Night of the Radish

Here it is, the second part of the rubbish I am assembling from  random thoughts inside my head. The title has been changed and will hopefully gell with the plot once I have finally sorted out what that is. I may be new to this, but even I know a story has to have a plot. For anyone feeling strong enough to tackle this tale in its entirity, it can be found here.

Night of the Radish – II

His morning’s business at the tax office concluded, Dave Grimple wandered cheerfully down the Rue de la République towards the bar / hotel / grocery shop he ran with his wife, Cheryl.

His interview with Pierre–Yves had been most satisfactory from his point of view. He now not only felt an increased appreciation for the self fulfilling nature of the Gordian Knot that was French bureaucracy but he now knew rather more about the dapper little man who walked past the bar each morning and who lived in a large, elegant maison bourgeoisie set back from the main drag a few hundred meters down the road from his own establishment.

Cheryl had been most interested in the little man. Or, rather, in his wife, whom she swore she recognised from somewhere. But Cheryl had been unable to satisfy her curiosity about the well-dressed and, frankly, very attractive woman who had arrived in the town two months previously and who walked past the bar most days on her way to the shops. The woman, it seemed, spoke to no-one.

But now he had a name for her. Or at least he thought he had. Pierre–Yves had had an animated ‘phone conversation on the subject of lobsters with someone called Delphine during the course of their meeting, and since it seemed unlikely that the man would be call his fishmonger ma chèrie, Dave could only conclude that Delphine was his wife or mistress.

It was a start.

The Rue de la République widened out into the Place de l’Hôpital, the effective centre of St Louis sur Baq, administrative heart of the south Angoumois, the most sparsely populated and bucolic part of this largely agricultural département.  The place was dominated by the covered market in its centre. Beyond the place the Rue de la République continued, crossing the river Baq and rising out of the town to the countryside beyond.

On the side to Dave’s left was his modest business empire: the “Lamb & Flag” bar and hotel, and “Le Comptoir Anglais,” expat grocery store and unofficial community centre.

A native of South East London, Dave had been fascinated by France from the age of 14. Until that point, his most notable academic achievement had been bring voted “Little Toerag Most Likely to Set Fire to the School” in a staffroom poll.

But a school trip to Calais changed all that. While his classmates scoured the shops for flick-knives and fireworks before scouring their insides with wine fit only for cleaning drains, Dave had undergone an epiphany. Whether it was the buildings, the cafés or the people, Dave could not say. All he knew was that he wanted to be there.

On his return to England he had applied himself to getting himself back to France for good, excelling in the language to the point of alarming his teachers and devouring French literature and history texts as though possessed.

A French exchange visit to the Darkest Loire provided some succour. While other pupils complained bitterly about the lack of entertainment, the decidedly primitive sanitary arrangements and the somewhat dubious foodstuffs they were being offered (some of which, to their horror, didn’t even appear to come from shops but had been dug from the ground or recently bludgeoned to death in the back garden), Dave was happier than he had ever been.

Leaving school with a perfect grade O level in French and a handful of more mediocre qualifications, Dave spent the next few years bobbing & diving and ducking & weaving in proper London fashion before finally hitting upon the idea that made his fortune.

It was boom time in the City of London of the 1980s, and Dave set himself up selling specialist French-style sandwiches office-to-office to people with more money than sense. His Roquefort & Asparagus baps and Foi Gras & Avocado Panini’s became legend across the Square Mile. To the more discerning (that is, rich and morally bankrupt) of his clients, Dave would supply such rare delicacies as Thrush Pâté on Rye and wholemeal baguettes filled with illegally sourced Ortolan Bunting, tiny but gastronomically sought after birds that had been force fed with a pounded mixture of walnuts and dried figs before being drowned in Armagnac and lightly roasted. He told his neighbours in Bermondsey that the caged birds were canaries, though a culinary experiment with those more easily obtainable creatures turned out to be rather less than an unqualified success.

The sandwich game made more than enough for Dave to make frequent trips to France, scouting the regions for that perfect little bit of the country that he knew existed. It also allowed him to salt away a tidy little sum against the day when he would up sticks and move there for good.

It was during his sandwich selling days that Dave met Cheryl. He was delivering a “Mixed Kebab of Endangered Songbirds in Pitta” and a “Frogs’ Legs Pasty” to one of her colleagues.

Superficially like chalk and cheese – Cheryl was public school, Oxford PPE and was trading equity warrants for a Japanese bank when they met – their shared appreciation of all-things French had drawn them together.

That was twenty years and four children ago, and ten years previously they had finally found in the South Angoumois what Dave had been searching for: a place they could call home.

The South Angoumois was also potentially very appealing to the British, being generously endowed with scenery, culinary treats and an ample supply of reasonably priced wine from extensive vineyards.

What it lacked was good transport links, but Dave had recognised the development potential of a disused military airfield with a shed on it near the départemental capital, Préviné, and, sure enough, three months after the Grimples set up shop, Aer O’Hooligan had started running twice daily flights from the UK.

And the British had come. Tourists for the most part, but also retirees, newly enriched by the UK property boom, who came to take advantage of a plentiful supply of inexpensive renovation projects, pouring money into the local economy with a seemingly unquenchable thirst for the services of artisans and the offerings of DIY stores.

For the Grimples, business had expanded year-on-year. The Lamb & Flag provided accommodation for holidaymakers during the summer and house hunters during the winter. The bar had become popular with expats and locals alike, and even attracted women via the simple expedients of having clean loos and a cocktail list.

For Dave the crowning moment of his career as a bar owner had been the appearance one morning of Mlle. De Follette in his establishment. A proud daughter of the Republic, Mlle. De Follette was said to be 102 years old and rumoured to have been mistress to both General Le Clerc and De Gaulle. She had tasted the coffee, inspected the WCs and pronounced the bar “acceptable,” the closest to a Royal Warrant the place was ever likely to get. Now she came each morning, drank coffee for which she was never charged and blatantly flouted the ban on smoking in public places, about which no-one ever challenged her.

The grocery store was a more recent innovation. Expat residents hungered for the tastes of home and Dave was happy to sate their appetites.

An old friend from Bermondsey days arrived each week with a van load of baked beans, Marmite, cheddar cheese and Proper Sausages amongst other things. He also brought – securely hidden from prying eyes – special consignments about which Dr Chandra would prefer the world at large knew nothing.

The weekly delivery had been that morning and the doctor’s car was outside. Entering the bar, Dave caught the medic’s eye and inclined his head slightly. Dr Chandra drained his cup and started towards the door that joined the bar with the shop next door, then, checking he was unobserved made a sudden right to go through a door marked “Private.”

Cheryl was behind the bar. “Hello love,” said Dave, “won’t be a mo. Just something to tidy up. By the way, I think that woman’s called Delphine.”

And with that he too disappeared through the door.

“Delphine, Delphine…” Cheryl said to herself, “Ah yes, of course! Now I know you. Well, well, well.”

Dr Chandra was waiting somewhat nervously by the kitchen table when Dave appeared. He dabbed his brow with a handkerchief. “Right Dave, let’s have a look at the merchandise.” Grimple took a key from his pocket, unlocked a cupboard, and took out a large cardboard box, which he set upon the table. With a penknife, he slit the top open and took out one of the many clear plastic bags it contained, handing it to the doctor for inspection.

“Oh that is just perfect, Dave. Can you drop this off for me tonight?” “No problem – about 10 o’clock suit you?” “It does,” replied Chandra, and taking a roll of banknotes from his pocket, he handed them to Grimple, before nodding a goodbye and slipping through the door back to the bar.

Cheryl popped her head round as the doctor left. “Dave – can you mind the shop for a little while? There’s a call I’d like to make.” “No problem. Going anywhere nice?” “Perhaps,” said Cheryl, “I’m going to re-acquaint myself with Mme. le Pompodore de Frou-Frou.”