by M C Beaton
When the train departure was announced everyone rushed to the escalators, fretting and fidgeting while passports and tickets were checked.
At last he was on board. What maniac had designed the seating? he wondered.
He was seated at a table, one passenger beside him and two across. There was very little legroom. He put his long legs out into the corridor but kept having to draw them in when people came past. The man opposite him was nearly as tall as Hamish and so they worked out that Hamish should stretch his feet out to the left and his fellow traveller to the right.
During the two-and-a-half-hour journey, they were served three-course meals with wine. Hamish’s opposite companion had a burning desire to go to the loo as soon as the food was served. In trying to stand up and get over Hamish’s legs, he stumbled, held on to his tray for support, stumbled against Hamish, and knocked Hamish’s meal across into the lap of the woman opposite.
What screams and swear words until the woman was cleaned down and presented with a complimentary bottle of champagne. No one suggested replacing Hamish’s dinner, and he was too fed up by this time to demand one.
He finally got out in Paris at the Gare du Nord. Rain was thudding down on the roof. Outside a line of people waiting for taxis seemed to stretch for miles. He pulled a thin raincoat out of his backpack, put it on, and began to trudge through the streets of Paris. He knew the next train left from the Gare d’Austerlitz on the Left Bank of the Seine.
He dropped into various brasseries for comforting hot drinks, then he would consult his map and plough on.
At Bastille, he saw a cruising cab and flagged it down. The rain had thinned and watery sunlight was gilding the greenish brown waters of the Seine as the taxi crossed the river and then swung into the courtyard of the Gare d’Austerlitz.
The train, the Joan Miro, was already standing on the platform. The coach attendant took away his ticket and passport and said he would return mem before arrival in Barcelona.
Hamish was ushered into his compartment. It contained a comfortable armchair and a private shower and toilet.
“Go straight to the dining car,” said the coach attendant. “It gets very busy. Your bed will be made down when you return.”
♦
Hamish began to enjoy himself for the first time. There was something pleasingly decadent at sitting at a dining table being served delicious food and wine while the lights of Paris whirled away in the distance.
When he returned to his cabin, he found a snowy white berth ready for him with a complimentary bar of chocolate on the pillow. Exploration of toilet and shower room revealed piles of fluffy towels and a bag with everything the traveller could need from a razor to soap and face flannel.
Hamish undressed and had a shower and then went to bed and fell fast asleep.
In the morning, he showered again, deciding that such a novelty should be tried twice, then dressed and went to the dining car, redolent with the sweet smell of croissants.
The first thing he decided to do was to leave his bag at the hotel in the Ramblas and walk down to the old port.
But waiting for him at the hotel was a smartly dressed executive from the olive oil company. After he had left his bag, he was whipped off to the factory on the outskirts, introduced to various directors, and taken on a tour of the bottling factory. Then there was a long lunch.
In the afternoon he was taken to the main factory to watch the refinery process. His guides were thorough. Then there was dinner with the executives and by the time he was taken back to his hotel, he was too weary to do anything else other than go to bed.
The same executive was waiting to trap him in the morning. This time it was out of Barcelona to the olive groves, wandering along rows of trees in the dusty heat. After lunch, more groves and then back to the city to the advertising office to study the layouts for the new labels.
Here he was praised for his slogan and asked to write a description of Pedro’s Olive Oil.
“A bottle of golden sunshine to give you long life,” wrote Hamish and they all clapped as what he had written was translated.
Back to the factory where he was presented with a small silver cup and a crate of olive oil. They promised to send the olive oil on to him.
As he was now considered one of the team, the next long day involved talks on marketing and distribution. Hamish was aware that by tomorrow he had only one free day left. Where were the senoritas he had hoped to meet?
But to his relief, at the end of another long and official dinner, he learned that the next day he was to be left to his own devices.
♦
The sun was shining brightly on the following morning. He walked down the Ramblas, that famous promenade, admiring the multitude of living statues, before ambling along the port and stopping at an outdoor fish restaurant for lunch. He was amused to see ashtrays on all the tables. France and Britain might sheepishly follow EU rules banning smoking but the Catalans did as they pleased.
He spent the afternoon back in the town buying various presents. He returned to the hotel, showered and changed into his best suit, and went up one of the side lanes off the Ramblas to a restaurant he had noticed earlier.
At the front, it looked as if it was just a small bar, but through the bar and to the side was a large restaurant.
It was full of young people and a good few thirty-somethings like himself. He ordered fish soup followed by a steak – he felt he had eaten enough paella to last him a lifetime, that seemingly being the favourite dish of the olive company.
There were two pretty girls at the next table. One leaned over to him. “Are you English?”
“Scottish,” said Hamish.
“I’m Gerda from Germany – Berlin – and this is Michelle from Paris. What brings you to Madrid?”
Hamish told them all about the olive oil competition and about how he thought he would never get free of the factory. They laughed and laughed and then Hamish invited them to join him for coffee and brandy.
“It is good for Gerda to laugh,” said Michelle. “She had a long relationship with a man and he left her for a woman old enough to be his mother. We are going on to a party tonight. Would you like to come?”
“I’d love…,” Hamish was just beginning when two middle-aged women bore down on them.
“It is!” one cried. “It’s Mr. Macbeth. We were looking in the window and I said to Doris – that’s Mr. Macbeth. We’ll never forget our time with you in Spain. So romantic! We need a favour. Could you walk us back to our hotel? We’re nervous walking in the Ramblas at night.”
Hamish was dismally aware of the look of disgust Gerda was giving him and how Michelle was holding Gerda’s hand and gazing sympathetically at her.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said. “Don’t leave without me.”
He marched them sulkily to their hotel, refused offers of a drink, and as soon as they were indoors raced back to the restaurant.
But Gerda and Michelle were gone and had not even left a message for him.
♦
Hamish haunted the restaurant at lunchtime next day, but there was no sign of them. He took in another couple of tourist sights and then packed and walked along to the station. This time the train was not the Joan Miro but an older, longer one. Once more he left his bag in the sleeping compartment and made his way to the restaurant car.
He was just finishing his main course of roast rabbit when the waiter asked if he would mind if a lady joined him. All the other places were taken up.
A woman sat down opposite him and said, “Thanks.”
He guessed she was about his own age. She had thick dark hair, a long nose, and a full red mouth. She held out her hand. “I’m Caroline Evans.”
“Hamish Macbeth.”
“Scottish?”
“Aye.”
“I’m Welsh. Were you on holiday?”
“Not exactly.” Hamish gave her a gloomy report of his visit, and she laughed and laughed.
“It really is
very funny, you know,” she said. “You were hoping for sun, sex, and sangria, I’ll bet.”
“Something like that. Tell me about yourself.”
Caroline began to talk about her work in Cardiff, which was running a cleaning agency, while Hamish relaxed and listened to the charming Welsh lilt of her voice.
He in turn told her about his work as a policeman in the north of Scotland and all about the recent murders while the dining room gradually emptied.
At last, he said, “I think we should be leaving. Which is your compartment?”
“Number five.”
“There’s a coincidence. Mine is number six.”
He walked her back along the corridor. He wanted to kiss her but thought that might be a bit too much since he had just met her. He said good night, went into his compartment, and sat on the bed.
There was a knock at his door ten minutes later just as he was considering having a shower. He opened the door.
Caroline stood there in a nightgown and negligee.
“I came to borrow a cup of sugar,” she said.
Hamish smiled down at her. “You’ve come to the right place. Come on in!”
♦
Detective Chief Inspector Blair sulkily followed his wife, Mary, into the delicatessen. Mary had said olive oil was healthier for cooking.
Blair suddenly felt he was being haunted. The artist in Barcelona had decided to put Hamish’s picture on all the new bottles. From row after row of bottles, Hamish’s face grinned down.
Blair turned about and went into the nearest pub. He had stopped drinking for five days and he was getting hallucinations. Must be the lack of alcohol.
He ordered a double whisky and then hid in a dark corner of the pub, hoping his wife would not find him.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 38f898a2-78d3-4dfc-845f-d8b6cb695c73
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 17.12.2012
Created using: calibre 0.9.9, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
M.C. Beaton
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