Monsieur Pamplemousse Stands Firm

by Michael Bond

  Pommes Frites gave a sigh as he set off after them. He was too nice a dog to spend overlong on the thought that it served his master right, but as both hunted and hunter disappeared round a corner, he couldn’t help but dwell on it for a moment or two, wondering if perhaps the full moon were responsible for his master’s strange behaviour over the past few days.

  Thoughts of a philosophical nature were far from Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind as he raced through the town. They ranged from wondering what would happen if he took refuge in a passing gift shop – the owners were hardly likely to welcome him with open arms – to weighing up his chances of escape by plunging down a side street and into the sea. Clearly, from the way they were shying away he would get little or no help from any of the passers-by. No one would come to his rescue if the dog turned out to be a powerful swimmer.

  In the end the solution rose up in front of him in the shape of a tall, white cigar-shaped building, the red top of which was surmounted by a glass enclosure.

  Summoning up a final burst of speed which took even the Wolfhound by surprise, he beat it to the lighthouse by several yards.

  Ignoring an elderly woman in black seated behind a desk in the entrance hall, cutting off in its prime her explanation that although there was no entrance charge, pourboires were at the discretion of the individual and would benefit those prepared at any time of the day or night to drop what they were doing in order to risk their lives in ensuring the safety of others – it was up to Monsieur – he made for the stairs, leaving her saucer of carefully arranged ten-franc coins undisturbed.

  Had he paused to consult his guide, Monsieur Pamplemousse would have seen in passing that there were 258 steps to the top of the lighthouse. He didn’t bother to count, but if pressed he would have put it at many more.

  Emerging on to the viewing platform at long last, he collapsed against the perimeter wall, fighting to regain his breath. Focusing his gaze on the ground some fifty metres below he could see no sign of the Wolfhound. Either the brute had given up the chase or it was already on its way up. With any luck it had fallen foul of the Madame at the door.

  Gradually he became aware that he was not alone. On the other side of the circular platform he could hear voices. Peering round the corner he saw a small group of sightseers being regaled by an ancient mariner on the splendour of the panoramic view spread out before them. If they had witnessed his ignominious progress through the town they showed no sign. Most of them seemed more interested in the local football stadium.

  The man was making the most of his captive audience.

  ‘Oui. There is nothing between us and the United States of America. Just five thousand or so kilometres of Atlantic Ocean.

  ‘Oui, oui. In winter the storms can be very bad. Last winter they were the worst we had ever known. The whole lighthouse swayed. You see the Limite de Prudence …’ he pointed to a line of white-capped rollers between the two strips of land marking the point where the sea entered the bay. ‘That was one mass of boiling water. The Dune du Pilat …’ heads turned in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s direction, ‘the Dune du Pilat was like the Sahara desert in the middle of a sandstorm.

  ‘Non. The white tower you can see a kilometre and a half away to the west was not the original lighthouse. This,’ said with some pride, ‘this is the site of the original. It has always been so. The lighthouse may have been destroyed by the Germans in 1944, but in 1946 it was completely rebuilt.

  ‘The white building is the Semaphore Tower … it is used by the military. That has always been there – for as long as I can remember. The new lighthouse was built on exactly the same spot as the old.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse listened with only half an ear. The other half was waiting for the sound of approaching paws.

  ‘Oui.’ The man turned in response to a question. ‘The restaurant by the harbour is a good place to eat.’

  ‘That is true. I have just eaten there myself.’ Even as he spoke Monsieur Pamplemousse realised he had made a mistake. The warm sun combined with his marathon sprint through the town had left their mark. A malodorous smell was beginning to emanate from his person.

  The keeper stared at him for a brief moment or two, then turned. The others hastily followed on behind as he moved away towards the leeward side of the building.

  ‘From here you can see the whole of the Fôret Domaniele de Lège et Garonne …’ But the damage was done. The attention of his audience was concentrated instead on Monsieur Pamplemousse. Mostly it was one of alarm as he followed them round the circular platform. In an effort to escape several tried to push their way past him towards the stairs, then clearly wished they hadn’t as he barred their progress.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was trying to keep his options open. The worst was about to happen. His ears had picked up the sound of heavy breathing. It was getting louder with every passing second.

  It was a fifty-fifty chance which way the animal went. If it turned right at the top he was done for, if it turned left it would have to push its way through the crowd and time would be on his side. To Monsieur Pamplemousse’s relief he heard it turn left.

  Taking advantage of the sudden diversion he made a dive through the opening and disappeared down the stairs rather faster than he had come up. A moment later he set off down the road, this time taking a different direction, away from the Bay side and towards the Atlantic ocean.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s sudden flight didn’t go unnoticed. Resting his chin on the parapet of the observation platform, Pommes Frites watched in amazement as act two of the drama in mime unfolded before his very eyes.

  His master appeared to have gone berserk. Having overtaken a small boy on a skateboard, he suddenly stopped, turned, and entered into conversation with him. First came the crouching down and the patting of the head. Then, when that seemed to be of no avail, it was followed by the old trick of distracting attention. Monsieur Pamplemousse pointed up to an imaginary object in the sky and while the boy’s back was turned he made a grab for the skateboard.

  It must have been something of a desperate measure, for he only travelled a matter of a few metres before he fell off. Rising to his feet and dusting himself down, he then ran hither and thither for a while, before making a wild dash for a small train winding its way up from the beach. He appeared to be having an argument, first with the driver, then with the passengers as he clung to the side trying to force his way in to the crowded carriage.

  Eventually, as the train slowed down for some traffic lights, he leapt off it and began waving at some distant figures walking away from him up the road – they were too far away for Pommes Frites to recognise them – but clearly his master knew who they were.

  Then, almost as though he’d had a sudden change of mind and didn’t want to see them after all, he hid behind a tree until they had disappeared down a lane leading towards the sea.

  Pommes Frites shook his head sadly as he followed Monsieur Pamplemousse’s progress from tree to tree until he was but a speck on the horizon. He had a friend in Paris whose owner had behaved in a similar fashion. In the end he’d had to be taken away. He didn’t know what he would do if that happened.

  Having decided the time had come for him to intervene, Pommes Frites made a firm mental note of the point where he had last seen his master, then set off in pursuit.

  Unaware of the consternation he had been causing, Monsieur Pamplemousse relaxed for the first time since he’d fled from the café. The Wolfhound must have given up the chase for it was nowhere to be seen. But best of all he had found what he was looking for. There in the firm sand near the water’s edge he’d come across two sets of footprints. One set looked as though they had been made by a pair of rope-soled boating shoes; the other had to be Elsie’s. There couldn’t be many people on the beach that day who were wearing high heels.

  He quickened his pace. The tide was coming in fast. It wouldn’t be long before all traces disappeared completely.

  It wasn’t until he rounded a groyne and
looked up that Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly realised he had been so busy following the footprints he had completely lost sight of his immediate surroundings. As far as the eye could see there were naked bodies stretched out on the sand: hectares and hectares of bare flesh in various shades of pink, brown and black. Several of those nearest to him were already giving him strange looks as they caught sight of his camera. There was a very definite feeling of unrest in the air. The man nearest to him reached for a portable telephone.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse beat a hasty retreat and made his way up the beach in the direction of a small dune. To his relief there was no one else in sight – probably because his side of the groyne was exposed to the prevailing wind. He weighed up the pros and cons of the situation for a moment or two. The possibility that Elsie and her escort might be making for one of the many nudist beaches dotted along the Atlantic coast hadn’t crossed his mind. It put him on the horns of a dilemma and no mistake.

  There was only one thing for it. Crouching down, he divested himself of his clothing. Folding it into a neat pile, he placed it on a patch of dry sand well out of reach of the incoming tide. Then, pulling the brim of his hat down over his eyes, he lengthened the straps on his camera case, slung it round his front and, with the nonchalant air of one who did such things every day of his life, retraced his steps.

  Keeping as close to the water’s edge as possible, his only other article of adornment – a gold Capillard-Rieme wrist-watch – glinting in the afternoon sun, Monsieur Pamplemousse resumed the pursuit of his quarry, adding his not inconsiderable mite of whiteness to the general ambience.

  It was some ten minutes later, having followed a course roughly identical to that of his master, that Pommes Frites arrived on the scene. It was no great feat of navigation. Indeed, it would have needed a hound with singularly insensitive nostrils not to have located where Monsieur Pamplemousse had ended up. Pommes Frites could have done it with his eyes closed.

  At first his joy at finding the clothes had been unbounded, alloyed only by a faint feeling of puzzlement as to why his master wasn’t inside them. Never one to harbour a grudge, ever ready to turn the other jowl, he followed the trail of footprints down the beach as far as the water’s edge. There he stopped dead in his tracks, scanning the water in vain, for there wasn’t a soul to be seen. Suddenly he feared the worst. On his way there he had seen a red flag flying. Even Pommes Frites knew that a red flag meant danger. He let out a howl.

  The thought that Monsieur Pamplemousse might have gone swimming for pleasure never entered his mind. In all the time he had known him he had never seen Monsieur Pamplemousse don a bathing costume let alone enter the water. There was only one interpretation to be arrived at. The answer was simple. Something had snapped and his master had decided to end it all.

  Pommes Frites made his way back up the beach with a heavy heart. There was only one thing to be done. It was a case of carrying out the canine equivalent of a burial at sea. And as with a burial at sea, when the waters close inexorably over the coffin and it disappears without a trace, so, having dragged his master’s clothes back down the beach and dug a suitably large hole, he paid his last respects as an extra large wave broke over the spot.

  Barring an earthquake or some other act of God, Pommes Frites felt confident that Monsieur Pamplemousse’s belongings would remain undisturbed until the end of time. No bone could have been better hidden, no tribute more sincere. It was a simple gesture, but in the circumstances it was the least a dog could do for his master.

  7

  POMMES FRITES THINKS AGAIN

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at the spot where he was perfectly certain he had left his clothes less than a quarter of an hour before. ‘I can assure you they were here. I remember the place exactly. There is the rock … there is a piece of seaweed …’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur.’ The gendarme sounded weary.

  ‘It is a mystère.’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur. Perhaps they have been stolen?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked around the beach. There wasn’t a soul in sight on their side of the groyne. He gave the sand a desultory stab with his toe. It felt soft and yielding.

  ‘No one in their right mind would have taken them. They are covered in chien’s vomit.’

  The gendarme gave a shrug. Clearly the state of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s clothes was of academic interest beside the matter in hand.

  ‘There have been a number of complaints, Monsieur. From those on the plage des naturistes, you understand?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse raised himself to his full height. ‘Are you accusing me of being a voyeur?’ he thundered. ‘Un individu qui se rince l’oeil? – a peeping Tom?’

  Wilting beneath his gaze, the gendarme lowered his eyes. He contemplated Monsieur Pamplemousse’s lower regions for a moment or two, then took out his notebook.

  While the man was busy writing, Monsieur Pamplemousse took the opportunity to lengthen his camera strap still further.

  ‘I am an ornithologist.’

  The gendarme gave a sigh. ‘That is what they all say, Monsieur. But with respect, I would suggest Monsieur is looking in the wrong direction. The Ile aux Oiseaux is on the other side of the peninsula. It is inside the Bassin d’Arcachon.’

  ‘I am perfectly well aware of that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I happen to be looking for the Banc d’Arguin which is at the entrance to the Bassin. I understand it is covered with marram grass and that it provides shelter for a large colony of seabirds. I am particularly interested in the sandwich tern.’

  The gendarme carried on writing. ‘I am pleased to see Monsieur has made good use of our local guide. Doubtless Monsieur has his camera with him because of his interest in bird watching.’

  The double entendre did not go unnoticed by Monsieur Pamplemousse. He decided he must tread carefully and try not to lose his temper.

  ‘May I see your carte d’identité, Monsieur?’

  ‘Oh, Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse made a great play of patting himself all over, first both sides of his chest, then his hips and finally his posterior. ‘I had it with me when I came out this morning. I wonder where it can possibly be?’

  The truth of the matter – in fact the only ray of sunshine in the whole dismal affair – was that in anticipation of his being asked that very same question when he visited the gendarmerie in Arcachon he had changed into his other suit. His precious notebook in the secret compartment of his right trouser leg, his Cross pen without which he always felt lost, his identity card and various other personal items he would have been sad to lose, were all safely tucked away in the hotel room.

  His attempt at striking a jovial note failed miserably. Clearly it had had the opposite effect. Officialdom came into play.

  ‘In that case, Monsieur, I must ask you to accompany me to the commissariat de police.’

  ‘I trust you have some kind of covering in your voiture.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse followed the gendarme up the beach. ‘A blanket perhaps? Or even a rug?’

  The man gave a hollow laugh. ‘This is not Paris, Monsieur. It is not even Bordeaux.’ He pointed to a bicycle propped against a tree.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at it. ‘You mean I am to ride that!’

  ‘No, Monsieur,’ said the gendarme patiently. ‘I shall be riding the bicyclette. You will be walking.’

  ‘Walking? How far is the gendarmerie?’

  ‘How far?’ The question gave rise to a certain amount of head scratching. ‘The nearest one is at Le Petit Piquet. Nine kilometres away … perhaps ten. I am only on attachment for the day. It is the start of the holiday season and …’

  ‘Je refuse! Absolument!’

  The gendarme leaned over his handlebars and peered at Monsieur Pamplemousse’s watch. ‘There is always the autobus if you prefer it. If we hurry we may just catch the next one to Bordeaux.’

  ‘No, I would not prefer it!’ barked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  The gendarme shrugged. ‘As you wish
, Monsieur. In that case I will leave you here while I telephone for assistance.’ He cocked his head in the direction of the next beach. ‘By the sound of it you will not be alone.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. He’d been so engrossed in his own misfortunes he had failed to pay any attention to what was going on around him. Now that the gendarme mentioned it there did seem to be an inordinate amount of noise coming from the other side of the groyne. Screams, shouts, voices raised in anger; it sounded for all the world as though someone was holding a lynching party.

  He essayed a quick peep over the top.

  ‘Sacré bleu!’

  ‘Monsieur?’ The officer joined him. ‘Mon dieu! Chiens!’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse sank down out of sight. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes he wouldn’t have believed it possible.

  It wasn’t just chiens, it was one particular chien. What Pommes Frites thought he was up to was hard to imagine. Or rather – he rephrased the question – what he was up to was clear for all to see. Why he was doing it was another matter entirely.

  Not to put too fine a point on it, and for reasons best known to himself, Pommes Frites was busily engaged in running up and down the beach sniffing all and sundry as fast as he could go. As an exercise in the triggering-off of girlish screams and manly oaths it was highly successful. One touch of his wet nose on an unsuspecting derrière and the effect was both instantaneous and electric. But as a means of endearing himself to the population at large it ranked as a non-starter. The plage was in an uproar.

  ‘Is there nowhere else we can go?’ demanded Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You cannot possibly expect me to walk nine kilometres like this.’