front door, calling to his cameraman to follow.

‘Where to?’ the first reporter asked.

‘The Ackroyd Farm.’

A fever swept the press brigade and they clambered over each other to follow. As the last one was leaving, Marcel grabbed him by the lapel.

‘Why are you lot off to the farm?’

To say the sight of Marcel frightened the man was an understatement. ‘It’s where the terrorists must be,’ he replied and struggled free.

As he scurried away, Marcel turned to Sylvie and a broad smile spread across his face.

‘And “bonne chance”, mate! Give my regards to Bill Bob, biggest terrorist hereabouts. Did you send them there, Sylvie?’

‘I think so. I didn’t mean to, I just wanted to tell that smashing one with the eyes something. Do you think it will matter? Gawd, what will Bill Bob say? What have I done?’

‘I think it’s best if we keep very quiet about this, Sylvie. Tell no one… specially Basil!’ Marcel chuckled as he threw the bolts to secure the front door once more.

During this commotion, Basil and Claudine Dubois had arrived at the rear of the hotel. They ducked in the back yard and hurried through the kitchen. At reception they bumped into Madame Colbert.

‘Monsieur Ackroyd!’

‘Ah, there you are, my dear. I need that room; quick, throw me a key.’

He pulled the young lady into the dark space beneath the stairs as he spotted a car unloading at the door of the hotel.

‘Very well, Monsieur Le Mayor,’ Madame Colbert said. ‘But what about the luggage?’ Her tone was distinctly frosty.

‘Haven’t got any at the moment. We’re in a bit of a hurry, if you don’t mind. Speed it up, can’t you?’

‘As you wish. First floor, with a grand lit. And bidet.’ She handed the keys to Basil with her face averted.

Dragging the startled Claudine Dubois behind him, he sped up the stairs.

‘Made it!’ He stood with his back resting against the locked door. He glanced around the room; it was very pleasant. There was a massive bed, comfortable furnishings, a TV, a low table decorated with flowers and a glass bowl of assorted nuts.

The flustered insurance investigator stood in the centre of the room, tugging her smart black business suit into some semblance of order.

Basil, despite his current predicament, realised there might be some potential in this situation and his face lit up with a winsome smile. Then he noticed the two large windows that looked out over the towers of the Grande Portaille. If word should get out about where he was, he could be filmed from that vantage point. Swiftly he strode to the curtains and drew them, making the young lady jump.

‘The press, my dear.’ He waved at the windows. ‘The paparazzi; can’t get away from them.’

Spying the TV, he stood in front of it and flicked on the news channel.

On the screen there was a jostling dense crowd outside the Town Hall front door and to his disbelief Basil saw the stocky form of Marcel appear, a large sledgehammer in his hand. The press immediately surrounded him. He said something indecipherable and pushed his way inside. An excited young reporter, looking into the corner of the camera view, pressed his earphone tightly to his ear and then peered into the camera.

‘There are fears for the state of mind and perhaps for the safety of Mayor Ackroyd!’ The reporter was still trying to hear what was coming through his earphone. Eventually he said. ‘We have just heard that the Mayor of Durac has not been seen since his mother was killed, apparently by FRF extremists.’

‘Oh, your poor mother!’ Claudine Dubois cried.

‘She’s been dead for years,’ Basil growled. ‘What the hell is going on?’ He retreated sharply from the scene of mayhem that was unfolding on the screen. Forgetting the low table behind him, he fell backwards over it with a sickening crunch.

Whilst Sylvie sat anxiously in the waiting room, Doctor Ramses assisted Basil onto the surgery couch. The patient had been in a state of distress on arrival and the good doctor had taken the precaution of giving him a giant-sized injection of a tranquilizer and painkiller cocktail. It was a secret recipe, vouchsafed to him from a vet in Spain, who often had occasion to treat both animals and humans on the same occasion. Now that the calming effect was apparent, he started his examination of Basil’s backside.

‘Goodness me, Monsieur Mayor, what a sorry sight! Tut, tut! It is indeed fortunate that you have such sturdy trousers. They would appear to have saved you from very serious injury indeed. But it is my deepest regret that I will have to cut them to obtain full access to the wounds.’

The pleasant effect of the drug had produced a benign smile on the patient’s face as he waved his hand ineffectively at the medic. ‘Cut away, my brave man. Think not of the pain or the cloth.’

‘Most noble of you, I am sure, Monsieur Mayor.’ Doctor Ramses extracted a large pair of scissors and a selection of tweezers from his sterilizer. ‘True British phlegm, as one would expect.’

‘Funny you should say that; that’s the second time I’ve been called British today. Tell me something, you’re French, aren’t you, Doc?’

‘Oh, dear me, what a mess! This may hurt somewhat.’ The doctor’s beaming face peered into Basil’s, large brown sympathetic eyes, blinking through pebble glasses that rested on his huge hooked nose. ‘Surely it is not strange to be called British? I consider myself to be Egyptian and do not find this strange.’

‘Don’t spare the tweezers, dig in. It just struck me as strange. I was called a “meddling British interloper” by that little tick, Leconte, this morning. Bloody cheek. After all, I wouldn’t call you an Egyptian interloper, would I?’ He twiddled with the edge of the sheet upon which he lay face down. ‘You’ve every right to be here, just as I have. Bastard told me to go home he did. Bloody cheek! Aahaaar!’

‘So sorry; many slivers of glass to remove.’ The doctor’s voice became muffled as he studied the inner crevices of Basil’s behind. ‘You’re right, of course. I have a French passport, to the undying shame of my family, may God continue to protect us all.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Oh, it is a long story and unworthy of your illustrious ear. A terrible mistake.’ He hesitated and adjusted the lamp to further illuminate the depths of the injured area. ‘Goodness me! Is this a peanut?’

‘They were in the bowl. Come on, Doc; this going to be a long job, spill the beans. Ha! Did you hear that? Spill the beans, good’n, eh? So you’re a Frenchman who’s an Egyptian. How come?’

‘A dreadful error on the part of the head porter at the George V in Paris. I have no desire to be French but such is the way of fate.’ He peered closely at the pulpy goo dripping from his tweezers. ‘Daffodils?’

‘Mixed spring blooms, in the vase.’ The Valium component of the injection was now completely in control and Basil rambled on in a ruminative manner. ‘You say the porter made you a Frenchman?’

‘Dreadful, isn’t it? My father, rest his soul, was an Egyptian official in Paris, with my mother, oh best beloved…’ With difficulty the doctor tugged a shard from the flesh. ‘Was it a blue china vase?’

‘With two handles.’ Basil hummed tunelessly for a few seconds. ‘I do have to be French to do what I do here. I am, you know, a French citizen. Different for you, though. When did you come here?’

‘Oh my goodness, I’ve always been here. During their visit to Paris, God in his wisdom decided that my mother should go into labour and I was born. My father was recalled to Egypt and so my first days were spent in the George V hotel.’

‘Very nice too; I’ve got one of their bathrobes, good quality tackle.’ Basil chuckled as he remembered the circumstances. ‘Had a lot of fun there. I didn’t know you gained citizenship if you were born there, though.’

‘Goodness me, no! That mistake came as a result of my mother. Bless her. She could not speak French so the manager sent the details of my birth to be registered with the porter, who apparently got drunk on the way and arrived back later with my birth certificate registering me as French. Are you still comfortable, Monsieur Mayor?’

‘Fascinated, Doc. Continue.’ The occasional clink of shrapnel hitting the kidney bowl marked the progress of the operation. ‘Didn’t anyone notice? Your father?’

‘Regrettably he was kept away on business for quite some time and by the time he came to collect us it was too late.’

‘How’s that?’

‘I was serving in the army. There, that’s the hard bit done. Now to dress the wounds. It will not be possible to make an elegant job of it, I am afraid, Monsieur Mayor’. He proceeded to bandage Basil’s lower regions, with considerable difficulty as the relaxing effects of the tranquilizer rendered the bulky patient very plastic and unwieldy.

‘There you are then, Doc, you’re no more or less French than I am, are you? But I bet you would be bloody upset if someone started telling you to go home, wouldn’t you?’ He sat on the surgery table and clung to the doctor’s shoulders for support, looking into his eyes with profound sincerity.

The twinkling eyes through the medic’s thick lenses did not mirror the sombre tone of his voice. ‘That, Mr Mayor, is one of my greatest nightmares.’

Sylvie carefully drove Basil home, taking the opportunity to explain to him what had occurred with Marcel and the TV crews.

‘It was really awful. They wouldn’t stop trying to get into the Town Hall, so I went out and guarded the door. I told them that you were not available on account of your mother’s death, like you said to do.’

‘I did?’

‘Yes, you must remember; told me to tell them you were at her funeral, remember? Said on no account was I to let them in, remember?’

‘Hee! Hee! Of course.’ He giggled quietly. ‘Of course, I meant it metaphysically, my dear. Did I say that? Silly me!’ He giggled again. ‘I meant metaspherically.’ The mixture of discomfort and heavy sedation had taken all the fight out of him; however he was beginning to enjoy the afternoon. He tried to pat her knee but ended up clutching the gear stick. ‘Never mind. Go on, dear child’.

‘Well, then one of them asked me what she had died of, your Mum he meant, and I couldn’t think what to say. Another one, the one with the spiky hair and lovely blue eyes, well he said did I know anything about the terrorists and was it connected with her death. Well, I mean! What was I to say? I didn’t know what he was talking about, so I said “sort of”, mysterious like, you know, not giving anything away, that I couldn’t tell them anything about what had happened ’cos it was secret.’ Basil’s attempt to slide his arm around the back of Sylvie’s seat ended in failure and she gently pushed him upright. ‘But they seemed to like that and got ever so excited and stuff so I got inside and locked the door. Was that all right? It was ever so scary.’

‘Yes, I’m sure, my dear.’ Basil leered dreamily at her and had another unsuccessful attempt at patting her leg, this time missing the gear lever as well. ‘What about dear old Marcel? He seemed very busy.’

‘Well, he was outside, like, when I got all the hassle from the TV people, so he said he was going to smash their kneecaps and he came in with me and - oh! I forgot! That lady from the insurance was out the front earlier, so I told her on the quiet to come round and let herself in. Was that all right?”

By dint of concentrating on focussing both eyes simultaneously, Basil had managed to locate her leg. ‘Well, anyway, there was Marcel saying you sounded a bit upset when you phoned, so he’d come straight away.’ She paused in her excited account to un-peel Basil’s fingers from her upper thigh. ‘Well, we could hear you in the parlour. Well not you really, more like the telly but you wouldn’t answer the door and Marcel thought you had been watching the TV and it may have got too much for you and you had done something foolish, being a bit unhinged as you are like, he said.’

‘Did he say that? Dear boy.’

‘Yes, he was dead worried,’

‘About me? How sweet.’

‘Yes. So he went outside to get his big hammer from his truck and broke down the parlour door. Then you wasn’t there!’

‘Whoosh! There I was gone, eh?’

‘Yes. It was a shame about smashing the doors like, but he didn’t mean no harm.’

‘What an impetuous man Marcel is,’ mused Basil.

‘Well, anyway, the place was full of reporters and it was a hell of a fight to get rid of them and lock the door. Then that lady phoned and said you had had an accident, so I came straight round.’

‘What a lucky man I am,’ Basil pondered to himself from his sedated fog as they pulled into the driveway of his house.

Lindy had been preparing the supper in her own sort of haze and, having installed the peppers in the oven, was taking a slurp of red wine whilst trying to turn the ribs in the marinade. Fumbling, she dropped a rib onto the floor and Deefor was on it like a ratter. Lindy made a half-hearted attempt to catch him but he was off in a flash around the table and down the garden. His sudden flight spooked the cat, and it raced across the dresser and skidded over the TV, knocking over a vase of flowers on its top. Lindy shrugged and cleared up the scattered blooms

She was about to wipe up the water when Basil appeared at the kitchen door. He hesitated, as if undecided as to why he was there, then turning to Lindy with a distant look in his eyes winked very seriously at her.

‘Evening.’

‘Good evening, darling.’ She sensed something was not normal.

Basil set out to slowly traverse the room and she saw that the seat of his trousers had been shredded as though damaged by an explosion. The material was hanging from around the edge of a large hole. The effect was accentuated by what appeared to be a large nappy that he was wearing underneath the trousers.

Experience had taught her to await an explanation rather than question him. Too late she realised that it was his intention to turn on the television; he reached the switch before she could stop him. The apparatus made a quiet ‘plop’ and a small but perfectly formed mushroom cloud of yellow smoke rose from the rear. Basil watched with fascination as a circle of colour filled the screen, and then slowly subsided to a dot in the middle. After a few moments staring at the blank apparatus, he turned to Lindy.

‘What do you make of that?’ he asked, and, raising his shoulders slowly, walked out into the garden.

‘What do we make of that?’ Lindy asked the cat. She sat and drank another glass of wine and then followed Basil outside, where she found him closely inspecting the roses.

‘Not many greenfly this year,’ he noted.

‘No, darling.’

‘What’s for supper?’

‘Barbecue spare ribs.’

‘Good, I could do with a broil up. I’ll get it going.’ Off he toddled, trying unsuccessfully to click his fingers.

Lindy thought about following him but decided against it and went in to collect the food. When she returned to the garden, she found Basil sitting by the barbecue on the stone seat, staring into space above his head. On moving closer, she realised that his face was blackened and his moustache was reduced to a small crimpled object.

‘Basil, what have you done?’

‘Got it going with a dollop of petrol.’

‘But, darling, it’s a gas machine.’

‘You know, I thought of that, so I pushed the ignition button. Wooof!’

He giggled as he brought his face down to look at her. A Cheshire cat grin wreathed its shiny surface. ‘It’s been a damn funny day. Do you know old Doc Ramses isn’t French except for the porter at the George V making a mistake? Difficult to believe, isn’t it?’

Lindy shook her head briefly and decided not to pursue the subject. ‘Do you feel up to eating tonight?’

‘Yeah! Starving, I am. Feel like a bit of grub. Think I might go and wash up a bit, though. Be out in a tick.’

She watched him with uncertainty as he wove a path along the flowerbeds, smelling blooms as he progressed.

‘What’s happened to Dad’s trousers?’ William asked as he dragged his satchel along the drive towards her.

From the bar, Sid, who had been clearing up after the post lunch coffee and liqueur clients, had observed the whole incident at the town hall without being able to make out what the details were. As the press made their getaway, not without quite serious injury in some cases, the furore quelled slightly and the crowd moved en masse to his side of the square, gabbling excitedly as they helped Klaus to limp, still stooping, to a table.

‘Brandy, Sid. I find it the best when I get caught like that by a bullock,’ the butcher instructed with some authority.

‘Arshg horghh wytllss,’ the policeman gasped.

‘There you are, Klaus, old man. Don’t try and speak for bit.’

‘Hymmnn grooghhg fooo ahdyeee.’

‘Just get this down you now.’ Sid helped the pale man sip from the glass.

The crowd of anxious women and sympathetic men formed a circle. As the glass was drained and Klaus gasped a lungful of air, there was a sigh of relief around the table and the excited babble returned. The market was forgotten and the bar filled.

‘How do you feel now, Klaus?’ Josephine hugged the policeman gently in her arms.

‘I’ve been thinking of retiring,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘As early as possible.’

‘Not you, mon brave. Have another one of these and you’ll be your old ferocious self, you see if you aren’t.’ She poured him another drink from the bottle that Sid had thoughtfully left on the table.

‘Thanks, Josephine,’ he gasped, swallowing a large mouthful.’ You’re so kind. Where did they all go?’

‘As far as I can make out, for some reason they are on their way to the Ackroyd Farm.’

Klaus gripped her forearm and stared at her, sweat breaking out on his sun-blotched forehead. ‘Mein Gott! What about Bill Bob? Should I phone Poppy, do you think?’

‘Best leave well alone, mon puce. You don’t want to get mixed up in that lot until you have to.’

This time it was Klaus who poured the brandy. ‘But supposing Bill Bob starts something? I’ll have to go and stop it. Oh, mien Gott! Josephine, I couldn’t do that. Not after the last time! Please not that again.’ He spilled half of his glass in his haste to drink it.

‘We won’t let you go down there by yourself, Klaus, depend on it’ the butcher assured him. ‘Besides, perhaps nothing will happen.’

The look on Josephine’s face showed how unsure they all were about that.

‘Aye up, what the hell’s going on?’ A cloud of smoke cleared to reveal Herbert the clock mender. ‘Is it your birthday, Klaus? Do I get a glass?’ He looked about the full bar. ‘It’s about all I will get at this blooming market it seems. Everyone on strike are they?’

‘Klaus has been assaulted,’ Josephine said defensively.

‘Blimey! What happened? You didn’t give someone a parking ticket did you?’ His laughter was abruptly cut short by a jab to the stomach.

‘It was serious, mate! Klaus was really hurt!’ Josephine’s large strong hand brushed back the policeman’s wisp of hair.

‘Oops! Sorry! What happened, then?’ Herbert said.

‘The television men beat him up.’

‘Ah, I see; haven’t paid your licence, is that it, Klaus?’ The clock mender backed away as Josephine rose to her full height. ‘Well, all right then, tell me what happened.’

Sid appeared and retrieved his dwindling brandy bottle. ‘The press had a riot at the Town Hall and Klaus tried to break it up, so they duffed him over. Now they have gone off to try their luck with Bill Bob.’

‘You’re joking? You’re not! Are they mad, or what?’

‘Search me.’

‘Better set me up with a beer, Sid, and a calva for Julia, who I see has decided to shut up shop early.’ He nodded to the fulsome sight of the boutique owner who was making her curvaceous way towards them, swinging her keys on her finger.

‘Yoeeee, everyone! Wasn’t that exciting? Klausy baby, you were so brave, thank God you came and broke it all up!’ Julia delivered kisses all round and settled herself on a bar stool, kicking off her shoes.

And there she stayed until late that night when, with the aid of two escorts, she made her way down to Antonio’s restaurant. The troublemakers from the retirement home, who were furious at having missed the fun, had joined them and each insisted on buying Klaus a drink. By the time Josephine had to carry him off, barely conscious, to the police station, they had awarded him the Légion d’honneur and the Iron Cross in deeply moving ceremonies.

The stallholders had dismantled their stalls with much mutual assistance and wove away, leaving assorted poles, trestles and parasols to be retrieved later. Much of their produce was left for the common good and the square was a hodgepodge of rubbish. Soon the bar was full of the regulars and tradespeople of the town, heatedly discussing the afternoon’s events.

As the evening wore on, the newscasts from the farm were non-committal, showing long shots from past a driveway gate that was well guarded by what appeared to be a pack of wolves. As the light faded, the television crews lost interest for the day and drifted away, as did Sid’s customers.