December Vignettes

15

December Vignettes

November 14 Not. Scene: Les Invalides, Napoleon’s tomb. In the discreetly lit sacred space dedicated to the memory of the great empéreur, we looked up in silence at the GIANT red-brown porphyry bulk, the smoothly modelled mound gleaming under that so-chaste golden-tinted lighting. At our feet, a soft glow from a myriad of tiny bright pale blue lights—

    We weren’t alone, there were a couple of other visitors there. Flossie shot outside, his face looking as if it might explode.

    I followed him without haste. Sure enough, he was having hysterics out there. Fortunately at that time of year there were no other visitors in sight to witness this act of lèse-majesté.

    “Su—premely—vile!” he gasped, the ecstatic tears streaming down his cheeks. “My God! The epitome of bad taste!”

    “Yes, isn’t it?” I agreed pleasedly, as Egg, Crumpy, Bean and Mireille rejoined us. “Tho Versailles is pretty bad, too.”

    “Can’t hold a candle to this,” said Bean briskly, shaking his head.

    “She doesn’t like the Baroque,” Mireille explained shyly, blushing as the gentlemen’s attention swivelled her way.

    Flossie wiped his eyes. “Why in God’s name didn’t you warn us, old Bean?”

    “Thought you might prefer the surprise,” he replied, grinning.

    “More like a norful shock, old chum!” said Egg with a laugh. “That blue lighting at floor level just takes the bally biscuit, doesn’t it?”

    “Abso-bally-lutely!” Crumpy agreed eagerly. “The icing on a very vulgar cake!”

    Egg nodded. “Uh-huh. The experience of a lifetime, really.”

    “Good show!” concluded Bean with smirk. “Now, what about the suits of armour?”

    “Thought you’d decided to wait until Bean Minor gets out of durance vile and then take him, as well?” Crumpy objected.

    “Well yes, but since we’re here…” He looked hopeful but no-one voted for the suits of armour, nor les égouts, which according to him were quite near, and in fact what we did all vote for was Flossie’s suggestion of a nice café and a sit-down with some Very Strong Coffee. Because personally, he declared, his nerves would never be the same again.

    At that point Mireille dissolved in helpless giggles. Yes well. He has that effect on innocent females and on many not so innocent, as well.

    “Come on,” he said, grinning. “Might as well show off our winter finery in an appropriate setting, eh?” –Promptly offering her his arm.

    She nodded, very pink, of course, and took it. Of course. And off we went.

    Whether the café in Q. appreciated the lads in their winter finery is a moot point but never mind, they’d made a real effort. Heavy overcoats, rather waisted, and two of them definitely belted. Crumpy had opted for a truly splendid large tweed cap, but the other two had hats.

    Real hats, that is: felt fedoras. They’d have passed for something out of Raymond Chandler any day. Or indeed, PGW, except that Bertie W.’s trials and tribs always seem to take place in the glorious English summer. Or possibly once or twice at Christmas, but I may be mixing that up with Le Noël d’Hercule Poirot. Recently acquired and Very Odd in French.

    Spiffing, old chums! as I had greeted them on their arrival, rather startling Mireille. Yes, the Junior Drones were doing Paris in December proud.

    Scene: The Resto LeBec, the kitchen. The eager question: “Were did you go this afternoon, mes enfants?” having been met with the answer: “To the Invalides”, a blank silence prevailed. Finally the valiant Colas, dragooned into helping to peel potatoes, ventured: “Pourquoi?”

    The Junior Drones’ eyes met and, alas, we all broke down in gales of helpless laughter.

    And the Egg concluded, wiping his eyes: “Give that kid a medal!”

November 18 Not. Scene: The club. Or, as the family referred to it, le club. After quite some time of just sitting and staring numbly, Flossie ventured: “Is that bimbo going to take her clothes off or not?”

    “Not,” the Bean and I replied in chorus.

    “Then what’s the point? –No pun intended. I mean, the place sort of doesn’t know whether it’s Arthur or Martha, does it?”

    Poor Mireille was looking bewildered, so I hurriedly translated.

    “That’s what Oncle Albert thinks, too,” she agreed. “But he doesn’t want to copy the Moulin Rouge.”

    “That’s a relief,” the Egg admitted, smiling at her.

    “Yes,” she agreed, smiling shyly back. –Ooh, the Egg for Mireille? I speculated. Why not? He was good-looking, totally reliable, had a sense of humour, came from a nice background, and in fact was about the nicest chap one could hope to find. But was she his type? Well judging by certain communications from Flossie and Crumpy I’d say not, alas. They all seemed to be blonde and fluffy and, Oxford or not, pretty brainless, so far.

    “That American chap’s going to rake up investors to put their dough into this?” said Crumpy incredulously.

    “Um, well, put it into doing it up,” replied the Bean uneasily.

    “I’d say the thing won’t work unless Albert makes up his mind to go for one style and stick to it,” said Flossie. “Full-scale singing, dancing, near-naked bimbos, Moulin-Rouge style, or drop all that and turn it into a solid gaming club. I mean—one measly roulette table?” He shrugged.

    “There is another option, which the aunts rather favour,” I put in: “the sort of singing and dancing nightclub that was big in the Twenties and Thirties. With a smallish stage and a dance floor for the clientèle, and drinks and light supper available.”

    “Thought Maurice Chevalier was dead?” drawled Flossie.

    “Mm. The era of sophisticated evening entertainment is long over,” said Egg. “I think I’d plump for the gaming club option. No need to turn it into something flashy that could have stepped out of Las Vegas: you could have a decent sort of club, members only. London gents’ club style, sort of thing.”

    Crumpy leaned forward, looking eager. “That sounds all right! Must say I’d rather fancy working at that sort of club myself!”

    “Your maths’d come in handy, helping them to set the roulette wheel just right,” noted Bean with a grin.

    “The house always wins at roulette anyway, it’s a mug’s game,” Crumpy replied on a lofty note. “Where you might risk losing heavily is with baccarat, if the house holds the bank, tho statistically the bank has the advantage.”

    “Then it would be wise for the house not to hold the bank, old man,” noted Egg kindly.

    “Yes, of course,” the Crumpet agreed. “Just take the house percentage. Same with poker—would they want to have that, do you think?”

    “Rather a vulgar game, isn’t it, old chap?” drawled Flossie. “Whereas a gent wouldn’t mind the odd round of chemmy now and then.”

    “Il veut dire chemin de fer,” I explained to Mireille. “Baccarat. ‘Chemmy’ is an old-fashioned, rather upper-class English name for it. The sort of people who played cards at home after dinner when they had a house party staying for the weekend might play chemmy.”

    “If they weren’t playing bridge,” noted Flossie with a horrible wince. “Er—one of my aunts: mad keen on the blasted game,” he explained, as everyone looked at him in mild surprise—not that any of us had a fancy to indulge in the boring pastime.

    “All is explained, old chum!” the Egg recognised with his nice laugh. “And to return to your last query but fourteen, Crumpet, I should think poker would be quite acceptable at a decent gaming club these days.”

    “It is at that place Dad goes to,” he conceded. “But he doesn’t like it. Says it lacks tone.”

    “Maybe it isn’t a decent place, then,” suggested the Bean with his customary brilliance.

    “Well—decent clientèle, y’know. Chaps he knew at school. –Both schools!” he added with a grin. “But the décor’s cheap-looking, they don’t serve food, and the drinks are second-rate—no decent single malts at all, non-vintage bubbly.”

    “An object lesson in how not to do it, then,” decided Flossie.

    “It’ll be keeping its costs down, tho,” said the Egg fairly. He grinned. “Perhaps the LeBecs ought to set up a really decent place in London, then! Include a dining-room offering real French cuisine, serve decent wines and spirits, get your dad to spread the word amongst his pals, and they’ll be laughing! –Sorry, Mireille: that means they’d be successful.”

    “I see. That sounds good. But—eugh—the family already has a club in London,” she admitted.

    Our visitors stared at her in astonishment.

    “Really?” said Crumpy weakly at last.

    “Yes. But it’s as bad as this dump,” said the Bean heavily.

    Mireille nodded. “Yes. It’s not vairy busy. And the clients are…” She frowned over it. “I think one might say ‘dingy’, in English?”

    “Yes, that’s right,” I agreed.

November 22 Not. Carrying straight on. Bean nodded. “Yeah. It’s a dashed waste, because they’ve got a really good spot: had it for years, you see. Bought the building just after the War, I think. But same as this place, it needs a lot of moolah put into it—what was the phrase Carter Bachelier used, Mel?”

    “A large capital injection.”

    “Right: one of them.”

    “Gosh, it’s an awful pity we haven’t got a lot of moolah,” said Crumpy on a wistful note.

    “What about your dad?” replied the Bean blatantly.

    He made a face. “He’s cagey, y’know. Might take a slice of it, but it’d be too risky to be sole backer.”

    “Even tho the house always wins?” I asked dubiously.

    “Yes, ’cos you have to get the punters to come, y’see, Sister Bean,” he explained kindly.

    “Oh. Yes. Well um, discreet ads in Country Life and, um, Horse and Hound?” I ventured.

    The Egg choked slightly but admitted: “That level, certainly. But to be brutally honest, taking that sort of thing into consideration as well as the refurbishments and so forth, not to say hiring the right sort of staff, you’d be looking at millions, not just several hundred thou’.”

    “Help,” I muttered.

    “He’s right, tho,” said the Crumpet heavily.

    “Keep on encouraging Carter Bachelier, then, Mel!” my tactless sibling advised with a loud laugh.

    Poor Mireille was looking agonised, so I said lightly: “A bit hard to do that when he’s gone back to California, Bean, not that I’d be averse if he came back, but didn’t you claim at one point that he’s too shrewd to let that sort of thing influence him?”

    “Yes, bally shrewd,” he admitted regretfully. “But still, he’s their best bet.”

    Certain doubts were then expressed about the likelihood of American investors being interested in anything that wasn’t Las Vegas-like. Bean thought that Oncle Albert would be able to hold out against them but the Egg pointed out that he wouldn’t have a leg to stand on if they got a look at this dump.

    “Blow. It’d be jolly good fun helping to run a decent gaming club,” said Crumpy sadly.

    “Yes it would, old chap. But as this place hasn’t even the virtue of being downright indecent,” noted Flossie, averting his eyes from the gyrations of the bimbo on the stage, “shall we go?”

    Thankfully we agreed, and disappeared into the night…

Scene: The Resto LeBec, the kitchen. Oncle Albert and Tante Louise having a demarcation dispute, early in the day tho it was, over some tinned sardines. His claim was that the clients would not want those as hors d’oeuvre, her claim was that there were no decent fresh ones at the market today…

    We buried our noses in our grands bols de café au lait.

    “Where’s Egg?” I asked my sibling, as the level in my coffee bowl sank and I began to feel marginally more human. We had been advised not to try the so-called Cognac at the club. Our own fault—yes.

    “No idea. Asleep, still?”

    As Egg was sharing Bean’s room I breathed heavily.

    Colas shot to his feet. “I’ll go and check!” He shot out just as Tante Thérèse was starting to object: “You’ve got to go to—”

    “—school,” she ended weakly as the passage door closed after him. “He’ll be late,” she noted.

    “Hard cheese,” said the Bean in English. Crumpy and Flossie duly sniggered.

    This passed the aunts by, but poor Mireille was totally thrown by it, so I kindly elucidated.

    ‘But why?” she floundered.

    I shrugged. “Aucune idée.”

    Immediately the aunts, frowning at me, decided that (a) we young people had been up far too late last night and (b) we could chop the veg for the stock pot as soon as we’d finished breakfast.

    “Crumbs,” said Crumpy weakly as a huge pile of veg was then dumped on the table.

    Mireille and I had just resignedly donned aprons and picked up knives, and Flossie had chivvied the other two into likewise, noting that their sex was no excuse, most restaurant kitchens were staffed by men, and if they kept on whining they’d risk his enunciating the words “telly chefs”, at which they hurriedly stopped whining and grabbed chopping implements—as I say, we’d just started on the veg when Egg appeared, with a great sheaf of paper in his fist.

    “What on earth have you been up to?” I croaked.

    “Yes: that,” agreed Crumpy, his eyes on stalks. “That looks like prep.!”

    Egg laughed. “Well almost! Where’s Albert got to?”

    “Tactless Q., oh companion of my misspent youth,” sighed Flossie.

    “And shouldn’t you be saying good morning to the aunts?” I added.

    “No—already did; been up for hours!”

    We goggled at him.

    “Tho I wouldn’t mind another coffee. –Merci beaucoup, Tante Louise,” he added as she offered him one.

    “For God’s sake, Egg, don’t keep us in suspenders,” sighed Flossie as he sat down and sipped. “What is all that bumf?”

    “Er—well—”

    It turned out that Egg had woken early, started mulling over the problem of the clubs, and written out a sort of summary cum proposal for Oncle Albert, outlining why a couple of up-market gaming clubs à la the quintessential English gents’ club would be the go, and the sort of advertising they’d need, and various contacts that might be useful (Mr Lamont and Uncle Flossie figuring largely), etcetera. That sort of thing.

    I managed to croak: “I thought you hadn’t done anything useful in your course, yet?” but the others were too numb to utter.

    “Mm? No, well a chap can read, y’know, Sister Bean!” he replied cheerfully. “Had a chat to Albert, y’see, and he said to write it all down. So I have.”

    “Crumbs,” said the Crumpet numbly.

    I just chopped carrots numbly. Crumbs indeed.

    Well Oncle Albert duly resurfaced, a wine bottle in each hand, which certainly added verisimilitude to an unconvincing N., as it were, and read through the lot—his English is very good, tho he usually doesn’t let on, certainly not to anything American that appears by mistake in the resto.

    “Ah,” he said. “Yes. This looks good, Alain. Naturally one will have to have more solid figures for Carter Bachelier and his investors but yes, I think we build on this, hein?”

    Egg beamed. “Really, sir? Great! And, um, what did you think about the names?”

    Oncle Albert shook all over. “Yes! A very clever stroke!”

    Eh?

    “What names, for God’s sake, Egg?” demanded Flossie.

    Oncle Albert answered for him: “In Paris we call it ‘The Club’, because many foolish trendy people here, they think that to use an English expression is very smart. And in London we call it ‘Le Club’, because the trendy English people think that a French name is smart and up-market!”

    “Gosh! Brilliant, Egg!” cried Bean.

    “Spot-on!” agreed Crumpet enthusiastically. “Well done, Egg!”

    “Yes! It’s so clever!” cried Mireille admiringly.

    “Well don’t you think so, Flossie?” added Crumpy crossly.

    Oops. Flossie’s eyes met mine and we both broke down in gales of laughter, he gasping: “A master—stroke—Egg!” and I gasping: “For-mi-dable!”

    The Egg just grinned.

    ’Cos after all it was pretty much a masterstroke, wasn’t it?

Scene: The Resto LeBec, the kitchen. Dinnertime for the family that evening. Oncle Albert having an indignant spluttering fit. Oops! The despised tinned sardines had made their appearance as hors d’oeuvre for the family! Grilled on slices of un pain (it being wider than a baguette), with a sprinkling of olive oil and thyme. Not bad, given that they weren’t English-type sardines but Portuguese-style ones, except that this was of course a French brand. Okay, round two to Tante Louise!

November 26 Not. Scene: Invalides. We hadn’t fallen out of our collective tree, we weren’t at the museum complex again, but the big downtown station, the Gare des Invalides, served by both the Métro and the RER trains, and where one could meet passengers coming in from several of the airports. So long as they knew what transport to take, yes. We were due to meet Bean Minor, being escorted by Alysse. Whether she was totally taken in by the Junior Drones’ claim that us paying for her to meet him in London and bring him over would be miles cheaper than Bean and/or me having to hop over to England to fetch him was a moot point, but anyway, she’d given in.

    “This should be them,” said the Egg on a temperate note.

    Er… Given that they only had the Bean’s directions to go by… Granted he seemed to know the Paris routes backwards, but…

    Oh! There they were! Thank goodness!

    Since we were in France my rapturous greeting (first cheek, second cheek, then first cheek again) was accepted with a sort of weary tolerance. And the very minor legume asked the all-important question: “What are we having for lunch?”

    “My bet’d be anything your Grannie won’t let you have, little chum,” said Egg.

    “Is it?” he demanded of me.

    “Yes,” I sighed.

    Taken unawares, the Junior Drones, Alysse and Mireille all emitted startled sniggers.

    “Ooh, what?”

    Very tempted to grab him by the auditory flap and just haul him off to it, I sighed: “Onion soup, like all the tourists ask for.”

    “It’s still French!” he snapped, very red, serve him right.

    “I’ve never had it,” ventured Alysse, rather flushed, possibly because Crumpy’s arm was now around her waist in a proprietorial manner.

    “It’s all right the way Tante Louise does it. And it is a chilly day,” allowed the Bean. “No idea what she might be serving up for an hors d’oeuvre, tho. Could be anything, judging by her form since we got here, eh, Sister Bean?”

    Er… On the whole, thinking of that weird nectarine salad and the too-recent tinned sardines…

    “We’ll take silence for consent,” decided Egg.

    “I was taking it for apprehension, actually, old chum, but if you say so,” Flossie conceded. “Can you remember how to get out of this goddawful complex, Bean? Or will they find our whitened bones, fifty years hence—”

    “No! I mean yes, of course I can! Come on!” He forged off.

    Certain Junior Drones were looking at me. “Um, is that right?” I asked Mireille.

    “I—I don’t know, I don’t know Invalides very well,” she faltered.

    Bean Minor brightened horribly. “Is it? I say! Can we go and see the suits of—”

    “No,” said the Egg firmly. “Shut up and behave yourself, or it’ll be all your buttons torn off and instant excommunication from the Junior Drones forever and a day.”

    “Hah, hah.” But he shut up and looked abashed, give the Egg a medal! Honestly!

    Flossie took my arm as we moved off in Bean’s wake, faute de mieux. “It’s his age, dear old chum-ette. Getting bumptious.”

    “Oh, God.”

    “Quite.”

Scene: The Resto LeBec, the kitchen. We needed something fresh to start with (apparently). So it was salade de carottes râpées. Our English visitors looked at their helpings weakly…

    Relieved smiles spread across their faces as they tasted it and the Crumpet happily reported: “Gosh! You’d never know it was just grated-up carrot!”

    How true. Because it isn’t just. The sauce vinaigrette— Oh, well, that’s the English for you.

    The “French onion soup” as they persisted in calling it, went down really well too. Tho the sight of Oncle Albert pouring small glasses of a tolerable Bordeaux for Bean Minor and Colas took Egg, Crumpy and Alysse considerably aback. Flossie of course was expecting it after his earlier visit and was able, unfortunately, to look even more superior than usual.

    Since it was such a chilly day the meal ended with nips of Oncle Alphonse’s eau de vie de mirabelles for the older persons. Followed by a certain tendency to sink into a soporific daze…

    Which sadly didn’t extend to the younger generation. No, Bean Minor, the Bean informed him crossly, we could not go to see the suits of armour, Colas’ school hadn’t broken up yet and he wanted to come too!

    —True, the amount of kissing and hugging that had gone on when we reached the resto should have knocked the bumptiousness out of any young person approaching puberty, but I don’t know that it did. Bean Minor remained horribly cheerful the entire hols. Well—knowing he was safely out of Grannie’s orbit? One couldn’t entirely blame him.

    And if the small sibling was feeling energetic (hard tho it was to believe anyone could, after all that food) he could stick labels on for Oncle Albert. He gave in and consented to help with this task, since Charles-Xavier was doing it, too. And they disappeared into the bowels of the Passage Jacob…

    After quite some time Flossie ventured: “Er, not abso-bally-lutely sure I grasped that, what with the idioms. Did the old boy actually say labels?”

    Bean glared at the table, Mireille looked studiously at the floor, and I looked out of the window where very luckily there were no flics lurking with those pointy things the FBI and the CIA have that pick up speech through glass at five hundred metres.

    “I see,” Flossie concluded.

    “Gosh,” said Crumpy in awe. “The mind boggles!”

    The Egg grinned. “I think we’d better make up our minds to let it all just float past us, old chums. All vote Aye, Junior Drones?”

    “Aye!” came the fervent response.

November 30 Not. Scene: The Place St. Michel. About to show Alysse the tourist sights. Tho not until after a little judicious rearrangement of wardrobe, so to speak, and a quick visit to one or two second-hand emporia which were bound to have the very close-fitting hat we needed for her, in order to match the close-fitting hats that Mireille and I were wearing, not to say the odd little fur scarf that might be added to the outfit so as to give it that extra PGW touch!

    Because there was no way we were going to let the lads outdo us sartorially! And since Bean had now also acquired a very large overcoat and a super-smart fedora, at least it was rather battered to start with but Tante Louise seized it, did miraculous things with the kettle and steam, and super-smarted it—as I say, since Bean was now as smart as the others and could have passed for Bertie W.’s brother, there was no way we were going to be outdone.

    Alysse was rather nervous as we went round the square and approached the café of the appointed rendezvous, not a tourist in sight; what a difference from summer, when the place had been sprouting them from every orifice, so to speak.

    “Don’t worry, you look spiffing,” I assured her, “and there’s no fear Crumpy won’t admire the effect!”

    “I think he admires you anyway!” put in Mireille with a giggle. She had been very shy of Alysse at first, on the grounds of her Oxford Scholarship and doing Classics, but had soon realised that she was completely unpretentious and just about as shy as she was herself.

    Sure enough, Alysse went very pink and gave a flustered laugh.

    And we went on round the square and duly wowed the gentlemen…

    Very gratifying, really.

Scene: Notre Dame de Paris. Outside the great edifice. Showing Alysse and the Junior Drones the tourist sights, blessedly free of tourists, tho come Christmas Eve they would doubtless infest the poor old cathedral in their busloads, pushing and shoving to get to the front, regardless of the fact that it was a sacred edifice with a sacred service going on.

    After staring upwards in awe for some time their gaze descended to lower levels…

    I took pity on them. “The other buildings are awfully close, aren’t they?”

    “Yes!” they agreed in relief.

    “It seems… incongruous, somehow,” said Egg weakly.

    “Mm. So does the traffic,” agreed Flossie drily.

    Uneasily the Bean ventured: “Well y’see, everything just grew up around it, I suppose. I mean, in Mediaeval times…” His voice trailed off.

    “There’s been a fair stretch of years since then in which they might have done something—or stopped something,” noted Egg.

    “Yes; what about that Baron fellow?” demanded Crumpy.

    Er…

    “You know, chaps! Fellow that drove the jolly old boulevards through and made Paris accessible!”

    “Haussmann, Crumpy,” said Flossie limply. “Does anyone else have an urge to wipe their forehead? Setting aside the point that the boulevards are quite some way away—I grab you coming here on the underground gives one no idea of distances; nevertheless—granted that, there is also the point that all of this area is probably, nay almost undoubtedly, Church property.”

    There was a short silence.

    Flossie eyed us wryly. “One gathers that the Baron stuck his neck out quite far enough over the boulevards: I doubt that he’d have wanted to tangle with the Catholic hierarchy.”

    “You’ve got a point. But—well… I mean, at least there’s a bit of grass outside Westminster Abbey,” the Crumpet replied limply.

    “The lack of space here does limit the number of cretins who can stand outside it with their backs to it taking selfies,” I pointed out. “Come down the side street, and we can view the arcs-boutants. –Sorry, don’t know what to call them in English.”

    We went along the side and to the rear and duly viewed, Alysse thereupon declaring: “Gosh, it’s lovely from the back as well!”

    “Like some others!” said Crumpy with a laugh.

    She gave a confused laugh, very flushed, but nonetheless looked pleased. Well jolly good!

    Endeavouring to retrace our steps, we were blocked by a GIANT tourist coach. We watched numbly as a few swaddled figures got down from it and stared about blankly, bumbling around uncertainly, and eventually began to shamble off, getting out their mobile phones.

    “They let buses down here?” croaked the Crumpet in horror, goggling.

    Egg was just noting in equal horror that the thing was about as wide as the alleyway when a fortyish female tourist swaddled in a padded grey anorak approached us and said: “Do you speak English?”

    “Yes; can we help you?” replied the Egg nicely.

    “Is this the front?” she asked.

    Stunned silence.

    “Er—no,” the Egg produced manfully. “Round there: you’ll see the three big front doors.”

    “Thank you.” With that she shambled off, getting out her mobile phone…

    There was a prolonged silence in the lee of the giant tourist coach in the narrow cramped street jammed between the cathedral and a huddled row of oldish, greyish buildings.

    “No-one,” said Flossie at last in a shaken voice: “is ever going to believe that that encounter wasn’t totally apocryphal!”

    “You’re right,” I agreed faintly.

    More silence.

    Egg began weakly: “How could anyone not know—” He broke off, looking numb.

    “Why did she come?” croaked Bean.

    There seemed no answer at all to that except perhaps Crumpy’s suggestion that she’d won the trip in a raffle or some such. Because— Well, really!

    After that we felt so shattered that we decided we needed to recruit our forces. So we staggered back to the Place St. Michel and recruited them.

December 3 Not. Scene: The Rive Droite, at the Pont au Change. Again showing Alysse and the Junior Drones the tourist sights.

    After quite some time of just staring, Alysse said faintly: “That is where poor Marie-Antoinette was locked up, isn’t it?”

    “The Conciergerie. Yes,” I agreed.

    “You can’t mistake it, because of the pointy hats,” said Bean helpfully.

    She bit her lip. “Mm.”

    Not reading the signals, my misguided sibling pursued: “One can do a tour of parts of the Palais de Justice—well the Palais is the whole complex, really, and of course the Police judiciaire have just moved out of it—what I mean is, there’s certainly tours of the Conciergerie: it’s more than just the towers with the pointy hats, it’s the whole end chunk: see the clock tower? It starts about there.”

    “Would you like that?” Crumpy asked her, also not reading the signals. Honestly, sometimes I despair of the male side!

    “Um, wuh-well of course it’s a lovely old building,” she faltered.

    “Yes: looks quite Mediaeval, doesn’t it?” he said cheerfully. “Kind of what one imagines Rapunzel’s tower might have looked like, eh?”

    Flossie sighed “Crumpy, old chap, blameless and well-meaning tho your attempts were, I don’t think she wanted to hear that.”

    Alysse had gone very pink but was looking at him gratefully. I will say this for F. (James) Nightingale Esq., he is very percipient, unlike the majority. The trouble is he usually doesn’t bother to apply a dose of the M. of H. Kindness to what he perceives. So chalk that day up as a red-letter day.

    “Flossie’s right,” I said heavily. “Some of us don’t want to think of that poor desperate woman shut up in the tower, so let’s drop it, okay?”

    Bean stared at me in amazement. “But she wasn’t in the tower at all! You told me yourself that that Dickens vol. had it right and you checked it in the Guide Michelin and it was spot-on!”

    “Shut up, Bean,” I returned grimly, averting my eyes from the sight of the larger pointy-hatted tower, which always made me want to cry, if the truth were told.

    “Er—yes, drop it, chums, I think,” said Egg. “We’re up against female sensibilities here. And frankly, I find the whole subject of the Terror nauseating myself. Let’s give it away, okay?”

    “Carried unanimously,” said Flossie with a hard look at Bean.

    And we gave it away.

Scene: Les Invalides. The suits of armour. Two over-excited boys in tow… I draw a veil.

Scene: The Resto LeBec, the kitchen. Early evening. Tante Louise needed a few extra things for our dinner, so we older ones could pop down to the shops—not you two boys, it’s too cold after dark these days. But it would be a nice opportunity for our English friends to see a busy French market. And it was so interesting at this time of year!

    Er…

    Very quietly the Bean said in my ear: “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

    “I think so.”

    “What’s up?” asked Crumpy, very puzzled. “Are these the little shops down the Rue du Saint Whatsisname? I wouldn’t half like to see them in full swing, I must say. –Funny how they seem to close all afternoon, isn’t it?”

    It had been explained to him that French people traditionally preferred to buy fresh, directly before the meal in which they intended to use the produce, but it hadn’t sunk in. Nor the intel that many families in the quartier still didn’t have fridges and those that did only had little ones.

    Making up my mind to it, I said: “Yes, it’s just the local shops. The thing is, in France even the tiniest little neighbourhood markets have things for sale that in England, um, would only be available in the most expensive specialist shops in the biggest cities. And, um, it’s the game season,” I ended glumly.

    They all looked puzzled.

    After a moment the Crumpet offered: “I’ve eaten pheasant a few times, Dad’s very fond of it. And partridge, come to think of it: had that, too.”

    “Mm,” I replied, trying not to shut my eyes. “You don’t understand.”

    “Um… I’ve shot a few pheasants, actually,” offered Egg.

    “Yes, well you’ll be all right, then!” retorted Bean with feeling.

    “We do all eat meat. And chicken, of course,” ventured Alysse.

    Oh, God.

    “A dead bird is a dead bird, surely? Is that what’s worrying you, Sister Bean?” asked Egg kindly.

    Oh, God!

    “Look,” said Bean loudly, “you don’t get it!”

    “That’s because you’re not spelling it out, old chum,” drawled Flossie.

    “They’ll all be hanging up in their feathers! Heads and all! And feet! It’s not only birds, it’s rabbits and hares as well! Well, the rabbits are usually decapitated and ready skinned, but they leave the feet on because—” He lost his nerve and broke off, swallowing.

    They were all goggling at him, of course.

    “Because what?” groped the Egg.

    “Because the French won’t believe they’re not cats, otherwise!” he shouted.

    They gulped.

    “Yes,” I said heavily. “I dare say it dates back to the War or even earlier, but yes. And the hares are miles worse—for those with English sensibilities. –Don’t tell us you’ve shot a hare, Egg,” I added as he opened his mouth.

    “Well in the country, Mel, y’know—” he began uncomfortably.

    “Yes. Alysse’s family lives in a town,” I said flatly.

    “Um, it doesn't sound too bad. I mean, a dead pheasant, or a partridge or a hare? I think I’ll be all right, Mel,” she said awkwardly, poor girl.

    Right. All right at the sight of a whole dead hare, furry, complete with its head, lovely ears and all, hanging upside-down by its poor little feet. Okay, I’d seen and eaten plenty of game when we were at the château, and Oncle Patrice for one quite often gets out with the shot-gun, but even I had to admit it was a very pathetic sight. And as for that poor dead fawn, lovely spotted little creature that it was— I kid you not. The French will eat anything! And that is where I absolutely draw the line. Venison, yes. A little wild baby animal, that should have grown up to at least have its time of grass and forests and fresh air? No. Absolutely not.

    “Maybe the worst of it’ll be over by now,” offered the Bean optimistically.

    “This close to Christmas? It’s all stops out,” I sighed.

    “Look,” he said resignedly, “I’ll nip down and suss it out, and if it’s too bally lurid we won’t take them. Okay?”

    “Yes. Great. Thanks, Bean.”

    So he hurriedly grabbed up his heavy coat and his hat and dashed out…

December 6 Not. (Tho not so far from it.) Continuing: “Not too bad!” he panted, having dashed back. “Average. Nothing extreme.”

    Thank God for that!

    So we took them.

Scene: The local market. Under the myriad lights of the little shops at one of their busiest times of the year the pavement stands were crowded with produce. Gleaming mountains of fruit and vegetables from warmer climes, brilliant red tomatoes at a brilliant red price, glowing oranges from the Middle East, shiny pointed white endives belges and bright yellow-centred whorls of frisées from much nearer to home… And every little place that possibly could had not only crowded its pavement area with its offerings but had hung stuff from its eaves as well.

    Rows and rows of hanging dead game, yes. The ranked birds ranged from what I think were partridges and pheasants to really small, rather spotty ones that of course the English looked at in horror. Eating birds the size of thrushes?

    “Des bécassines,” I sighed as Crumpy croaked out a query.

    “Oh,” he said blankly.

    “Um, snipe, I think,” ventured Egg, peering. “Henry shot a brace once but Mum wouldn’t give them houseroom. Don’t know that I blame her. –I see what you mean about English sensibilities, Mel. It is a bit much to see so much game hanging up en masse, as it were.”

    Exactly.

    Alysse was biting her lip, rather. “Yes. Well, you did warn us,” she said faintly.

    Crumpy put his arm round her shoulders and said, sounding just like his father: “Never mind, pet. Come and have a look at some of the ordinary shops, eh? That looks like a charcuterie down there, I know that word, that’ll sell nice pâtés like the one we had the other day.” Steering her off to it as he spoke.

    “Uh—” began the Bean.

    “With luck they won’t wander into the other place, and their French isn’t good enough to ask,” I sighed.

    “What on earth are you on about?” asked the Egg. “Doesn’t it sell pâté?”

    “The charcuterie does, yes. Not the other place further down which they’ll probably think’s a butcher’s shop,” said Bean heavily. “Fancy spinal cord?”

    Egg recoiled. “What? Are you serious?”

    The Bean eyed him drily. “Yes. –Didn’t think you’d fancy it. That isn’t the worst of it, mind you. I’m not going to tell you what is.”

    “No, don’t. You shouldn’t have asked, Egg, old chum,” sighed Flossie. “Let’s go and get those nice vegetarian lettuces that Tante Louise wanted, shall we?”

    “Not lettuces,” objected Bean.

    “They look like lettuces to the English eye, old Bean,” he replied firmly, steering both Egg and Mireille off towards the frisées.

    “Is there an English word?” wondered the Bean.

    I shrugged. “Aucune idée.”

    “No, well I’m bloody sure there isn’t one for—” He broke off.

    “Les rognons blancs,” I said heavily.

    The Bean shuddered. “Must you?”

    He was right, they’re pretty much the worst of les abats.

    We finally bought the stuff for Tante Louise, which included, besides the frisées, a large number of litres of moules.—Shellfish stuff. Forget the English word, if it matters.—And since they had some nice ones, a radis noir.

    So for dinner we had radis noir—cru, au sel, naturally—followed by moules marinière accompanied by nouilles au beurre (to fill the young people up), then the salade de frisée, a nice Brie, and a simple tarte Tatin, simple in Tante Louise’s terms. And coffee, of course. The moules were washed down with some more of that rather flinty Chablis which old Once Alphonse favoured. Well him and Oncle Patrice both, and as the vineyard in Q. is within easy driving distance of the Château LeBec, doubtless there’d been a certain trade-off… Or two.

    Well I don’t know which stunned our visitors most, the crisp white raw flesh of the radis noir or the moules cooked in their shells, Crumpy in particular noting dazedly apropos of the former that he’d never have guessed this was radish, it wasn’t like the normal radishes, was it? But certainly by the time the salad course eventuated they took the bitterness of the frisée in their stride.

    At least Tante Louise didn’t do her civet de lièvre, which is just a rather fancy stew, altho according to the Bean, who looked it up, not nearly as fancy as Escoffier’s. But very nice all the same, with brandy and red wine and some bacon, kind of thing. Bean Minor is very fond of it, but so far he hasn’t asked for it in front of our English visitors, so possibly there’s a Merciful Deity up there somewhere after all!

December 9 Not. Scene: Paris by night. The Junior Drones’ visit had come to an end: they all had to be back in England with their families for Christmas. Or in Flossie’s case with Uncle Flossie. Alysse tried to insist on paying her own fare home but we all refused to listen. The more so as I, at least, had an idea that she’d have to borrow off her dad to be able to afford it.

    There was a farewell dinner of course but thank goodness, Tante Louise and Oncle Albert consulted me and Bean and we were able to stop them providing platters of oysters. Not that anyone would have been allowed to eat one that didn’t move when the lemon was squeezed onto it under the LeBec roof, but foreigners that weren’t used to shellfish? So it was a very nice pâté followed by Oncle Albert’s Boeuf Bourguignonne, a classic way of doing it, casseroled in the oven, the sauce then reduced, and served surrounded by small glazed onions, mushrooms and diced bacon. Accompanied by Château LeBec 2003. Then a most refreshing salad, admittedly a French cold weather favourite, but the visitors’ eyes bulged: diced cooked beetroot and sliced raw endives belges. It counteracts the heaviness of the meat, so the story runs. A nice Brie followed (they’d discovered that our visitors preferred it to Camembert) and then, again on account of the heavier foods in the earlier courses, Tante Louise’s incredible glace au citron. To die for, as the good old Crumpet declared.

    So after a bit of a rest it was time for the tour of Paris by night and, le beauf’ de Michel turning up as promised, we piled into his taxi, or actually the roomiest of the passenger vehicles he uses, technically an estate waggon. And off we set, to an accompaniment of loud, anguished protests from Bean Minor and Colas.

    The tour ended down by the Seine. We gazed at the view of the Tour Eiffel…

    “I’m so glad I came,” sighed Alysse blissfully.

    Crumpy’s arm tightened round her. “Me, too!”

    Flossie’s arm had somehow got round Mireille. “I’m rather glad, too. Pas toi, Mireille?” She gave a breathless squeak and nodded hard. Oh, well!

    “It’s been beyond spiffing!” concluded Egg with his nice laugh. “So, plan for another visit? All vote Aye, Junior Drones?”

    The Ayes had it.

Next chapter:

https://theeggandfriends-anovel.blogspot.com/2025/11/travelling-hopefully.html