Clovenhoof 03 Godsquad

by Heide Goody

  Joan looked up as Christopher and Francis entered the dining room. They were both wrapped in white robes and looked extremely pleased with themselves. Em took a little longer to notice as she was taking a photograph of the dried scum in her bowl of hot chocolate (which apparently bore a striking resemblance to her son, Jesus Christ and was, according to Em, ripe for posting on www.thingsthatlooklikejesus.com).

  “Dead chuffed with this place,” said Christopher as he walked past to take his seat among the many women of the Aberdaron Women’s Institute.

  “What are you wearing?” said Joan, pausing in the act of tearing her pastry apart.

  “Complementary habits,” said Francis, giving a twirl that raised his hem far too high for Joan’s liking. “They've got everything!”

  “Unless you need a kettle in your room,” said Agnes, who was sitting to the right of Joan and Em. “How on earth are you supposed to make yourself a hot drink, that's what I'd like to know?”

  “Bring your own travel kettle, like me,” said the woman next to Agnes, “I've got travel adapters and four hundred tea bags.”

  “Well, Miriam,” Agnes replied tartly. “I’m surprised to find you have room in your suitcase for moeth like that. Is that yet another cable—knit cardigan you’re wearing there?”

  Miriam smoothed down the lumpy item, although it was hard to make out what were creases in the garment and what were folds in Miriam’s shapeless body. The cardigan’s colour was a match for Miriam’s red hair.

  “Knitted it myself,” said Miriam proudly.

  “Then again that’s the problem with making your own clothes,” said Agnes.

  “What is?”

  “You can’t take them back to the shop if you don’t like them.”

  “I heard that English people are very keen on tea,” cut in Joan, certain that, back in Heaven, Evelyn had mentioned its mystical status.

  “I’m sure they are,” said Agnes.

  “We’re Welsh, not English,” added Miriam firmly.

  “Oh.”

  “Aberdaron is in the farthest corner of Wales,” said Em. “Gwenda here was telling me. Quite far from England. In fact, we're probably closer to London right now than these ladies would be at home.”

  “Oh,” said Joan. “And you chose to come to Belgium for a mini crusade.”

  “Mini what?”

  “Mini break,” said Em.

  “Oh. Just passing through on our tour,” said Agnes. “We're doing Greatest Women from History. Anne Frank was our last stop. Have you ever been to Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam?”

  Em nodded. “It’s a moving experience.”

  “Lovely cakes in the museum café,” said Miriam.

  “Exactly what you need after all that gloom and sorrow,” said Agnes.

  There were murmurs of agreement from the other women around the table.

  “I don’t think you can simply wash away the tragedy of the Holocaust with cake and tea,” said Em.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” said Agnes, unfazed. “What’s important is that we learn the lessons that history has to teach us. To be sure, dear, I know that the world is a ghastly place and life is filled with horror and pain. That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a nice macaroon along the way.”

  Em buttered some toast and raised an eyebrow. “So where is your tour taking you?” she asked.

  “We end up on the south coast of France,” said Miriam excitedly. “At the Monte Carlo Casino in Monaco.”

  “Are there many famous women associated with the casino?”

  “No,” said Agnes, “but Miriam does like to play cardiau.”

  “We’re visiting the Palace of Versailles and the hospital where Marie Curie died on the way.”

  “But it’s Paris next,” said Agnes. “We plan to lay wreaths in the Pont de l'Alma road tunnel.”

  “The what?” said Francis around a mouthful of pain au raisin.

  “Pont de l’Alma tunnel,” said Agnes. “I hope I am saying it right. It’s where Diana died.”

  “Diana?” The name meant little to Joan.

  “Princess Diana,” said Agnes.

  “Lady Di,” said Miriam.

  “The Princess of Wales,” said Gwenda.

  “The people’s princess.”

  “The Queen of Our Hearts.”

  “She was the most photographed woman in the world,” said Miriam.

  “All that work she did to get rid of landmines,” chipped in another woman, Lynne.

  “But she was a wonderful mother to her two boys too.”

  “Absolutely. It’s no wonder the nation was heartbroken when she died in that car accident.”

  “I cried for three days solid,” said a woman, sat alone at a distinctly separate table.

  “I’m sorry,” said Agnes sharply. “I’m sure I heard something then. A noise, like some sort of annoying animal.”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” declared Miriam loudly.

  “I think it was that lady over there.” Francis pointed with his croissant.

  “That is no lady,” said Agnes stiffly. “That is Gloria.”

  “Isn’t she one of your group?” asked Joan.

  “We share a coach,” Agnes admitted.

  “Gloria used to tell us that she’d met Diana,” whispered Miriam.

  “Yes?”

  “Filthy liar,” said Gwenda.

  “Turned out it was only Princess Michael of Kent,” said Lynne. “Can you believe it?”

  “And that’s why she has to sit apart from you?” asked Joan.

  “That’s not the only thing she's done, by any means.” Agnes took out a small black notebook, licked a finger and flicked through the pages, tutting at the entries.

  “The business on the Eurostar train. Sure, we can all be claustrophobic but we don’t have to shout about it. Then there was that matter in Amsterdam when she bought some…” Agnes quailed, leaned over the table and whispered. “Do you know what ‘love eggs’ are, dear?”

  “No,” said Joan.

  “And that’s just the way it should be. Filthy jezebel.”

  “No better than she ought to be,” added Miriam.

  “And don’t forget the masks,” said Gwenda.

  “Masks?” asked Joan, not certain she wanted to hear the answer.

  “Gloria,” said Agnes, loudly enough to make Gloria look up sheepishly, “thought that it would be a good idea to honour Princess Diana by all wearing rubber masks of her. See, look at her face. She knows what she's done.”

  “So, Paris next,” said Em.

  “That’s right.”

  “By chance, that's exactly where I was headed. I'd love to tag along with you ladies.”

  “Of course,” said Agnes. “Take no notice of Colin. He will keep on about rules and policies, but sometimes he needs to be reminded of who's paying his wages.”

  “Sorry,” said Joan. “I didn’t realise. We got here so late last night and I was so tired. Are we not in Paris yet?”

  Agnes smiled condescendingly.

  “No, precious. Paris this evening. We’re having a little stopover.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’re in Rouen.”

  The Maid of Orleans dropped her pastry and felt the colour drain from her face.

  Matt Rose was shown through to the office of Brigadier-Major Baland.

  He shook the hand of the rotund officer and sat down in the visitor's chair.

  “Welcome to Rouen, Monsieur Rose,” said Baland. “So what can I do to assist you?”

  “The matter of Mary Van Jochem,” said Matt. “You’ve seen the files, of course. She's wanted for questioning in connection with terrorism offences across Europe.”

  “And you believe that she is here in Rouen? Bien sûr. We will extend you every possible courtesy,” said Baland, “but it will not be a simple matter to find this woman by sight in Rouen.” He turned to a map on the wall, and indicated the size of the problem. “It's hardly likely that she is touring the historic
al sites, after all.”

  Francis gazed up at the tower as Agnes read from the guidebook for the edification of the women of the Aberdaron WI, the four saints, and everyone else within a hundred yards who wasn’t stone deaf.

  “The Joan of Arc tower is all that remains of Rouen's castle,” she read loudly. “Joan of Arc was held captive in a tower like this prior to her trial and was subsequently executed by being burnt at the stake in the old market place.”

  “Oh, that can’t have been nice,” commented Miriam.

  “Joan attempted several escapes from her various places of capture, including a jump of seventy feet from the window of her tower. Hmph!”

  Agnes thrust the guidebook back into her handbag.

  “Well, I'm not at all sure I believe that. Who could survive a jump of seventy feet?”

  “It did bloody hurt,” said Joan.

  “I'm a bit confused about Joan of Arc,” said Gwenda, a polite woman who had been kind enough to point out to Francis that the white robes provided by the hotel were not considered suitable outdoor apparel. “If she was French, and she was fighting for the French, then how come she was burned at the stake here in Rouen, which is, well, in France?”

  Joan found herself speaking without realising it.

  “Things were different then. This area wasn't controlled by the French king. It got all complicated by the Normans conquering England and then not staying loyal to France. Burgundians. Lancastrians. Armagnacs. The Hundred Years War was a mess.”

  “You can't have a war for a hundred years,” said Gwenda. “That would be silly. How long did it really last?”

  Joan looked at her narrowly, wondering if the Welsh had that British fondness for sarcasm.

  “One hundwed and sixteen years,” said Francis.

  Joan looked at him.

  “It’s twue,” he said.

  “So whose side was Joan of Arc on?” asked Miriam. “It sounds as though both sides were French really, and it was just a power play between a couple of pampered aristo blokes.”

  “The king needed a pretty face to carry the standard for him. Some might say Joan of Arc was simply a public relations figure,” said Em.

  “What?” said Joan between clenched teeth.

  “Some might say,” said Em coolly. “I’m sure she was simply a plucky girl trying to make her way in a man’s world.”

  “So she really didn't get stuck in like Diana did then?” said Agnes. “You only had to watch the news back in the day to see that Diana actually went right into those dangerous places like Angola and Great Ormond Street Hospital.”

  “Great Ormond Street is dangerous?” said Miriam.

  “You know what I mean. She was much more practical. Fearless, even. A real inspiration.”

  “Maybe it was all those corsets and chin bras and chastity belts that held them back in the old days,” said Gwenda.

  Francis glanced at Joan and saw her mouth agape in horror.

  “Modern women just get on and change things,” said Gwenda. “You know, I was at Greenham Common. My mom thought I was doing work experience in a machine shop in Chester.”

  “Was that when you burned your bra and told your mom that it was a stray spark from a mig welder?” asked Miriam.

  “She's still sending them letters of complaint in the hopes of some Marks and Spencer vouchers.”

  “Small world,” said Em. “I was at Greenham Common too.”

  “Is it an attwactive common?” asked Francis, picturing the wildlife that might frolic there.

  Em fixed him with an unfriendly glare.

  “It was a US military base in England, which was blockaded by women to protest about its use for nuclear weapons.”

  “I was with the Women for Life on Earth group,” said Gwenda.

  “CND,” said Em.

  “Oh, nuclear weapons,” said Francis, filled with fear as he remembered the terrible images of destruction that they'd been shown. His face fell. “These — these weapons are to be found as close as England?”

  Em rolled her eyes.

  “They're closer than that, dimwit. The French military love their nukes, absolutely love them. Bozos, all of them. The other month, I helped some guys who hacked their army mainframe and replaced the key directives with a random text. And years ago, I took on the French Navy when I was on the Rainbow Warrior.”

  “The Wainbow what?” asked Francis.

  “Rainbow Warrior?” said Gwenda, clearly impressed.

  “Greenpeace used the ship to protest against the hunting of whales, and the testing of nuclear weapons,” Em explained to Francis. “The French military trashed a good few Pacific islands with their ridiculous tests. See, they're no better now than they were in Joan of Arc's day, they just have bigger toys to show off with.”

  There were a few laughs around the group, but Joan's face was like granite.

  “Did you see that there was a terrible forest fire in Senegal started by French Air Force weapons just yesterday?” said Miriam.

  “Not at all surprised,” said Em. “Buffoons. Always have been. Arrogant, pompous buffoons. When they're not being cheese-eating surrender monkeys they're blowing stuff up by mistake.”

  “Wait,” said Francis. “Do you mean to say that people hunt whales? Those magnificent beasts of the oceans?”

  “They're not supposed to,” said Em with a sad look that Francis knew echoed his own. “I've done my fair share of facing down a whaling ship from a small boat. It's a hairy business when a giant harpoon fires over your head, I can tell you.”

  “Wemarkable,” said Francis in a hushed tone. He decided that he might forgive Em some of her previous harshness.

  Christopher nudged him in the ribs. Francis was about to respond, when he remembered that Christopher was invisible to most of the group. He looked at him questioningly.

  “Think Joan’s got the hump.” Christopher nodded across at Joan who was marching stiffly away from the group. “I’ll go after her.”

  Francis gazed after Joan, wondering why she looked so angry.

  “Let her go,” said Em.

  “Surprised the dear put up with us old fuddy-duddies for so long,” said Miriam.

  “Us old fuddy-duddies?” said Em.

  “Your — niece, is it? – is a delightful young woman. At university, is she? Studying history I imagine. She probably doesn’t want to hang around with us all day.”

  Francis could see Em was about to correct Miriam’s assumptions but she was interrupted by a shriek from Lynne.

  “Oh, I've stepped in some dog's business!” she squealed. “What's the matter with these people?”

  “They should clean up after their dogs!”

  Gwenda stepped forward with a carrier bag and scooped up the mess with a grimace.

  “Baby wipe, Lynne?” she said, thrusting a packet at her.

  “I think we all need a sit down and a drink.” Agnes steered everyone along the pavement to a nearby cafe. “What with no kettle in the hotel room, I'm gasping for a decent cup of tea. I'll call Colin to pick us up from here in a little while.”

  The ladies of the WI all stepped with exaggerated care to avoid the dog mess. They entered the cafe and allowed Agnes to organise them.

  “Right, we'll take these three tables here. No, not you Gloria, you can sit over there. Right garçon. GARÇON!” Agnes shouted. “We'd like tea, please. That's T—E—A.”

  She mimed an exaggerated sipping motion and then sat down, satisfied that her message had got across. She fetched a stopwatch from her handbag and clicked the top.

  “I heard that the average French waiter takes seventeen minutes to bring a drinks order,” she explained, to no-one in particular. “Seventeen minutes! I don't see how anyone could possibly take that long, but let's see, shall we?”

  Christopher trailed behind Joan as she muttered to herself, striding across the Pont Jeanne d’Arc that spanned the wide river Seine. He wondered if she might be comforted by the tale of how he once carried the
infant Christ across a similar river, but Joan was practising her twenty first century swearing, and Christopher found himself wondering what a ‘nipple-juicing son of a biscuit’ was.

  “Joan, Joan!” he called as a tram rumbled past them. “Give over, it can't be all that bad.”

  “Can't be that bad? Are you kidding?” she fumed. “My whole life was completely pointless, apparently.”

  “Could be worse,” said Christopher.

  “Yeah? How?”

  “Oh, I don't know. Say you never even existed at all?”

  “Different. Completely different,” said Joan and stomped on.

  Christopher shrugged and followed her across a tree-lined boulevard and up past the concrete Theatre des Arts, pausing briefly to restart a stalled car with a waggle of his eyebrows. He caught up with her as she entered a large square.

  She stopped and turned in a slow circle, gazing at the surrounding buildings.

  “This place. Oh, Lord. This place,” she said.

  “What?” said Christopher, looking round. He saw a pleasant façade of medieval buildings looking out over the busy pedestrian area. There was a curious building in the centre, which appeared to be a church, but with a mish-mash of steep roofs that then continued across the square to make a low walkway. “I’ll grant you the church is a bit odd. More brontosaurus than place of worship. Hey, it’s named after you, look!”

  Christopher pointed eagerly to the sign.

  “They burned me right over there,” said Joan.

  “Eh?”

  “It's the place where I died.”

  “Oh,” said Christopher. “Right, um.”

  Christopher was out of his depth. He could deal with lost tickets, engine faults and blocked roads, but anything that involved what he thought of as ‘finer feelings’ was generally beyond his powers.

  Joan shook her head.

  “Who am I, Christopher?” she sighed despondently. “What am I?”

  “You’re Joan of Arc. You’re a saint.”

  “I don’t recognise this place,” she said, gesturing to the square. “This city has changed beyond recognition. Admittedly, these stone roads beat wading through ordure but… According to those Welsh harpies, my place in history was without meaning and I have no place in this world. Do you know, I’d give anything to be an ordinary girl again, lead a normal life. Meet a boy and… and… other people too and just…” She groaned loudly. “I’m so tired. And angry. Tired and angry.”