by Alan Norris
~ ~ ~
I’m sure my hair is growing faster now than it used to. Must find a hairdresser, and remember not to hunt for one on a Monday! But once you know the system, it all seems to work quite well. In the past week I’d managed to visit all of the French offices that I needed. There were queues here and there, all quite orderly and calm, with very helpful staff and officials, not at all what I’d been told to expect. I didn’t actually achieve an end result anywhere, but the wheels are in motion.
I did manage to achieve one useful thing. I now have a telephone and a Wi-Fi broadband connection - all working and much faster than I’d had in the UK. I tried to find the gun club on Google, but it didn’t seem to be listed anywhere, not even the phone directory. Rather typical of the laid-back way of life here. So, it’s out we go and stroll through the lanes ‘til I find something. I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be far away, but that’s as the crow flies, the lanes and country roads round here look as though they just happened, rather than had any designer’s input. I could take the car I suppose, but it’s such a lovely morning a walk will do me good.
~ ~ ~
Well, I guess they start their shoots in the afternoon, because there’s been no sound of firing to help guide me in. But there’s been a few cars and SUV’s tearing past me just lately, so I’m hoping it might not be too far now. In a straight line, I’m probably only a mile or so from home – but I’ve been walking along this lane now for almost an hour and a half. Hope there’s a shorter route back. Never know, I might even get a lift. I guess I should have brought the car, or at least driven out to find the place first.
Ah, here we go. There’s something here, high hedge and timber fence, good security. Look at the cars parked up, some of them are the ones that passed me earlier, must be quite busy. There’s the entrance gate by the look of it. And a group of people on their way in.
I was suddenly feeling quite nervous about this, there were so many what ifs, what if I couldn’t make myself understood, what if it was a private, corporate club or something – or worst of all, what if they laughed at me. I checked my pocket for my phrase book and pulled it out while I practiced what to say. The group at the gate turned as I walked up, it looked like two couples and a man on his own. He was about the same height as me but not so heavily built. He looked just like the stereotype Parisian Frenchman from a magazine cover, casually dressed in a sort of relaxed but very stylish way. He had a small moustache, steel rimmed glasses and iron grey hair that somehow suited him. He stepped forward towards me and beamed a smile that his eyes reflected.
I took a deep breath and pulled up my courage, ‘Bonjour Monsieur.’
‘B’jour Monsieur.’ answered the tall slim man. ‘Vous êtes Anglais......er.....You are English?’ he asked, looking at the phrasebook that I‘d pulled from my pocket.
‘I am...yes. Is it that obvious?’
‘Ah oui monsieur. I’m afraid so.’ he replied with a grin. ‘Your little book says much. Perhaps I may help?’
‘I’m assuming this is a clay-pigeon shooting club.....and wondered if I might join?’
‘Ah oui, it is a shooting club, perhaps you have heard the guns....Non?’ the man held out his hand. ‘My name is Henri, we shoot at targets here, tir au pigeon d’argile, or as you say, clay-pigeons. But during the season...we have also a very serious hunting club.’
‘Ah...I see. My name is William...ah....Blake….William Blake. It all seems to be just what I could be looking for.’ I grinned, despite a nervous feeling in the pit of my body and a reminder of a forgotten childhood stammer.
‘Ah....monsieur, another Guillaume. You will perhaps be a Conqueror also...Non.’ Henri chuckled at his joke.
‘I don’t think so Henri. Not today anyway.’ I laughed.
‘Come, I will take you to meet the Club President.’
We went through the tall gate and entered a surprisingly well appointed area, with good roadways and wooden buildings of an obvious quality.
I was beginning to think that I could probably not afford the fees of what must surely be an exclusive club and began to wonder how I could tactfully leave with the minimum embarrassment.
‘This is the Clubhouse.’ said Henri, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I imagine our President will be here organising the list for this afternoon’s team competitions. Perhaps you’d take a seat.’ Henri waved a hand at a group of tables and chairs. ‘I’ll only be a moment. Please, help yourself to coffee.’
I sat in the shelter of a corner, unobtrusively watching the member’s comings and goings. There was a distinct, fresh odour of pine in the air, so I thought the building must be fairly new. It was brightly lit by its large windows and the clever use of several, well placed roof-lights. The whole area was absolutely spotless, the parquet floor gleamed with its polished finish and I glanced guiltily at my shoes to make sure I’d not tracked in any mud from my walk. A steady stream of folk, all chattering happily, came in to have their names entered for slots in the afternoon’s competition series. They were all ages and, although one shouldn’t judge by appearances, seemed to come from diverse backgrounds. Some were dressed simply in jeans and tee-shirts, while others wore what I took to be the latest in shooter’s sports-wear. Padded waistcoats, festooned with pockets and cartridge loops, mostly a beige colour but some a green camouflage pattern.
The clubhouse had obviously been designed and built to accommodate a large group of people for meetings and social gatherings. I was sat in a pleasant informal area that had easy chairs grouped around low tables, much as you would find in some of the good cafés in town. In the wall opposite, were a couple of large serving hatches and looking through them I could see part of a small kitchen with people preparing lunchtime meals for hungry members. There were the usual notice boards and trophy cabinets that you’d find in any sports club and a striking collection of rather good looking paintings, all with a hunting theme but from the French viewpoint, not the jolly “Yoicks, Tally-Ho” subject of horse and hound, that you might find in England.
I spotted Henri and watched him as he spoke to a tall woman, she was about my age, brunette, slim almost to the point of being slender and wearing a loose fitting red silk blouse with blue denim jeans that looked as though they had been painted on her legs and body. She perhaps wasn’t what you would call gorgeous, I thought. But to me, she was the most elegantly, attractive person I could ever remember having seen. I felt an instant tingling sensation, an electric charge on my skin and body as she smiled and walked towards me.
‘William, allow me to introduce our lady president, Madam Marie de Beauchamp, this is William Blake...er....from England.’ said Henri with a grin.
Marie, with a surprisingly firm grip, shook my hand and sat down. ‘Henri, be a dear...please bring us a glass of something cold. I will explain the organisation and club activities to our new friend.’
Henri was soon back with a couple of glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice that he left on the table. Marie thanked him and settled back into her chair, leaning slightly sideways towards me. I breathed in the scent of her perfume and a faint, delightfully soapy-smell of lavender. She spoke for almost a half-hour, telling me some of the club’s history, the achievements of some of the shooters and the various activities that were running. I have to admit though, that much of what she said went past me in a confused daze. I was too enthralled by the woman that was speaking, to focus completely on what she was saying. The way her luxuriously glossy hair slid over her shoulders, the darkly sparkling eyes that seemed to have a life and smile of their own, quite independent of the rather thin lips that showed her small, very white teeth, when she laughed. I couldn’t detect a trace of make-up, it had either been very, very carefully done, or she didn’t habitually use any, which I found refreshingly alluring. She didn’t need any either, I thought.
‘And so, Monsieur.’ she said leaning towards me with a smile. ‘Do you still wish to be a member of this small shooter’s paradise? Perhaps you need mor
e time to consider......Please, be our guest for today, I’ll ask Henri to set you up with a practice shoot.....see how you get on.’
‘Thank you ma’am. It’ll be good to shoot again.’ I was about to add that I didn’t need to think about it, I’d join right away, when her dark eyes glittered and I sensed a change flow through her. A young man had just come through the door and Marie’s features suddenly became, somehow sharpened.
Without a word to me, she stood and followed the newcomer. He was dressed pretty much the same as most others; jeans, summer shirt and a baseball cap. He wore his straight, dark-brown hair long, just reaching to touch the collar of his bright shirt that had been tailored to fit his well proportioned body. He had the same dark eyes and thin mouth as Marie. Except, I thought, on him they seemed cold, almost cruel.
Marie gripped the young man’s shoulder and guided him through a half glazed door into an office.
I was still watching them and didn’t notice Henri sit in a chair on the other side of me, I almost jumped when he spoke.
‘So, my English friend, what do you think of our modest shooting and hunting club? I saw that Marie’s magic was working on you – as it does on all of us. Quite charming....Non?’ He steepled his fingers and smiled at me.
‘Yes to all of that. Yes indeed.........Marie said she would ask you to set me up with a place in the practice shoot.’
‘Ah, oui...that will be easy. We are a similar size, you can borrow one of my spare guns. You are familiar with the weapon?’ Henri raised an eyebrow in query.
‘Yes, I was an Engineer in the Marines. It’s a while ago, but I used to shoot regularly. Rifles mainly though.’
‘Perhaps then we can tempt you to join as a full member and come on some hunting expeditions. You look fit. They are quite jolly and we never waste what we kill. Sometimes we have a feast here. Jacques,’ he nodded towards the office door ‘Marie’s son, does the cooking for us. That was him that came in just now. Nice lad, but he lacks the charm of his mother....Non?’ Henri stood. ‘Come, we’ll put your name on the practice sheet and get you ready.’
~ ~ ~
The rest of the day went past in a whirl of noise, colour and glimpses of a bubbly Marie who always seemed to be on the spot when anything was happening. I’d made my decision, completed an application form and filled in the preliminary paperwork for a firearms permit. Henri had put his name as sponsor and told me that the club secretary would call soon to make arrangements for someone to visit me at my home to take some further details. “You can’t be too careful where guns are involved.” Henri had said with one of his characteristic shrugs.
It took me just about two hours to walk home. Guess I dawdled a bit and I was tired when I finally got there. Several folk had offered me a lift, but I wanted some think-time on my own. I had met someone who, with a bit of luck, would change my life. I needed to decide what to do. If I really wanted this, would it, could it all end painfully. Was it possible at all, we were from different cultures, backgrounds, even heritage. Perhaps it’d be better to just try to stay friends. But an old proverb, one of my old father’s sayings, popped into my mind that “Faint Heart never won Fair Lady”. So that’s it then, I must somehow, get to know her better. I’d already discovered that she’s a widow, owned the gun club, the private land that it sat in and that she lived with Jacques, her son, in a mini Breton Chateau not far from where we’d been.
‘God!....I feel like a silly schoolboy, suffering his first crush.’ I muttered to myself. ‘Should be embarrassing I guess.’ I kicked a small pebble into the ditch. ‘Right, come on now – pull yourself together. Chances are she’ll not give you any more thought at all. So come on, snap out of it.’
I tried to focus my mind on the walk, on the things I had to do at home, but thoughts and images of Marie’s smile, dark eyes and infectious laughter won.
~ ~ ~
Home was very quiet. It was almost as if the cottage itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. I lit the fire and put on one of my Joe Bonamassa, blues CDs. But the house just didn’t feel quite the same. And now, with the next club meet not until next Sunday, I had a week to wait before I would see Marie again. Of course, I could hope that she would be the visitor that the secretary phoned for, but I don’t think I rank that highly in the society. Not yet.
Chapter 6
William’s pending divorce had dropped into obscurity and had certainly slipped from being his number one concern. It was Monday, a new week lay ahead and he proposed to submerge himself in his garden work and plans for Rachel’s visit.
He wished his daughter would phone again so’s he could tell her what was on his mind, tell her what was happening. But, what was happening – nothing really. And anyway, it’s more likely that nothing will happen, he told himself. But there were times when he felt as though his heart would burst from his chest if he didn’t get to speak to someone soon.
~ ~ ~
Right, here we go! The sun is shining and I’m going to do it justice, there’s dozens of jobs to be done. First though, a trip into Pontivy’s market for fresh veg, just bits and pieces really. Might see if I can get some new fruit trees for the orchard.....plums and pears would be nice. And of course, I’ll have to visit Pierre for coffee and a croissant before I come back. Watch the people, see the world go by in the warm sunshine.
The drive into town was as uneventful as always with roads being relatively empty of traffic. I was used to driving on the right-hand side of the road now and felt it easier, more natural than the English way on the left, even though my old Volvo estate was right-hand drive. Parking was a small problem though, being market day the spaces on the huge town square were all taken, so I had to cruise the local streets to find a spot. The town was founded hundreds of years ago by a British monk called Ivy, one of the things he did when he arrived was to organise the building of a bridge over the River Blavet. French word for bridge is Pont, hence the town’s name, Pontivy. The river nowadays is quite picturesque, a wide boulevard twists along its banks with baskets of flowers and beds of well tended shrubs along its edge. No rubbish and no signs of vandalism anywhere, quite inspiring after the large towns and cities of England where many people wouldn’t think twice about dropping food wrappings in the street and vandalism is so prolific, it goes almost unnoticed.
My parking spot was a short walk away from the market square and near to a church that was built by Napoleon in an effort to raise support from the Breton people for his various causes and campaigns. He even renamed the town Napoleonville, but the local enthusiasm wasn’t impressed and the old name quickly returned.
Most holidaymaking visitors had left the area now, as the season began its turn to autumn, and as I walked the town’s main road, the Rue Nationale, many of the local people nodded and wished me “bonjour”. I guess it means very little, in all sincerity, but it does make me feel part of the place not just a curious stranger passing through. In short I was beginning to feel that I belonged. There have been many times in other countries, many of them supposedly friendly, when I’ve walked the pavements of the towns and cities and I’d felt quite the opposite, threatened, intimidated.
I made my way into the vast space of the market square, bordered on two sides by the impressive buildings of the French bureaucratic system and by my favourite café and the shining river Blavet on the other two. My tour around the market stalls didn’t take long, I’d soon filled my basket with fresh vegetables and a couple of bottles of good red wine. I almost dropped into a seat on the pavement café and Pierre was all smiles as he came across to me, shook my hand and, like the professional waiter that he undoubtedly is, whispered away and returned with my usual coffee and hot butter-croissant. Now that’s service, and I stayed for another before picking up my bags and heading back to my car.
~ ~ ~
Nearly home, now off at the next exit, then down our lane.
‘Hello, what’s this then? Looks like a road block.’ I peered around the
car in front as the line started to move again. ‘Yes, look at those Gendarme guys swagger about. They look like beginners though. Too close to the vehicles for one. Oh no, they’re waving me over. Damn it.’
‘Bonjour monsieur.’ I called with a cheerful smile to hide my irritation.
The young-faced Gendarme that came up to the driver’s door looked at me with a glare that showed open distaste. Quickly, the officer seemed to decide that my french wasn’t going to be good enough and used a radio to call for an English speaking colleague.
I waited. My patience stretching. The car began to get hot. So I opened the door and was about to get out. I wasn’t sure what the young Gendarme shouted, but it was very obvious that I should get back inside and close the door.
‘Ah, bonjour monsieur.’ called a voice from behind me. ‘You English really must learn to speak french if you’re coming here. There’s only about ten percent of Bretons that can speak any English. How do you hope to get on?
I turned and looked up at a pock-marked face, the dark eyebrows were so long and bushy that they almost hid the pale eyes that glittered with all the warmth of ice-chips. The officer pursed his lips as he groped for the words he wanted and made his over-large moustache wobble in a way that reminded me of Asterix, the cartoon character.
I glanced at his name badge. ‘Bonjour monsieur Bertrand. My apologies for dragging you out this morning.’ I offered, hoping to smooth the obviously irritable officer.
‘Oh, you didn’t call me. She did.’ he pointed at the fresh-faced Gendarme. ‘She thinks that she might need to arrest you. And you might not understand the charges.’
‘What do you mean....arrest? Oh dear.’ I felt my face redden beneath my tan. ‘I didn’t realise she was a woman. Please, please apologise to her for me...would you. But I don’t think an arrest is needed. I’ve done nothing wrong. Have I?’
‘Ah monsieur, but we all have secrets....How do I know what you’ve done or not done...eh?’ he pulled out a well-worn note book and a stub of pencil. ‘We’ll start with your documents. Driving permit, passport, insurance and registration certificates first I think.’
