by Olga Wojtas
Madeleine placed two bowls on the table for us to drink out of, before bringing over the jug of coffee. I picked up one of the bowls and tried to manoeuvre my hand so that it would touch hers. I was obviously behaving perfectly appropriately under the terms of my mission, but I could just imagine what the Royal High boys would have said about it. So juvenile.
I managed to jog her arm as she was pouring, and coffee splattered onto the wooden table. She gave a sigh and fetched a cloth.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I said, fetching another cloth and making sure that as we cleaned the table, I made contact with her several times. There was definitely a slight tingle, but the tingle was definitely slight. She wasn’t the person I was here to help, but she must be a link in some way. I would have to be on the alert the whole time to work out who it was.
The coffee was black.
“I wonder, could I have a drop of milk?” I asked.
Madeleine gave me exactly the same look that you would get in an Edinburgh chip shop if you asked for vinegar instead of brown sauce.
“No,” she said. “I don’t have any.”
“Don’t worry, this is fine,” I said, although I didn’t fancy it at all.
She was observing me over the rim of the bowl.
“Was your husband a soldier?” she asked.
I found the question offensive, attempting to categorise me by a man’s status. I was reminded of an appalling newspaper headline: “Schoolteacher’s Wife Wins Mastermind.” We Blainers retain our own identity whatever our marital status.
“I’m not married,” I said stiffly.
“Excuse me.” There was something of an edge to her voice. “I should have realised you were someone who disregards convention. Was your lover a soldier?”
This definitely wasn’t the sort of conversation one had in Morningside. And another thing… “What’s with the ‘was’?” I demanded.
She gestured towards my DMs.
“I presume he is dead since you are wearing his boots.”
“These are my boots,” I said. “Bought with my own money. Money I earned through gainful employment.”
She looked at my DMs again. “You have very big feet.”
“Better than having a big mouth” came to mind, but I contented myself with saying, “Where I come from, they’re very fashionable.” The make is now sixty years old, slightly older than myself, born of the happy union between the Northamptonshire boot-making company Griggs and Dr Klaus Märtens, whose broken foot inspired him to create an air-cushioned sole. DMs started off as workwear, but thanks to Pete Townshend, music festivals and female customisation, they have been transformed, as the brand itself proclaims, into creations for authentic individuals with a sense of self-expression.
“You must find us very unsophisticated here,” she said, smoothing down her cotton frock in such a way as to emphasise her curves. “I suppose your hat is the latest thing.”
“I’m not wearing a…” I began, putting my hand up to my head and discovering I was still wearing the head torch, “…hat.” I continued, “We call this a fascinator.”
I took it off and laid it on the table.
She sniffed. “And you’re wearing a bustle. Nobody here in the country does that.”
“I’m not wearing a bustle,” I said with much greater confidence.
She shot me a sceptical look.
I stood up and turned round. “See?”
“Yes. I see your bustle.”
“I’m not wearing a bustle,” I repeated. “These are my glutes.”
She looked blank.
“Gluteus maximus. The strongest muscle in the body. The muscle that lets us walk upright. Crucial for running, jumping, climbing. I do lunges, stretches and barbell exercises to keep it in shape.”
She looked almost admiring. “And you save yourself the cost of a bustle.”
We seemed to be bonding.
“And can I ask you something?” I said.
Shrug.
I wanted to find out how natural that tan was. “Do you use Fake Bake?”
“How dare you!” she flared. “I bake everything from scratch – baguettes, pain de campagne, brioches, beignets, croissants. But I shouldn’t be surprised by your question, since I know you English can’t cook.”
“I’m not English,” I said. “I can prove it. The English say plate. We say ashet, from assiette. The English say cup. We say tassie, from tasse. And I can cook. My sauce Béarnaise is the best in Morningside.”
“What does your Morningside know of sauce Béarnaise?” she sneered.
“It knows of my sauce Béarnaise, which is delicious. Perhaps it’s time Sans-Soleil got to know it as well. Have you got any chervil?”
She gave a gasp of outrage. “You think I’m going to let you use my kitchen?”
“Oh, right, you’re going to cook for me all the time I’m staying with you? That’s very kind. I’ll be glad to give you my opinion of your sauce Béarnaise.”
I thought for a moment she was going to pick up the heaviest saucepan available and whack me over the head with it. But the fight seemed to go out of her, just like that.
“Of course, you’re welcome to share my meals,” she said.
I preferred her feisty.
She even rejected my offer to wash up the coffee bowls, claiming that my rent covered all that.
“Thanks,” I said, “but you can’t do everything. I’ll wash up after tea.”
“I told you, there is no tea,” she said.
Foreigners can be almost as slow as the English at understanding what one says. “The evening meal,” I explained. “In the meantime, if you can manage without me, I’ll go for a wee walk and have a look round.”
Madeleine’s eyes narrowed. “You’re leaving?”
“Not for long,” I said. “Any messages you want brought back?”
“Who from?” she snapped. “Your friend the mayor? Tell him that anything he has to say to me, he can say to my face. No, tell him I don’t want to hear from him at all unless it’s to say my Sylvain is returning.”
“Sorry,” I said. “My meaning was lost in translation. I mean is there any shopping I can get for you? Since you haven’t got any milk, I could pick up a pint or two. Anything else? Butter, cheese?”
She laughed out loud, but it wasn’t the sort of laugh that suggests amusement. “You can get me all these things?”
“Of course,” I said. Even though I was paying rent, I was sure my expenses would allow a certain amount of foodstuffs under the heading of subsistence. “Just tell me where I can get them.”
“I don’t think I need to tell you anything.”
I was pleased that she recognised I had enough nous to work things out without instructions. I went out and realised the first thing I should do was gather up all the bits of smashed crockery on the doorstep. I put them in a neat pile on the top landing and went down to street level step by step, making sure I got it all. When I reached the bottom, I found a small girl who was apparently waiting for me.
“May I help you?” I asked.
She gave a little bob. “Not you, madame. There was no room for me to get past you on the stairs. I’m here for the cow.”
“There’s no call for that sort of language,” I said severely. “I know she’s very bad-tempered, but you have to allow for the emotional turmoil. And in any case, you should show proper respect to your elders.”
But even before I had finished, the child had scampered past me up the steps to tap on the door.
Madeleine opened it. “Oh no, you’re here to milk the cow,” she sighed. “I’ve had a dreadful morning – I haven’t even let the poor beast out. Come in, come in.”
She suddenly caught sight of me. “Are you going for a walk, or do you prefer eavesdropping?”
I added the final couple of plate shards to my collection and clumped up the wooden stairs to add them to the pile at the doorstep.
“Yours, I believe,” I said. “Now I can go for my w
alk.”
I set off, trying to work out how she didn’t have any milk when she had a cow. She might be lactose intolerant. That could explain why she had reacted so peculiarly when I suggested getting cheese and butter. I had been insensitive. Perhaps she was vegan – but no, if she was, she would have told me already.
Then I thought, you need milk to make beignets, and butter for brioches, croissants and sauce Béarnaise. Perhaps she had only just developed her intolerance, and that was why she had to get someone else to milk the cow. With someone else, I would simply ask, but my most innocuous questions made Madeleine snappier than an alligator with temporomandibular disorder.
But pondering the enigma that was Madeleine wasn’t helping me to investigate my new surroundings. Time to get to work. I’ve perfected the art of being unobtrusive. I don’t mean I can be the Invisible Woman, but in ordinary situations, when I’m not the focus of attention, I can merge into the background.
That’s what I did now, as I set off round Sans-Soleil. The village was full of activity, people shopping, gossiping, mending things, playing boules. As I watched, a small boy who looked slightly older than the moppet visiting Madeleine trudged up the stairs to a chalet. He wore an ill-fitting jacket over too-short trousers, and unlaced boots on the wrong feet. He hesitated for a moment before knocking on the door.
The householder opened it and began berating the child for being late.
“And take those filthy boots off!”
“But … the field?” the small boy ventured.
“Are you stupid? You put them on again before going into the field. But I’m not having you tramping mud through my nice clean house.”
I crossed the road and edged round the side of the chalet to find the child being shoved out of the back door into the pasture, where a cow was placidly grazing. I could easily see what was happening through the fencing. The small boy, who had now acquired a bucket and three-legged stool, sat down beside the cow and began milking it. He seemed very nervous, and he was very tiny compared to the cow, but he was doing pretty well. Until the cow took a step forward to reach a particularly succulent bit of grass and the bucket went flying.
The householder raced out to grab the unfortunate child.
“You come with me right now and explain to the policeman what you did!” she yelled. “I’m not getting blamed for this.”
“I didn’t do anything!” the small boy wailed. “It was your cow’s fault.”
“None of your cheek,” snapped the householder, dragging the child back through the chalet, boots and all. I edged round to the front and followed them up the street at a discreet distance.
The tall, severe-looking man with the bushy side whiskers, wearing his kepi and dark-blue cape, was progressing majestically along, studying each chalet carefully as he went. The householder bustled up to him, still grimly clutching the small boy.
“Officer, this wretched child spilled all the milk – it was nothing to do with me.”
The policeman looked down at the boy. “Is this true?”
The boy went even paler than the usual Sans-Soleil skin tone. “No,” he stammered. “The cow knocked the bucket over while I was milking her.”
“He was in charge of the cow. It’s his fault,” said the housekeeper. “And he tramped mud all through my nice clean house.”
“The law does not concern itself with the latter,” said the policeman. “But as far as losing the milk is concerned, such carelessness cannot go unpunished. Since this boy has jeopardised our celebrations, he will not be permitted to attend them.”
The child slumped in abject misery.
“And you, madame, think yourself lucky that I’m not holding you responsible for letting such an incompetent lad near your cow,” the policeman said to the householder. “I trust you will be more circumspect in future.”
For an instant, the householder looked as though she was inclined to argue. Then she let go of the small boy and flounced back to her chalet.
The child stood there, quivering.
“Stop wasting time,” snapped the policeman. “Be off with you before I arrest you for loitering.”
The child fled, but from my vantage point, I saw that he had just run round the corner, and was huddled against the wall, trying not to cry. I wasn’t impressed by the policeman’s behaviour. He was being mean to the poor wee scone in a thoroughly unjustified way. Police cannot operate properly in a democracy without the consent of the citizens, and being unjustifiably mean to them is no way to keep them onside.
As the policeman headed off in the opposite direction, I unobtrusively crossed the road and went over to the wee scone.
“Cheer up,” I said. “No point in crying over spilled milk.”
He quickly rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and stood up straight.
“Sorry, madame.”
“You’ve got nothing apologise for,” I said.
“Sorry, madame.”
I tried a conversational gambit that wouldn’t lead to an apology. “How old are you?”
“Seven, madame.”
That was peculiar. He didn’t look like a truant, and yet…
“Why aren’t you in school?” I asked.
“This is our practical biology lesson, madame, milking cows.” Tears welled up in his eyes once more. “But I’m not very good at it.”
“Never mind, we can’t be good at everything,” I said, although I reflected that in my own case, that wasn’t strictly true. “Just do your best, and try to remember what you’ve been taught about milking cows.”
He bit his lip. “We haven’t been taught anything about milking cows, madame. We were just told to get on with it.”
“Come now,” I said. “Even if this is your first hands-on experience, you must have had theoretical training through lectures, diagrams or scale models.”
He shook his head.
I was appalled. Having had the finest education in the world, I know the importance of properly prepared lessons. A teacher must have a clear idea of the aims of a course, and the desired learning outcomes. Sending a child off to do something in a state of ignorance isn’t education, it’s criminal negligence. Almost as bad as the time the council sent us off on that team-building exercise, which involved building not only teams but also pontoons. My team was fine, because I made sure the buoyancy containers couldn’t float apart. But Dorothy’s team nearly drowned.
“The police officer can’t know you’ve been sent out with no training,” I mused aloud.
“Yes, madame, he does,” the wee scone assured me. “He’s told us to get on with it as well. So has the judge. And, of course, the cheesemonger and undertaker.”
There was no “of course” about it. This was getting more outrageous by the moment. The teacher clearly wasn’t carrying out his duties correctly, but there’s nothing worse than interference in the school system from non-educationists.
“Please, madame,” he pleaded, “the policeman told me to stop wasting time. May I go?”
“You may go in a moment,” I said. “Just two things. First, next time you try to milk a cow, make sure she’s secured in some way so that she can’t wander off. And second…” I fished in my reticule and found a bulging paper bag, which I handed over, “… these should help improve matters.”
The wee boy peeped into the bag. His eyes widened. “Are these…?”
“Yes,” I said. “Violettes de Toulouse. Crystallised flowers, made with real violets and a great deal of sugar. Remember to brush your teeth properly afterwards.”
“Thank you, madame!” He sped off with a beaming smile.
“And thank you, Miss Blaine,” I murmured. The Founder was a marvel at providing what was needed at just the right time. I only wished she would be specific about what my mission was. I wondered why I had been selected for this particular one. My language skills were a plus, and my acumen, but that meant I was suitable for almost any mission. How many missionaries did she have? On my debut time-travellin
g outing, she had implied that this was a new venture. Perhaps I was the Founder’s founder member.
But my musings wouldn’t buy the bairn a new pair of breeks. Like the wee scone, I must stop wasting time. I continued on my peregrination through the village.
A hanging shingle at the end of a street announced the site of the cheese shop. I made my way to it. Even if Madeleine was lactose intolerant, I could do with some cheese and butter for myself, not to mention some milk for the coffee.
But when I reached the shop, it was closed. I peered in through the large window, which obviously hadn’t been cleaned for ages. The shelves were completely empty apart from a few scrapings of rind. The counter was covered in dust. This was disappointing.
I walked on and turned left. Now I was in the rue de la Justice, a short street largely taken up by a large building that turned out to be the court. It was wooden, but rather than being in the style of an Alpine chalet, it was a ligneous Greek temple. Grand columns in front of the entrance supported a triangular pediment carved with the image of the goddess of justice, blindfolded to show impartiality, holding scales to weigh the merits of the case, and waving a sword to warn you that if you lost, you were in real trouble.
I walked up the steps to find the huge doors firmly closed with absolutely no sign of life inside. I shouldn’t be surprised – Sans-Soleil was obviously calm and crime-free. The judge must have virtually nothing to do, apart from the occasional boundary dispute over the fencing-off of cows. I could understand why he spent most of his time in the howff.
Beyond the rue de la Justice, I found the rue des Écoles, and there was the school, its playground and classrooms empty. But the young, muscular teacher was no longer in the howff with his judicial friend. He was sitting on the playground wall, his tie askew under the wing collar. He could have passed for a member of the PE staff had he not been puffing on a cigarette.
