Well, she was here now. And she was hungry. There was no way she’d get home, uphill most of the way, on just a banana. Besides, she’d eaten half of it on her way in. She needed sustenance. There were three boulangeries in the small town, and Martha headed for the furthest away. It was also the smallest but, in Martha’s opinion, the best bakery. The boulangerie on the square had the tendency of offloading yesterday’s baking on unsuspecting, i.e. foreign, customers, whether they were expats or tourists. No matter how Frenchly you might ask for a baguette or croissant, the merest hint of being a non-Francophone resulted in stale Viennoiserie coming your way. The boulangerie on the street where most of the market stalls were got mobbed on Thursdays, so this third one was the ideal choice.
Martha joined the short queue, muttering the obligatory greeting of “Messieurs-dames” as she trundled in, head bowed. Then, mouth watering, she studied the display of fancy cakes and pastries. Delicious as the opéras, macarons, éclairs, réligieuses, Paris-Brests and St Honorés looked, she knew they wouldn’t provide the staying power she needed. They were too delicate. She shifted her gaze across to the Viennoiserie section and was delighted to see there some almond croissants, which she adored, left. Only two though, so she just had to hope that neither of the two customers in front of her shared her love of them. Fortunately, they didn’t and so Martha had a smile on her face when she reached the head of the queue. However, on seeing who her next client was, the shopkeeper had an even larger one.
“Madame, is it true it was you who found poor Daniel Frobart?” she gushed before Martha could even open her mouth.
Martha was stunned. She hadn’t been aware that the shopkeeper knew her from Adam, or, more appropriately, Eve. She felt a bit of a failure since she had no idea who this woman was. She wasn’t even sure what the boulangerie was called. She needed to up her game to match the French natives.
The few people who had been forming a straggling queue behind her at once broke ranks and crowded round, staring at her eagerly.
Martha shrugged. The news was out anyway, and neither Philippe nor the two other, grumpy officers had told her she couldn’t tell anyone about the incident.
“Was he really stabbed in the neck with a pitchfork, madame?” asked an elderly man.
A middle-aged woman with a tiny dog under one arm snorted. “Pfft. He was throttled with bailer twine, wasn’t he, madame?”
Martha was alarmed at both how wild the rumours had become in less than a day and how much her audience were looking forward to hearing all the gory details, but she was also very impressed by the politeness of her interrogators, despite their eagerness.
“He was stabbed through the heart by a hay spike. You know, the ones on the front of tractors that farmers use to lift bales of hay?”
A collective gasp went round and there were murmurs of “Mon Dieu” and “merde”.
Martha went into as much detail as her French permitted. Her audience listened in rapt attention, only occasionally correcting her grammar. When she’d finished her account, they all thanked her, then lunged for the counter, shouting their requirements to the shopkeeper, who Martha had by now, thanks to comments by her audience, worked out was called Veronique. Veronique served them quickly, and they all dashed off at speed, even the elderly man, to share this horse’s mouth news and gain enormous street cred. Martha was the only one left.
“And for you, madame?” urged Veronique impatiently.
“Oh.” Martha had almost forgotten she’d come in to buy something. “An almond croissant please.”
Veronique grabbed one with tongs, shoved it in a bag and thrust it at Martha. She opened her purse, but Veronique shook her head. “Free gift!”
“Gosh, thanks,” smiled Martha. “Good-bye.”
She got no verbal reply as Veronique was already on the phone. She just waved to Martha, who turned and clanged out of the bakery.
“Well, that was weird,” Martha muttered to herself. But it had been profitable. She bit into the delicious pastry, all the tastier for not having to be paid for.
Martha needed something to go with her croissant. To match the three bakeries, there were three cafés in the town. Again, Martha opted for the smallest but nicest one, at least in her opinion. It also happened to be the cheapest, probably because it wasn’t constantly redecorating like the other two were. This one was down-to-earth, borderline shabby but perfectly serviceable. It didn’t have a fancy frothy coffee machine, so for a café crème you just got a shot of espresso in a tiny chipped cup with a few drops of milk grudgingly dripped in. And lots of sugar. It was perfect.
Martha plonked herself down at one of the wobbly tables on the pavement, prepared for a five-minute wait or so before the café owner appeared to take her order. However, today it was only a matter of seconds before he was hovering over her, a gleam in his eye. Martha groaned inwardly.
“Madame, is it true—”
“That I found Monsieur Frobart dead?” she couldn’t stop herself saying. “Yes, it is.” And she ran through events yet again.
When she’d finished her host jogged back into the café, quite an accomplishment given that he was a very large, unfit man. From where she was Martha could hear him reporting what he’d just learnt to the hard-core crowd, who eschewed the sunshine and opted for the dim gloominess of the café interior, only emerging for a quick smoke or vape. A young, skinny, scruffy waiter soon appeared with her coffee. It was served today in a gleaming and matching white cup and saucer, accompanied by three sugars, two tiny wrapped biscuits and one mini dark chocolate bar. Usually it was one sugar and only a biscuit if the owner was in a particularly good mood, a rare event.
“My boss said there’s no charge for the coffee, madame,” said the waiter, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
“Please thank him on my behalf,” replied Martha graciously, managing not to grin.
The waiter scuttled off and Martha got stuck into her free elevenses. She was aware of people looking at her as they walked by, and some of them walked past a couple of times, whispering to a companion if they happened to be with one, or muttering into their phone. It was possible a few of the ones with phones took photos of her, but Martha ignored it.
How she wished she could share all of this with Mark!
Time was ticking on and Martha needed to get home. She’d done very little the previous day, and there was a pile of dirty laundry and a tower of washing-up to deal with. Plus she had to wash the incubator out ready for its next set of inhabitants, due imminently. And she really couldn’t keep ignoring those wobbly posts in the field the sheep and alpacas companionably occupied. They’d fall over soon. The wretched woolly animals always seemed to target the same two posts anytime their butts needed scratching.
She drained the last dregs of her coffee and, with a quick smile at the couple of faces peering out at her from inside the café, set off to return to her bike. From where she was she could either cut through the main square to the small road her bike was in, or go the long way round down some quiet, narrow streets of the old quarter. Streets was a rather a grand term for them, suggesting length and width that they didn’t have. They were actually more like alleys. They’d sport far fewer pedestrians so that was the way she took.
She was almost at her destination when, unbelievably, the Cuthbertsons hove into view again. They were dithering at an alley junction, inconveniently between Martha and her bike. They’d either strayed into the old quarter by accident, or had come intentionally to take photos of its quaintness. But whatever the reason, they weren’t a welcome sight.
“Drat!” cursed Martha. Then “Flip!” as they turned towards her. But salvation was at hand. There was just the one shop on the lane she was in.
Martha barged rather abruptly into the tiny yarn shop in Bousseix which, somehow or other, kept going. Martha was sure she was one of only a very few customers as she’d yet to see any other clients in the shop whenever she went in. The elderly shopkeeper, Madame Picar
d, looked up in surprise as the bell above the door jangled noisily. Then, seeing who the entrant was, the surprise turned to alarm and she clutched the box in her arms tighter to her chest. Martha saw that it contained pairs of kitting needles. Evidently Madame Picard had heard rumours that Martha was close at hand when Monsieur Frobart, a fellow purveyor of pointed implements although on a much more robust scale, had been found impaled. She hadn’t yet heard the versions that exonerated Martha.
Her pathetic, terrified expression, helped by the strong dose of irritability-inducing caffeine she’d just had, tipped Martha over the edge.
“Oh, for goodness sake! I do NOT go around stabbing shopkeepers with handy sharp items off the shelves!” she exploded, arms in the air, and stormed back out. She vowed never to go in there again. She’d buy all her yarn online from now on, and save a fortune in the process. So much for the loyalty she’d shown the overpricing Madame Picard over the years.
It was only when her fury abated slightly that she remembered the Cuthbertsons, but fortunately they’d headed away from the wool shop. They were now safely past Martha’s bike. She walked quietly and quickly towards it, a few embers of annoyance still glimmering. This little trip really hadn’t been such a good idea. Mind you, she’d got a free snack out of it. That thought cheered her a little.
Then she saw the bit of folded paper wedged between the brake cable and the stem of her bike. Conscious that Carol had been close to her bike, she could only imagine the woman had recognised it and shoved that note there about whatever her latest grievance was. She tugged the piece of paper out crossly, tearing it slightly in the process. She was tempted to chuck it unread in the nearest bin but through the rip she spotted a bright splash of two colours. Unless Carol had brought crayons with her and drawn a picture to go with her complaint, then this missive wasn’t what Martha imagined it to be.
And it wasn’t. It was a notice about a fun bike race on Monday, three short days from now and a public holiday. Martha frowned, needing some convincing that ‘fun’ and ‘race’ could go in the same sentence. She’d been in many races in her youth, either at school or as an enthusiastic but not especially talented member of the town swimming club, and never won a single one. In fact, she’d generally come last. She therefore associated races with humiliation. However, she continued reading about this allegedly enjoyable one. There were various age categories. Martha fell into the ‘veteran ladies’ category, which made her snort. Still, presumably she was one of the younger veterans so who knew, she might actually have a chance of not being the slowest. She saw few female cyclists around. Actually, she could only recall having ever seen one. Most keen pedallers round here were male and inevitably arrogant, like the snooty guy she’d tried to help yesterday.
The race was over twenty kilometres. That wasn’t so bad. She’d have done over thirty-five today by the time she got home. If she got out for a daily two-hour ride before the big day, she’d be a good bit fitter and more or less race ready. It might be what was needed to shift that stubborn bulge with which her lycra shorts were nobly battling at this very minute. And it would take her mind off poor Daniel. Her thoughts turned to Mark, as they so often did. What would he think of her in a bike race? He’d laugh and tease her, but encourage her every pedal push of the way.
Yes. Yes, she’d do it. She smiled and stuffed the flyer into her rucksack. Motivated, she set a spanking pace home, stopping only once at the top of the last and steepest hill for a quick breather.
Chapter 7
Forgetting all earlier thoughts of a post-outing nap, and with the Cuthbertsons still absent and so not accosting her, after lunch Martha logged onto the website to enter the bike race. That had been one of the two entry options listed. The other had been to telephone, but with her awkward surname of Bigglesthwaite to inevitably have to spell out several times (and still, as she knew from experience, whoever was writing it down at the other end would get it wrong) this would be the least time-consuming way. She worked her way down the form, filling in all her details, until she came to the box where you were to give the link to a scan of your medical certificate. Martha frowned. Certifying what? Sanity perhaps, or rather insanity to enter a twenty kilometre bike race in the height of summer?
She scrolled back up the form and found a paragraph she’d previously ignored about having to be certified fit enough by a doctor to enter the race. She rolled her eyes. The French and their unnecessary demands, although she should have had an inkling about this one. Lily and Jared had done Tae Kwondo for a few years, and at the start of each new season they’d had to get a cert from the doctor. These she’d been able to get for a euro each from the receptionist, rather than have to make an appointment for them for a full physical examination. Presumably, because they were youngsters, they were reckoned to be automatically fit enough to do sport. She wasn’t sure she’d be such a walkover, even though she had to be in extremely good shape for her age, given the constant physical demands of running a smallholding. Apart, that was, from her slowly and stubbornly expanding waistline. She had to think hard to remember the last time she’d seen the doctor – about eighteen months ago when she’d needed antibiotics for an ear infection.
There was a day and a half to to go until entries closed at 10 pm on Friday night. She’d have to see if she could get a doctor’s appointment for tomorrow. At one time you could just roll up to the surgery and wait to be seen. That wait could be, and frequently was, up to three hours, but at least you got medical attention relatively promptly. From what Lottie had told her, the system had recently changed and you now needed an appointment. She’d moaned how Roger had had to wait five weeks for one to renew his long list of required pharmaceuticals to keep him going from one day until the next. Lottie had an idea you could still turn up on spec for urgent health problems, but needing a medical cert hardly came into that category. Although suddenly it did seem urgent. From having not even known about the race a day ago, Martha was now desperate to take part. She’d be gutted if she couldn’t get that wretched certificate.
Sighing, she picked up the phone and dialled the surgery. That strange, singy-songy voice of the receptionist filled her ear, asking how she could help.
“I need an appointment please,” replied Martha.
“Why?” intoned the receptionist.
Martha blinked. Evidently because she needed to see a doctor. Or did the receptionist really believe she had nothing better to do than waste everyone’s time on a frivolous phone call. Plus, was it actually the receptionist’s business? Weren’t health matters confidential between a doctor and his patient? Still, taking the moral high ground wouldn’t get her into the bike race.
“I, er, need a medical cert.”
“What for?”
“Er, my physical health?” flailed Martha.
The receptionist sighed long and hard and rephrased. Martha instantly felt foolish. “Why do you need the medical certificate?”
“Ah.” Well, why hadn’t she said that to start with? “For a bike race. On Monday.”
“When did you last see the doctor?” came next.
“A year or so ago,” admitted Martha.
Another long, hard sigh, slightly pained this time. Clearly Martha should have been ill more often.
“You will have to see the doctor to get your certificate.”
No hope of entering the race then. Martha felt crushed.
In a sudden attack of helpfulness and cooperation, the receptionist piped up, “Doctor Lorenzo could see you this afternoon, if you can get here in half an hour.”
Martha hadn’t heard of that doctor before, but that didn’t matter. A doctor was a doctor, so he’d do nicely. “I’ll be there,” she promised.
And she was, just. Bluebell, another of the farm cats, shot past Martha as she was closing the back door prior to locking it and heading for the car. Had it been any one of the other cats, Martha would have let her stay inside until she returned, but Bluebell was in the habit of either vomiting or
pooping copiously, frequently both, and always on a bed or sofa whenever allowed indoors. Martha spent the next five minutes chasing the wretched animal from room to room around the house (she really must get in the habit of shutting doors) until she eventually lured her out by scraping a saucer over the kitchen tiles. Bluebell took this as a sign that a plate of cat treats had been laid out for her and so foolishly ran over from where she was hiding under the armchair to investigate. Martha swooped and plonked the cat back on the doorstep, but only after locking the door.
With thirty seconds to go, Martha sat herself down in the ever-stuffy waiting room, after acknowledging her fellow sufferers with a polite ‘Messieurs-dames’ and a smile when she entered. That was de rigueur. If you failed to supply a greeting and merely shuffled to a vacant chair, eyes on the ground, a wave of hurt indignation would ripple round the room. So no matter how godawful you felt, you had to walk the walk.
She realised that she’d forgotten her Kindle. She’d had it in her hand, but put it down somewhere while chasing the wretched cat. She inspected the pile of magazines on the central table in the room. Unless she was mistaken they were the exact same ones, although now considerably more dog-eared, that had been here on her last visit. Surely the doctors could splash out on a few new mags for their patients now and again? Grumbling under her breath, she settled down to twiddle her thumbs until her name was called.
The door opened and a gorgeous young man appeared. Martha got ready to murmur a ‘Monsieur’ in greeting but he pre-empted her by saying her name: “Madame Martzah Beeguuullshzertwaite.” Well, it was near enough. Heads whipped round to inspect this strangely-labelled person. Martha smiled apologetically and scurried after the doctor into his room.
She inspected him as he typed her name into his computer and scanned over her treatment history. He was ridiculously young and obscenely handsome. She wondered briefly if she’d got a photo of Lily on her phone to show him. He’d make the perfect son-in-law…
Hate Bale Page 7
