French Leave by Elizabeth Darrell Page B

like a pro.’
    She turned briefly to smile at him. ‘I’ve done some amateur track racing. Not in this.’ She turned back to the road ahead. ‘My father was a triple champion one year. He taught me. I loved it, but I could never push myself beyond the risk barrier the way he could.’
    â€˜Medical knowledge of what injuries a crash can inflict keeping you on the side of caution?’
    She laughed. ‘No, just not enough bottle.’
    He thought briefly how much he would like to demonstrate his own bottle on a Harley Davidson – an impulse that had sent him on an unannounced visit to Livya’s parents’ home last Christmas – but he said nothing to his present companion about his boyhood urge to emulate Steve McQueen’s famous motorcycle escapade in The Great Escape . Livya teasingly called him Steve when she called him late at night in a particularly loving mood, and he was secretly delighted.
    He was so lost in these thoughts he almost missed the turning that would take them to the riverside inn, but Clare was quick off the mark and swung on to it very smoothly. When they arrived, Max was dismayed. The eating place that looked so attractive and peaceful on Sunday mornings was now swarming with people.
    â€˜God, it’s a bloody circus!’
    Turning off the ignition, Clare prepared to get out. ‘Just the remedy we need. Come on!’
    Edging carefully into a position where he could throw his leg over the low door, Max surveyed the boisterous crowd with continuing reluctance. As a young, single subaltern he had thrown himself into occasions like this with several friends, and had enjoyed every rowdy moment. Marriage to Susan had brought an end to that kind of youthful roistering. Her death had led him to avoid any kind of mass jollity.
    The inn was a three-storey chalet laden with scarlet geraniums in boxes and baskets. Max was familiar with the interior pine booths, which had rustic designs carved in the backs of the seats, and cushions covered in folklore-woven cloth. It would be easy to gain intimate privacy in there, for it seemed all the patrons had chosen open air above cosiness.
    Before he could suggest they take advantage of the deserted restaurant, Clare had caught the attention of a brawny, silver-haired man in lederhosen who smiled, shuffled along the bench seat, and patted the space he had vacated. Grabbing Max’s arm, Clare headed for the offered seat and gave smiling thanks in good German. Before he knew it, two plump, elderly women in dirndls and embroidered white blouses who were sitting opposite the man and his male companion, also in lederhosen, shuffled along their bench and invited him to perch at the end of it beside them.
    By now well aware that Clare was controlling this evening jaunt, Max was swept up in the kind of merry-making he had shunned for four years. With nothing about their appearance to betray their military status, they were taken for tourists by these locals who were eager to show friendship. Clare’s German was better than Max’s, but he was able to follow most of what was said.
    Their companions were eight couples in national dress who were celebrating the sixtieth birthday and the fortieth wedding anniversary of various members of the party, and were well into the jollity of the occasion.
    Brushing away their protests, the Germans called for steins for their instant friends. For a brief moment Max came into his own when the waitress recognized him and greeted him with considerable warmth, asking with a laugh where he had tied up his boat. This obliged him to explain that he regularly rowed along this river and breakfasted here.
    â€˜I’ve never taken to boating,’ Clare confessed.
    â€˜Too slow for a brrum-brrum woman?’
    â€˜Is that how you see me, Max?’
    â€˜I haven’t had time yet to get the full picture.’
    â€˜You don’t need to,’ she replied enigmatically.
    The evening