by Michael Bond
‘It seems to me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that a great many people would envy Brother Angelo.’
‘Brother Angelo, perhaps,’ said Beaseley. ‘But is Ron Pickles happy? Not from all I’ve seen.
‘As for choosing something simple, simple ideas are the hardest of all to come by. Anyway, it isn’t such a bad notion. It’s going back to basics. The Romans were into perfume in a big way. What did the Three Wise Men take with them as gifts when they visited Bethlehem after Jesus was born? Gold, frankincense and myrrh. Two out of three can’t be bad. If Von Strudel had his way he would skip the gold and show them taking a bottle of XS as well. It’s lucky no one’s thought of it.’
‘Mangetout is hardly my idea of the Virgin Mary,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Seen close to she is something of a disappointment.’
‘Ravaged is the word,’ said Beaseley. ‘I agree it isn’t exactly type-casting, but we all see things in our own way. With great respect to your lovely country and your good self, I suppose I’ve always seen Virgin Mary as being rather English – probably born somewhere near Guildford. In much the same way as I’ve always pictured Christ being British. A bit chauvinistic really. I daresay you people think he was French.’
‘Naturellement,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily.
‘Exactly. You could say that in choosing someone as unlikely as Mangetout nobody gets really upset because they know it isn’t definitive and it still leaves them with their options open. Our heroine is mean, moody, magnificent and available – always has been. Did you know her real name is Haricot? Mangetout is much more apt. She devours anyone who comes near. I’m told that at one period in her career – when she was “resting” – she was known as Madame Flageolet.’
‘And yet she decided to have Brother Angelo’s baby.’
‘Ron power,’ said Beaseley. ‘She knows he’d be off like a shot otherwise and she probably needs his money to keep her in the style to which she has become more than accustomed.’
As they arrived back on the set they heard Von Strudel’s voice raised in anger. An argument appeared to be in progress between him and Brother Angelo.
‘This bread,’ said Brother Angelo, ‘is ****ing awful. It tastes like ****. There’s something ****ing wrong with it.’
Von Strudel raised the megaphone to his lips. ‘You vill eat it und like it,’ he bellowed. ‘Zis is your chosen profession.’
‘No it ****ing isn’t!’ Brother Angelo sounded equally incensed. ‘And don’t ****ing shout at me. I’m not ****ing deaf.’
Clearly an impasse had been reached. How long it would have gone on for or what possible solution might have been arrived at, was hard to say, but attention was suddenly diverted by a cry from Mangetout.
‘Merde!’
She held aloft an empty serving dish.
‘Le chien!’
The delivery of the words le chien was on a par with the celebrated mouthing by Dame Edith Evans of the phrase ‘a handbag’ in The Importance of Being Ernest, but there the similarity ended. It was followed by a stream of invective which would have blown the fuses on Brother Angelo’s bleeper had he been given the lines to say.
Gradually, as Mangetout’s anger subsided, those around became aware of some singularly unpleasant noises coming from somewhere outside their line of vision. The cause became clear almost immediately as Pommes Frites tottered into view, his head held low, his legs looking as though they might give way at any moment. The sight of the empty plate in Mangetout’s hand gave rise to fresh paroxysms. Unhappiness rubbed shoulders with both guilt and regret as he averted his gaze.
‘The lamm,’ shouted Von Strudel. ‘Somevun has poisoned ze lamm!’
Brother Angelo gazed triumphantly round the assembly.
‘What did I ****ing tell you?’ he cried. ‘It takes a ****ing dog to show you who’s ****ing right. Now, do you ****ing believe me.’
Despite the glowing testimonial from such an unexpected source, Pommes Frites had the grace to look ashamed of himself as he made a beeline for the nearest bush and began another bout of retching.
It was difficult in the circumstances not to feel slightly holier than thou.
‘The Lord giveth,’ said Beaseley, ‘and He taketh away. I’m glad I’m not a wrangler. I think there’s some clearing up to be done.’
Having seen Pommes Frites safely to the unit vet’s quarters at the other end of the location, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way slowly back to his quarters.
Animal-like, Pommes Frites was already looking little the worse for his experience, but there was no sense in taking chances. The vet was English and a man of few words. He promised to keep Monsieur Pamplemousse informed if there was any change for the worse. Otherwise … a shrug indicated that he shared Pommes Frites’ views on such matters. A few blades of grass would probably work wonders – were there any grass to be found. The patient would soon be back on solids. In the meantime he would keep him under observation.
Back in his trailer, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided it was time for déjeuner. He examined the contents of his refrigerator, and after a moment’s thought removed four eggs and broke them into a bowl. It was hard to say how fresh they were, but they looked a good colour. He beat them lightly with a fork, then added some pepper and salt and put them to one side.
Rummaging around in the cupboard he found a lipped saucepan and a small basin. Pouring a little water into the saucepan, he put it on the hob to boil. The basin fitted snugly enough, the lip leaving enough of a gap for the steam to escape. It could have been made to measure. He dropped in a large knob of butter and while he waited for it to melt, added a few smaller shavings to the egg mixture.
It was at such moments that he missed Pommes Frites. He must have been very hungry to have taken the meat. It was quite out of character. Perhaps stardom was having an adverse effect on his behaviour. Either that, or some temporary aberration had caused him to think he was back working for Le Guide.
Opening a bottle of the Mont Caume, Monsieur Pamplemousse poured himself a glass. It looked as dark as night. Only in the south did you get quite such dark wine: a product of the late-ripening Mourvèdre vines. As the butter in the basin began to spread he tipped the egg mixture into the bowl and began stirring it with a plastic spatula.
Considering all the hazards and the things that could go wrong, it was a wonder films got made at all. Shadows, hairs in gates, passing aircraft – it wasn’t until someone called for quiet that you realised just how noisy a place the world could be – doctored food; it wasn’t surprising Von Strudel had gone over budget. Although you could hardly count the last episode as in any way normal.
Opening the tin of olives, he sliced several of them into small pieces. They were fat and succulent. He added them to the mixture. It was starting to thicken.
The vet had promised to examine the meat – if necessary he would get it analysed – but if Pommes Frites’ rapid recovery was anything to go by, it didn’t look like a serious attempt at poisoning. Another minor act of sabotage?
Monsieur Pamplemousse sat down to eat. The scrambled egg would have benefited from the addition of a little cream during its final stages and he would have given a lot for a slice or two of baguette, but … as he scraped up the remains with his fork he found himself wondering what had happened to the Director. Any guilt he might have felt about not searching him out and issuing an invitation to share the improvised lunch was quickly dispelled. The Director was more than able to look after number one. He was probably even now indulging himself in something much more exotic.
The telephone rang. It was Beaseley.
‘I’ve found out the answer to your question.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt confused. He had no idea what Beaseley was on about.
‘You know … where the idea for casting Brother Angelo came from. Apparently there was a period when he “trod the boards” for a while. Someone on the unit saw him back in the UK. He was appearing in a touring production of a musical
called Godspell. He played Christ and by all accounts was a bit of a “wow”. Slayed them in the aisles as they say, until disaster struck.’
‘Désastre?’
‘Unfortunately it happened during a matinée, so there were a lot of school parties. He was in the middle of doing some conjuring tricks when a piece of the scenery fell on his head. The air was so blue most of the children in the audience burst into tears and were whisked out by their teachers, the other half asked for their money back under the Trade Description Act. Question period the next day must have been rather fraught. It was shortly after that he was fitted with his bleeper.
‘Anyway, whoever caught him in Godspell suggested him for the part and as soon as Von Strudel saw his photograph that was it.’
‘As simple as that?’
‘It’s how lots of casting gets done. People play hunches. How’s the invalid?’
‘I think he will live.’
‘Good. Tell him to keep taking the tablets.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked Beaseley. He poured himself another glass of wine, then, after a moment’s thought, checked in his diary and picked up the receiver again.
He dialled for an outside line, then 19 – a pause while he got International – then 44 for England. It was time he spoke to his old friend, Mr Pickering.
One of the very special things about Mr Pickering was that he was always the same. He was never taken aback. There were no questions asked. Niceties were kept to a minimum, but were no less sincere for all that. He was also extremely knowledgeable on a surprising number of subjects.
‘Oui. Ça va, ça va.’
‘Brother Angelo? The pop star? His real name is Ron Pickles.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help smiling. As usual Mr Pickering was turning up trumps. ‘You are one of his fans?’
‘Not really. It stuck in my mind because of the similarity … Pickering … Pickles.’
‘Godspell? Good Lord! I saw that in … let’s see … must have been in the fifties.’
‘Really? I hadn’t realised it was still running anywhere. There are so many of them now. Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Jesus Christ– SuperStar. I lose track. I shall have to ask my daughter.’
‘Delightful. We enjoyed it enormously. David Essex. I’ve got the record somewhere.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll ring you back.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse washed up the debris from his cooking – there was a notice pinned to the side of the cupboard concerning maid service when required – but he had no great desire to have someone else bustling about the trailer. No doubt the same person who had tidied up and made the bed that morning came every day, bringing fresh linen and replenishing the stores. Anything else could wait.
Searching out his binoculars, Monsieur Pamplemousse wandered outside for a breath of unconditioned air. If he stayed indoors for very much longer he would find himself lying back on the bed and that would be fatal. He felt at a loose end. Normally he could have walked it off with Pommes Frites, but that, for the moment at least, was a pleasure he would have to forgo. They would have a lot of catching up to do when things returned to normal. The thought gave rise to others – a bitter-sweet mixture; a certain nobility that he had not stood in Pommes Frites’ way coupled with a feeling of being slightly let down.
He scanned the surrounding countryside. The area where all the extras had gathered was almost full. It looked as though most had now arrived and taken up temporary residence. Someone – it could have been the unit manager – was addressing a group of them through a loud hailer, but he was facing the other way and it was impossible to catch the words.
Monsieur Pamplemousse trained his binoculars on the Director’s car. It was now almost hidden from view behind a sea of new arrivals.
He heard a voice behind him.
‘Surveying the field, Pamplemousse?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse turned. Talk of the devil! As always the Director was dressed for the occasion. White Panama hat, dark glasses, a Pierre Cardin flowered shirt worn outside immaculately pressed designer jeans … his gaze travelled down … thonged leather sandals! Light began to dawn.
The Director pretended not to have noticed the reaction.
‘All is well I trust?’
‘I did not expect to see you here, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse coldly.
‘I happened to have some business to attend to in this part of the world, so I thought I would drop by and see how things are going.’
And land a part in the film, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘They are going much as I am sure you planned them to go, Monsieur,’ he replied.
‘Good. Good. I knew I could rely on you.’ The Director rubbed his hands together. ‘I am reliably informed that they could have need of an extra or two to mingle with the crowd, so I may stay on for a few days.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse contemplated his chief. It occurred to him that if the Director had been born an orange he would have been a remarkably thick-skinned one. A Navel rather than a Seville.
‘You plan to stay, Monsieur? Accommodation is impossible to get. You told me so yourself.’
The Director brushed aside the problem. ‘I have had a word with the unit manager. He has allocated me a trailer. My name has already been attached to the outside door.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Which reminds me, I must ring Véronique.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse waved towards the camp site.
‘Then it is a good thing you have a trailer, Monsieur. I doubt if you will be able to use your car telephone. There is already a long queue.’
‘What’s that?’ The Director gave a start. ‘What did you say?’
‘You can hardly blame them. Most have probably been away from home for a long time … America … Japan … Pakistan. They will want to ring home. Doubtless, they will have a lot to relate.’
‘Sacré bleu!’
‘I am sure Madame Grante will understand when you explain, Monsieur … she is not as black as she is painted.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s words fell on stony ground, as he thought they might. He wasn’t normally given to playing practical jokes, but it must be catching. He had to admit to deriving a certain wry satisfaction over the speed at which the Director took off. Beaseley would appreciate it when he told him.
His own telephone was ringing when he opened the door to his trailer.
As suspected, Pommes Frites’ indisposition boiled down to a matter of something he’d eaten. He could have told the vet that. What he wished to know was the precise cause of the trouble.
‘Soup?’ At first Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he had misheard.
‘Savon!’
Soap! Everything had been laced with it. The lamb must have had a whole bar inside it. Slithers of soap had been inserted into the bread too. Brother Angelo was confined to his quarters. It was no wonder he had complained. There was a real Judas in the camp and no mistake. It was a sobering thought that if such a thing had happened in reality the whole course of history might have been changed.
Monsieur Pamplemousse had hardly replaced the receiver when the telephone rang again. This time it was Von Strudel.
‘Zat hund of yours … Pommes Fritz …’
‘Oui?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what was coming.
‘He is vorth his veight in gold. He is ein hero. Ze whole cast could have been poisoned. I am raising his salary.’
It was the first Monsieur Pamplemousse had heard talk of any kind of payment. Perhaps it really was time Pommes Frites got himself an agent. He made a mental note to get the matter in writing before Von Strudel heard the true reason for his indisposition.
‘I hov decided to promote him. I am making him my personal food taster. From now on he vil taste everyzing before me.’
‘Pommes Frites is a dog of many talents,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but I think you will find tasting food is his particular forte.’ He nearly added the rider that if it meant tasting t
he output of Montgomery’s kitchen, there wouldn’t be much left for Von Strudel. On the other hand, if Von Strudel was dining chez La Baumanière that evening, the chances were they wouldn’t take kindly to Pommes Frites being given first go at everything. He could foresee problems.
‘Good. Zat is settled zen?’
‘I am happy if Pommes Frites is happy,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, staunchly. ‘He is receiving medical attention after his last meal, so he may not be able to start work immediately, but recovery is often swift.’ He hesitated. ‘There is one other thing …’
‘Ja.’
‘I have been thinking … as my services as a food adviser are not keeping me fully occupied, and as the purpose of my being here is really to keep an eye on things, I wonder if it would be possible to combine the two during the shooting of the Crucifixion. It is the last time anyone will have an opportunity …’
Even as he spoke, Monsieur Pamplemousse realised he was laying himself open to a charge of failing miserably in his duty over the latest incident, and he was fully prepared for an explosion at the other end of the line, but to his relief he could almost feel Von Strudel beaming at the thought.
‘You know somezing. You are ein good man. I liked you the first time I saw you. Vy? Because you stood up to me. You tell ze truth. You don’t know vat it is like to be surrounded all your life by “Ja Herrs”.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t offer an answer and clearly none was expected.
‘If you like I will give you ein part in ze film. You can vear eine galabiah and you can mingle mit ze crowd. Better still,’ inspiration struck, ‘you can be on zee route. You can be ein peanut seller. Zat vay no one vill suspect you. No one suspects peanut sellers.’
Ignoring the temptation to ask why, Monsieur Pamplemousse ventured to push his luck once again. ‘May I have an assistant?’
‘Of course. Have zvei, drei, vier. Take as many as you vould like. Phone ze casting director. Nothing must go vrong. I am relying on you.’
‘One will be quite sufficient,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And I know just the man.’
His conscience was beginning to prick him. At the time he had made up the story about the car telephone almost without thinking. It had seemed like rough justice for the cavalier way in which the Director had plotted his being in Les Baux. Now that honour had been settled, the least he could do was make sure his chief got a part.
