keep quiet?’ At least, not in so many words. The gleam in her eyes was enough.
Which was how he came to find himself being blackmailed – on reflection there was no other word for it – into agreeing to attend a prize-giving ceremony at his old school at eleven o’clock the following day.
‘After all,’ Mlle Pichot reverted to her role of headmistress, ‘you
are
our most famous
vieux garçon
.’
At that moment a large
camion
laden with freshlycut timber came up behind them and the driver gave a blast on his horn, impatient at having to stop. His action forced Monsieur Pamplemousse into making a snap decision before going on his way.
In the circumstances he could hardly have said ‘no’, but as he neared Pouligny he began to wish he’d at least made the attempt. So much for a quiet spell away from it all.
On entering the village his spirits sank still further. At first sight there was little left of the place as he remembered it. The fact that it now merited a bypass should have forewarned him. Everywhere there were signs of a new-found prosperity. The Twingo’s tyres transmitted a warning rumble via the suspension as he passed a
Chaussée Cahoteuse
sign at speed and hit a series of humps in a road which had been relaid in red brick. Pommes Frites eyed him reproachfully in the rear-view mirror. Over the next hundred metres or so he encountered no less than three pedestrian crossings, all entirely devoid of human life, before a sign indicating a
Zone Scolaire
forced him to slow down still further. In his day going to school had been a case of waiting for the sound of approaching traffic, then making a dash for it; the first one across the road being labelled a sissy. They had never lost the last one to have a go.
Truly motorists were rapidly becoming an endangered species. Pariahs of the very worst kind,sent packing the long way round whenever possible.
Entering what had once been the market square he saw the statue to Louis XIV had been moved to one side, its place taken by a
rond-point
of all things. The old horse trough where on fête days the wandering minstrel had set up his ten-stringed hurdy-gurdy was nowhere to be seen. Probably in some antique store where it would end its days as a garden ornament.
The opposite side of the square had been laid out as a parking area, empty now apart from a van and a scooter, both covered in a layer of snow. It was curiosity again that caused Monsieur Pamplemousse to park the Twingo alongside them and climb out in order to take stock of his surroundings. And once again, when he had time to view everything in retrospect, he had cause to wonder what would have happened had he bypassed the village altogether. It was one of those moments which confirmed his belief that some things in life felt as though they were preordained, with everything fitting into place like a jigsaw puzzle.
The old round-domed Romanesque church just off the square was still in place, exactly as he remembered it, and indeed exactly as it had been since the establishment of the Capetian kingdom in the eleventh century.
In direct contrast, posters outside a
tabac
invitedhim to dance the
Chaud Chaud
in
Le Club
. As an added attraction between numbers, for one week only, a hypnotist was appearing.
The Café du Commerce was still there, much as he remembered it, except for a large espresso coffee machine dominating the zinc bar. A group of old men stared out at him as he walked past. He wondered if he had known some of them as a small boy. More to the point, had any of them known him, and would they recognise him?
The answer came almost immediately as they all waved in unison.
When he was safely free of their gaze he paused to look at his own reflection in a shop window. Surely he didn’t look quite as old as they did? At least he wasn’t waiting the end of his life away in a café bar. Thank goodness he had left when he did.
The
bricolage
was still there; old Pascal the owner – if he was
Which was how he came to find himself being blackmailed – on reflection there was no other word for it – into agreeing to attend a prize-giving ceremony at his old school at eleven o’clock the following day.
‘After all,’ Mlle Pichot reverted to her role of headmistress, ‘you
are
our most famous
vieux garçon
.’
At that moment a large
camion
laden with freshlycut timber came up behind them and the driver gave a blast on his horn, impatient at having to stop. His action forced Monsieur Pamplemousse into making a snap decision before going on his way.
In the circumstances he could hardly have said ‘no’, but as he neared Pouligny he began to wish he’d at least made the attempt. So much for a quiet spell away from it all.
On entering the village his spirits sank still further. At first sight there was little left of the place as he remembered it. The fact that it now merited a bypass should have forewarned him. Everywhere there were signs of a new-found prosperity. The Twingo’s tyres transmitted a warning rumble via the suspension as he passed a
Chaussée Cahoteuse
sign at speed and hit a series of humps in a road which had been relaid in red brick. Pommes Frites eyed him reproachfully in the rear-view mirror. Over the next hundred metres or so he encountered no less than three pedestrian crossings, all entirely devoid of human life, before a sign indicating a
Zone Scolaire
forced him to slow down still further. In his day going to school had been a case of waiting for the sound of approaching traffic, then making a dash for it; the first one across the road being labelled a sissy. They had never lost the last one to have a go.
Truly motorists were rapidly becoming an endangered species. Pariahs of the very worst kind,sent packing the long way round whenever possible.
Entering what had once been the market square he saw the statue to Louis XIV had been moved to one side, its place taken by a
rond-point
of all things. The old horse trough where on fête days the wandering minstrel had set up his ten-stringed hurdy-gurdy was nowhere to be seen. Probably in some antique store where it would end its days as a garden ornament.
The opposite side of the square had been laid out as a parking area, empty now apart from a van and a scooter, both covered in a layer of snow. It was curiosity again that caused Monsieur Pamplemousse to park the Twingo alongside them and climb out in order to take stock of his surroundings. And once again, when he had time to view everything in retrospect, he had cause to wonder what would have happened had he bypassed the village altogether. It was one of those moments which confirmed his belief that some things in life felt as though they were preordained, with everything fitting into place like a jigsaw puzzle.
The old round-domed Romanesque church just off the square was still in place, exactly as he remembered it, and indeed exactly as it had been since the establishment of the Capetian kingdom in the eleventh century.
In direct contrast, posters outside a
tabac
invitedhim to dance the
Chaud Chaud
in
Le Club
. As an added attraction between numbers, for one week only, a hypnotist was appearing.
The Café du Commerce was still there, much as he remembered it, except for a large espresso coffee machine dominating the zinc bar. A group of old men stared out at him as he walked past. He wondered if he had known some of them as a small boy. More to the point, had any of them known him, and would they recognise him?
The answer came almost immediately as they all waved in unison.
When he was safely free of their gaze he paused to look at his own reflection in a shop window. Surely he didn’t look quite as old as they did? At least he wasn’t waiting the end of his life away in a café bar. Thank goodness he had left when he did.
The
bricolage
was still there; old Pascal the owner – if he was
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