Strike Out Where Not Applicable

by Nicolas Freeling

  ‘Make two tomatoes, there’s a good girl.’ Feeling fussed, she made two Pernods with a drop of grenadine in, a drink thought highly of in the Department of the Var which normally he condemned as revolting.

  ‘What’s come over you to be obstreperous?’

  ‘I want to be nostalgic for sunshine. I want to be smitten with an April blindness. I thought I’d give you pleasure. And I think I know why I’ve been making such a balls of this riding-school nonsense. That’s a tiny bit too pink – my god, what a revolting colour it is.’

  ‘You don’t notice though when the sun is shining.’

  ‘I don’t care – it makes a change from Vittel water. Were you thinking of going riding this afternoon?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought. There’s nothing stopping me, I suppose.’

  ‘Ring up Janine – I’m thinking of coming with you and I’d like to meet her.’

  ‘Didn’t you say you’d met her?’

  ‘I did – alarmed her rather. This time she’s going to meet a different person and I’ll be interested in her reactions.’

  ‘I’ll give her a ring.’

  ‘Ask if her husband’s at home this afternoon but don’t say why. I want to see him.’

  ‘You want to take the little duck then, on to the coast?’

  ‘No, I’ll get her to give me a lift. I intend to seduce her.’

  ‘You’re going to regret drinking that stuff,’ with disapproval.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Risotto.’

  ‘Goody. In that case no.’

  ‘What no?’

  ‘No I’m not going to regret drinking it,’ blandly.

  ‘Where’s your stick?’

  ‘I left it in the office. I’m going to try going without it for a few days. Doesn’t do to have a stick. Like having a sword between you and your wife in bed, like that imbecile Lohengrin.’ He is certainly slightly drunk, thought Arlette, secretly pleased. He had seemed to her to have become so very ponderous sometimes since being promoted that she had thought rather sadly that the wound had abolished all frivolity as well as activity. Seducing Janine now – some hope – better not ask what that is in aid of.

  The rice had left-over ham and chicken in it, enlivened with smoked eel.

  ‘Why no prawns?’ with his mouth full.

  ‘Prawns as well as eel is too expensive. Anyway they’re deepfreeze – all colour and no flavour.’

  ‘Remember that one last year on the coast – the one you put the langouste in.’

  ‘I remember the langouste vividly – the beast cost thirty francs the kilo.’ She poured Vittel water into a glass and pushed it across to him. Women! he thought, drinking it obediently. The incredible strength of women. She had made no remarks about his clothes, which were things he hadn’t had on for two years: a suède jacket with a knitted collar, an orange shirt.… He was both irritated and pleased at her silence. She had understood. Women …

  He drove the deux-chevaux, which was hers, but she disliked driving when with him: it made her nervous, she said. Women …

  He was surprised at how expert Arlette was with a horse. He had thought vaguely that she would be a chronic faller-off and felt obscurely humiliated by her controlling the monstrous brute: now he would have approached it with great caution and protective clothing – perhaps an asbestos suit, with a little window to look through. Nasty dangerous radio-active beasts, horses.

  She went out into the fields, he following at a respectful distance, and started jumping over obstacles, which made her rather sweaty and dishevelled, with hair falling all over the place. He glanced about apprehensively to see whether any mocking eyes were taking in these antics, since she was plainly showing off.

  ‘It looks extremely high.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not showing off?’

  ‘My god, woman, I don’t want you with a broken collarbone.’

  This series of squeaking noises made her furious, not unnaturally.

  ‘Keep quiet, you bloody old nannygoat, there’s no more risk than diving off a one-metre springboard.’ Mortified, he looked round again but there was no audience. Most of the riding-school adepts were staid souls, less given to tittuping about. His own presence was unremarkable. Anyone in the house, to be sure, might be studying his demeanour at leisure with a pair of binoculars.

  Arlette did eleven jumps without falling off.

  ‘There’s Janine,’ she said suddenly. A horse was being galloped the other side of the field by a girl with blonde hair, in breeches and a sweater like Arlette’s but both black, which made a dramatic impression. He had noticed this the day before, but this time he was amused by it. Arlette, in a dark yellow sweater and ordinary fawn breeches, made a conventional figure by contrast. She was quietening the horse to stillness by talking to it in a private jargon: she was quite evidently seeking to impress him. She stood up in the stirrups, waved, and went ‘Yoohoo’; Zorro came cantering towards them.

  ‘Does she always wear black?’

  ‘Always – rather sweet, don’t you think?’

  Janine pulled the horse in, but the animal caracoled about in a twitchy way, making Van der Valk keep prudently behind his wife. He could see that the horse was a splendid animal, a bright chestnut this one, now shiny with sweat. Mm, he felt quite ready to believe in Bernhard Fischer having been massacred without any human being called on to lend a hand. That was just the point – he was a city boy, who had seen the horses used to pull brewers’ wagons, and those used by the mounted police. He looked at these animals with much the kind of eye people in the eighteen-nineties had had for motor-cars. Whereas Fischer had been a country lad … Maartens was quite right; you did not get injured by a horse unless you were afraid of it.

  Both women got off, and shook hands in a sloppy French way. The two abominable beasts twitched their ears, sidled nervously towards each other, pretending to bite, and stamped their huge iron feet in a most menacing fashion …

  ‘Quiet,’ said Arlette, giving hers a resounding smack upon its great moist flank. The horse obeyed instantly; he had to laugh at himself a little …

  ‘You haven’t met my husband, Nine. He came out with me today to admire.’

  ‘Salut,’ she said in a rough way, as though extremely shy. Then she looked at him sharply, as though not quite believing what she saw. ‘Did I meet you yesterday? Or am I wrong?’ He was enchanted; she was quite as surprised as he hoped, and being so obvious about it.

  ‘We didn’t really see each other.’

  ‘You had a stick.’

  ‘That is when I march about on parade,’ imitating a colonel inspecting a guard of honour. She laughed, plainly relieved – he was human after all.

  ‘I don’t think I’d have recognized you.’

  ‘We only met for a second, and I was being polite and formal with Francis.’ She approved of this too, he was glad to see.

  ‘I hate it rather when people are polite and formal – they’re generally being toffee-nosed. Arlette never is and that’s what I like about her. Are you, duck?’ Her French was really music-hall, sounding like a butcher’s wife in Marcinelle. He had a quick look to see how his wife reacted to being called duck, and found her quite unperturbed.

  ‘Warm, isn’t it, for all it’s cloudy? Napoleon got into a sweat.’

  ‘We’ll walk them back. You can’t just let them stand about like a car,’ added Arlette to her humble escort. ‘They get chilled and you have to keep moving.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Janine was accustomed to being familiar and easy with his wife, but was made uneasy by his presence. She kept wanting to talk and deciding against it, glancing at him, unsure how he might take the sort of conversation the women had being all girls together. She was not yet reassured: he might turn back into the orderly officer and say ‘Any complaints?’ from one minute to the next. He decided to be vulgar since that looked the way to put her at her ease and she had not hesitated to call him toffee-nose to his face …


  ‘First time I’ve seen this jumping. I’m most interested but it looks a damaging business. Don’t you get kind of bruised around the crutch?’ He was rewarded with a small happy scream.

  ‘My crutch, as you so charmingly call it,’ began Arlette balefully, ‘is well protected, thank you for your concern. Inside my breeches I have padding and woolly knickers, so you may feel at ease; it risks no damage.’ She had not yet caught on. ‘Ask Janine how she is padded – she’ll be delighted to explain in detail.’

  ‘Wretch!’ Explosion of giggles. ‘I’ve nylon pants but I’m padded too – I’m too bony!’

  ‘Black ones?’ – the jovial customer, making familiar jokes with the butcher’s wife across the dog’s dinner.

  ‘Always black ones,’ playing up. Arlette knew him too well to be taken in for long, and shot him a sharp look which Janine caught and promptly misinterpreted. ‘We must abandon this fascinating subject – I want to stay friends with your wife.’ The coquetry was stupid but nice – she was perhaps too innocent to be anything but nice. Had not Arlette remarked how vulnerable the girl was?

  ‘I’d be interested in meeting your husband.’

  ‘Well, that’s easy enough.’

  ‘How about this afternoon?’ She was taken aback.

  ‘Oh yes. I believe he’s busy with something – I mean, that doesn’t mean anything,’ clumsily. ‘Did you want to see him?’

  ‘Big bike fan.’ She had looked disquieted a moment. ‘Big Poupou fan but I like them all.’ Her face cleared and she laughed. ‘Allez France.’ This slogan was unexpected in a Dutch police inspector – even Arlette’s husband. ‘Oh yes, I learned that last year at Courchevel – we were there for the winter championships.’

  Arlette was keeping silent, rather embarrassed, hoping he wasn’t overdoing it.

  ‘Oh, you ski?’

  ‘Not me – I was convalescent after this,’ patting his hip negligently. ‘Arlette’s the sporting one. And the children, of course. Have you children, Madame?’

  ‘No,’ overhastily.

  ‘I might go out to the coast then. I’ll leave the two of you to your games. Shall I take the car then, darling?’

  ‘You’ll have to, won’t you,’ in a chilly tone. She thought he was being a bit mean.

  ‘You’ve only got Lette’s car? But how will she get back? I can drive you if you really want to meet Rob. We can give you tea.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you but I’ll have to get back too, you know.’

  ‘But I can give you a lift – that’s no trouble.’ It sounded over-eager even to her. ‘Rob will drive you back in the Ferrari.’

  ‘But weren’t you going to have coffee or something? – what d’you usually do – go to the White Horse?’

  ‘No – not much,’ abruptly. ‘I’ve been out since two anyhow.’

  She is a phenomenon, he thought. Nothing to do with being keen on me all of a sudden! But she’s mighty curious to hear anything I have to say to Rob. And she has a lot of confidence in Arlette, who is cute enough to see through all this, and knows I’m not just belting off for the afternoon because of the black undies!

  Good for her! She was smiling sunnily as though nothing could have pleased her more.

  ‘Yes, you drive him, Janine. Don’t let him drink too much; it isn’t good for him.’ They had reached the stables, passing the spot where Fat Fischer had an accident without thought or comment. ‘I’ll see to Napoleon – you two go on. Be home for supper, darling.’

  ‘Yes of course.’

  The BMW coupé was an impressive affair, less vulgar and chemical inside than a Mercedes, a roomy thing but light and nervous enough to suit a woman. It was fitted in a grandiose way with thermometers and tachometers and chronometers – even an altitude meter as well as conventional things like radios and revcounters. She looked very good in it and contrary to expectation she drove well, with brio but tact, knowing how to humour nincompoops in Volkswagens that got aggressive when passed.

  ‘You drive very well.’

  ‘Rob says that too. He taught me, so he is very critical and particular, but I do drive well, I know. I can even drive the Ferrari! But it’s not much fun here – no real open road. Holland’s too small.’

  ‘You don’t like it here?’

  ‘I hate it,’ with so much heat as to surprise him. Not venom really, because she is too nice to be capable of real venom – but heat …

  ‘You’d be more at home in France, wouldn’t you – or even Belgium?’

  She was pleased at his being perceptive.

  ‘Oh yes! The trouble is Rob isn’t. He wanted to try things here. I kept saying – but he over-ruled me – oh well, he’s the boss. I suppose it’s too late to get things changed now.’

  ‘He’s changed his mind since?’

  ‘I don’t know – maybe,’ braking for a crossroad and accelerating away with no jerk. She used the low gears well. Arlette would have braked nearly to a stop and gone on still in third, but of course with a deux-chevaux …

  ‘I’m glad Arlette’s made friends with you – being lonely sometimes as she is. She doesn’t make friends easily.’ For a moment he thought he had been too crude, but she was concentrating on a lorry.

  ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘Being a foreigner of course, it’s understandable.’

  ‘I’m not exactly a foreigner – but anyone is among the rich – unless you’ve got their kind of money.’

  ‘I would have thought your husband, uh, hadn’t done badly.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ seriously, so that he wanted to grin, ‘it’s not what you make, it’s the way that you make it. Bikes are not good enough for the nose-turner-uppers. As though they were any better than thieves,’ changing down into third with a roar from the motor. They were in the sand-dunes now, a well-built road but annoyingly kinky and bendy, curving between the rimrocks and scarps of grass-tussocked sand, with spinneys of dark pine crouched between. Brambles grew at the sides of the road, beyond the bicycle track. It had got much hotter, and the sun could be seen through a pearly curtain of cloud that gave the atmosphere an August stuffiness. It is always warm in the dunes, for the sand holds the sun’s warmth, and one is sheltered from the wind. The top of the car was down – it was pleasant driving with this extremely pretty girl, a summery glow on her peach-like skin.

  ‘Are they so disgraceful, then?’ laughing.

  ‘You’d be surprised.’ Perhaps she had forgotten he was a policeman – her tone was so serious. He wondered if he could ask her to be a bit more specific!

  ‘I thought you were one of them yesterday – I’m sorry; I was a bit rude. But I hate their guts, you see.’

  ‘I was born in the Ferdinand Bol Straat in Amsterdam.’

  ‘I was born in a stinking village between the cow and the cabbage,’ not laughing, ‘and compared to that the Ferdinand Bol is the Avenue d’Iéna.’

  ‘You got out of it, though.’

  ‘Yes, by luck. And how did you? Brains, no doubt. With brains one can always get out. I haven’t any. Even Rob knows how stupid I am, though he pretends not to notice. Lette – your wife – she notices but she – she laughs at me – but not nastily. She’s nice.’

  One of the disadvantages of this coast is that you cannot see the ocean before you reach it. Instead of being perched above sea level the coast is tucked below it. You have to climb a little hill before you see anything at all, though of course you can smell the sea before you come to it.

  He had been ‘bland’ of course. He knew all about the ‘stinking village’ but no need to tell her that the underling he had sent to the town hall had come up with the background of the whole manège. A fine thing, the town hall; not only are births-deaths-and-marriages on file in this most Dutch of institutions, but wonderful heaps of information useless to anybody but a nosy policeman. (Just so does one see the rag-and-bone man, wheeling his cart piled with rusty bedsprings, an old pram wheel, squashed cardboard cartons. That a man should toil, pushing th
at cart … That a man can live, and even be happy … Yet the sordid stink of burning rubber, the Stygian flames and pits announce the alchemist, and Dickens spoke of the ‘Golden’ Dustman.) Applications for a building licence, claim for unemployment benefit, religious and political opinions, changes of address over any-period-longer-than-three-weeks – the policeman can find gold in this, and a ridiculous annotation in an absurd file might fill him with the joy of the clochard finding a worn-out aluminium saucepan.

  Amusing, her compulsive blurting way.

  The car whisked through the sanded bricky streets of a Dutch sea-side town, turned on to the sea-boulevard, off it again, on to a large open space paved with apoplexy-purple breezeblocks, and slid into the white-painted slot next to the hotel entrance, where a France-blue marquee with gold lettering sheltered the doorway from wind and rubber-edged automatic doors played sentry against sand. Inside the dunes it had been windless: here the wind, an invisible sower, launched graceful skittish arabesques of silvery dust upon the barren parking lot. The north-westerly blows upon this coast like the mistral; alas, it brings not the fine weather but more rain. The ruffled seawater showed a few whitecaps on a churned steel-grey mud, like corpses stuck in barbed wire, here and there upon a Flanders battlefield. It was much too early for holidaying, but it is never too early for robust Germans happy to exchange the chemical vapours of Gelsenkirchen for the bracing breezes of the North Sea, and there were quite a few cars on the parking-place with Westphalian plates.

  Janine, rather proudly, was showing him through a hall elegant with rubber parquet and fibreglass furniture, with a girl at the switchboard behind a muted teak-veneer reception desk.

  ‘Find my husband will you? – tell him I’m back and I’ve brought someone – and ask one of the boys to send up tea for three.’ Her Dutch was as Flemish-sounding as her French, as though she had found haven from the cow and the cabbage in suburban Liège.

  ‘All right,’ said the switchboard girl indifferently, not quite insolently, with an accent designed to show that she came from The Hague. Janine walked him over towards the lift: standing close beside him pressing buttons she muttered ‘saucy bitch’ meant for him to hear.