The Egg And Friends: A Novel: Plans Of Mice And Men

Plans Of Mice And Men

December 27 Not. (Actually February 2020.) Well gee. Like the rest of the Western world we went unsuspecting into 2020, vague rumours of some germ in China not impinging. And personally I was looking forward to my twentieth birthday in March and wondering if it’d be too early to drop a Heavy Hint John Raice’s way, and Bean was looking forward to his twenty-first in April and wondering if he could con a Really Hefty Amount out of Dad on the strength of it, and everything was normal. And Tante Louise had done her special pieds de porc aux lentilles, to die for, creamily smooth, unbelievably succulent, the very evening in February that Oncle Albert made up his mind to Speak to us.

“Mes enfants,” he began. Bad Sign. What was coming? We all looked at him fearfully, and Bean, who was next to her, kindly let Mireille hold his hand for moral support. Or possibly for mutual moral support.

Oncle Albert went on: “I think it’s time for us to take this horrible Chinese virus very seriously indeed. You’ll have seen the reports of the incident in Les Contamines-Montjoie.” We looked at him uncertainly. Frowning, he elaborated: “It’s where five British tourists caught the virus. They’ve been testing more than a hundred villagers.

“But surely…” began Tante Louise.

“Don’t say it’s an isolated incident, Louise,” he said heavily. “Look at what’s been happening in Italy: it’s spread like wildfire!”

“We’re not the Italians, tho!” said Jean-Louis with an uneasy laugh.

“Shut up, Jean-Louis. Macron isn’t a magician, nor, contrary to his lady fans’ beliefs, the Messiah reincarnated: what makes you think he can stop it in its tracks?”

“But summer’s coming,” offered Charles-Xavier feebly.

Oncle Albert gave him a withering look. “Don’t be a fool, boy. This isn’t a bad cold, or even the flu—this is the Black Death.”

There was a sickened silence.

Finally I said weakly to Colas’s little white face: “Not literally, Colas. He means it’s a plague.” I swallowed hard. The word in French is “peste” and I’d had to read Camus’s La Peste during my course. “Comme dans La Peste de Camus.”

Unexpectedly old Oncle Maurice nodded. “I remember when our class had to read that book. Everyone said of course that was North Africa and it couldn't happen here.”

“But it is happening, isn’t it?” said Bean hoarsely.

“Yes,” Oncle Albert agreed grimly. “Well we’re not living in the Middle Ages and I dare say in time the scientists will develop a vaccine for it. But in the meantime ordinary living is going to be impossible. Anywhere people get together there’ll be the risk of it spreading. I mean anywhere, not just resort villages,” he added, as Tante Louise was seen to open her mouth again. “Anywhere from huge pop festivals to the local boulangerie.”

After a stunned moment during which the French persons present contemplated the possibility of a future without bread, Tante Thérèse cleared her throat and said firmly: “We could bake our own bread, Albert—couldn’t we, Louise?”

“Yes. There’s plenty of flour in the storeroom, but we could buy more in.”

“We’re not staying here,” stated Oncle Albert grimly. “All the big cities will be hotbeds of infection.”

The silence of total consternation fell.

Finally Marc-Antoine, who, techo whizz tho he is, had decided to get a proper qualification, just in case he might need to work elsewhere at some point, quavered: “But what about my course? I can’t just up and leave, Oncle Albert.”

“None of you will be able to finish your courses, mes petits. Macron will have to order all the universities and colleges closed—and the schools too, Colas.”

Colas’s face it up. “Really? No school? Hurray!”

“Um, but we’ve nearly finished, Oncle Albert,” I faltered. “Surely they can’t do that to us?”

“Mon chéri, which you would rather be: unqualified or newly qualified and dead?” he demanded sternly.

I gulped.

“All the educational institutions of France will be closed down well before the end of the academic year,” he stated flatly. “Now, I’ve been talking to your grandmother, Mel and Michael, and you must go down to the château without delay.”

“What?” we gasped.

And Bean added weakly: “But she never speaks to anyone from the resto!”

“This is a global crisis which overrides any personal feuds, mon enfant. And she’s very kindly offered to take any of the family who wish to go with you. Your parents have agreed you should go, Mireille—don’t argue, mon chéri, that industrial town they live in is a breeding-ground for disease at the best of times. And I think you’d best take Colas, Michael: he’ll be company for little Tommy.”

Bean gaped at him in consternation. “But Tommy’s at school, Uncle!”

“Mon cher enfant, if you imagine that England will be immune to this pandemic, stop now. That Boris Johnson is un grand con: it’ll be frightful.”

“I thought the WHO weren’t calling it a pandemic yet?” ventured Charles-Xavier unwisely.

“The people who run huge UN organisations are a lot of over-cautious old maids,” the redoubtable uncle replied. “What else is it? China to Italy before one can blink? And any death rates coming out of China can be multiplied by ten, you can count on that!”

“Well, I— Shuh-should I dash over and fetch Tommy, then?” quavered Bean.

“Yes, right away, Michael. In any case I think it won’t be long before the school is asking all the parents to take their sons away: the headmaster sounds like a very sensible man. You’d better drive and take the ferry; don’t fly, those planes just circulate germs.”

“Prends la bagniole,” offered Jean-Louis hoarsely.

This old banger was the joint property of “the boys”: that was, Jean-Louis and Charles-Xavier were the major shareholders and Marc-Antoine, being younger, had a minor interest. It seldom went anywhere in town, as of course driving in Paris was impossible and the Métro was a million times more convenient, but they sometimes took it out for a ride in the country, rather like a favourite old horse, during the weekends. With assorted bird, natch.

“That’s very generous, Jean-Louis,” said Once Albert quickly before the surprised Bean could thank him for the offer, “but there’s always the risk it’ll break down. Take the Citroën, Michael.”

“Your car, Oncle Albert?” he gasped.

Yes well. One of them. A fair amount of garage-ly activity went on in those garages at the end of the Passage Jacob in addition to other activities.

Yes, of course he meant his car, and the stunned Bean thanked him fervently.

“And it’ll be quite safe for the girls and Colas to go with you. But you must all wear masks if you stop to buy food or for the toilets, mes enfants.”

“You won’t need to stop for food, I’ll make you something nice to take,” stated Tante Louise.

“Very well, Louise, but after that we close the kitchen and leave for the country house,” said Oncle Albert firmly.

“What, all of us?” she gasped.

“Yes. We can be completely self-sufficient there. Well, with le Cousin Georges’s mill right next-door,” he added.

There was a thoughtful silence. Le Cousin Georges was, naturally, a bit of a rogue, and his old flour mill had been there since approx. Louis XIII’s time, in fact according to Tante Thérèse it was the inspiration for a scene in Dumas, tho with or without the Trois Mousquetaires I hadn’t been able to figure out. But it still worked and he did a brisk trade amongst the local farmers and villagers with half-legitimate flour.

“Mon cher frère, we could be self-sufficient here,” noted the said Tante Thérèse heavily.

“Do you want to risk it, Thérèse?” he demanded angrily.

She sighed. “I suppose not.”

“Good. You can all start packing tonight. You and the other three can leave for England tomorrow, Michael.”

Meekly Mireille and I agreed, and even Colas nodded obediently, tho he was looking rather lost.

Tante Louise had been looking upset for some time. “But what about Lucien?” she quavered.

Short silence, during which several persons tried not to clear their throats.

Tante Louise had never married; several longish relationships hadn’t worked out. Her children all had her name, LeBec. Lucien was a feeble little man whom she’d more or less adopted or, according to the family, lured into her web with offers of potage de poireaux and tarte Tatin, of both of which he was inordinately fond. He lived with her in one of the upstairs flats, and didn’t spend much time downstairs with the rest of us. The older male members of the family put up with him because he was employed by a very good shop as a watchmaker (or horlogier in French, which made more sense, as he usually mended antique clocks), and thus had useful skills. Not to say contacts.

“Bring him if you must. There’s plenty of room,” said Oncle Albert heavily.

“I’ll give him two weeks,” chirped old Oncle Alphonse out of the blue, “and there won’t be a leek left in the kitchen garden!”

Hurriedly Oncle Albert cleared his throat. “Now, is everybody clear? We start packing tonight, finish tomorrow, and leave first thing the next morning. In the meantime no-one is to go out at all.”

A short silence.

“I mean it. At all.”

They nodded glum assent.

“Um, what about Maman?” ventured Charles-Xavier. (His mother’s a singer on a cruise ship and the family rarely sees her.)

Replying firmly that she’d chosen her life, and would have to take her chances, Oncle Albert got up. “That’s that. Michael, Mel, Mireille, Colas, go straight upstairs and pack. You won’t be coming back here. You boys, fetch the big shutters up from the cellars.”

“Now?” gasped Marc-Antoine.

“Yes, now. You can shut down all the cameras, the business is closed.” With that he firmly walked out.

A babble of consternation broke out in his wake, but that of course was that. What Oncle Albert said, went.

December 31. Not. Naturally Bean Minor was thrilled to be liberated from school tho not so thrilled at the idea of being under Grannie’s eye, but at least he’d be with us and Colas. Er, plus a large portion of the cactus collection belonging to the latter, he discovered, trying to squeeze into the back seat of the roomy Citroën with him and Mireille and them.

I don’t know what the Beak said to Bean but I gathered it was something pretty scary because there was no argument about letting Bean Minor go, and when I suggested stopping off to see John Raice he said grimly we’d do no such thing, we were going straight to the château as fast as we could. His face was rather pale and he was gripping the steering wheel like billy-o. So I didn’t argue.

… So there we were, incarcerated at the Château Lebec waiting to see what was giving to happen. Nobody was expecting that Macron would wave a magic wand, no. Nothing was improving.

I’m running out of pages in this so-called diary from good old Miss Stinkerton, so I shall just use the so-called “Notes” pages at the end to record the latest Junior Drones stuff for Posterity. If there is any.

Notes (Sort of.) Of course I’d emailed everybody to let them know where we were and why. The Egg got in touch by Skype not long after that. It was lovely to see his smiling face again.

“What-ho, Sister Bean!”

“What-ho, Egg,” I managed.

“Oy, cheer up! You’re better off with the old witch than in the city, y’know!”

“Mm. Of course,” I agreed, trying to smile. “It’s just— Well, everything we planned seems to be down the drain.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to sit your exams later on. And probably you’ll be able to catch up on your missed classes online.”

“Yeah. You too, I s’pose, if you have to get out of Oxford.”

“Er—yes,” he said in an odd voice.

At that point I took in his face’s background. “Are you at your parents’ place?”

“Mm. Thought it the wiser thing, y’know? There were rumours about locking down the colleges and—well—thought if anything goes wrong at Dad’s place where would I rather be? They didn’t kick up about me taking off. A lot of the overseas students are leaving, too.”

“I see. Um, there’s been that awful outbreak here in France after that stupid meeting of the daft Christian Open Door Church. They had about two and a half thousand attendees and half of them have come down with it.”

“Uh-huh, saw it on the News. The government should never have allowed the damned meeting to take place. They’re just as slow off the mark here,” he said, his pleasant face set in grim lines. “Frankly I’m not prepared to put my life in bloody Boris Johnson’s hands!”

“No,” I agreed in horror. “You’ll be much safer at home, Egg! What about the other Junior Drones?”

“I gather Uncle Flossie’s told the Party where to put it and shaken the dust. Said you can argue in the House until you’re blue in the face and nothing’ll go on happening. He’s hauled Flossie off to the ancestral acres,” he revealed with a grin.

“Oh good! And what about Crumpy and Alysse?”

“Alysse’s Dad’s got the flu and her mum had a panic, so she went home. He’s okay, it is only flu, but she’s decided to stay there. Well, one town’s probably as bad as another but she won’t be sitting in lectures breathing in everybody’s germs, or eating in college.”

“That sounds all right,” I said in relief. “She did email me a while back but I was starting to worry because I haven’t heard from her for a couple of weeks.”

“Uh-huh. Well she’s fine, been busy organising getting her books home, I think,” he said with a smile in his voice. “Crumpy’s still up as we speak but Clive Lamont’s just finishing off some business in town this week and they’re going down to the country in the weekend. Not heading back till we get the All Clear. –Which may, at the rate the bloody government’s not pulling its finger out,” he noted wryly, “take about as long as it did in World War II.”

I sighed. “Mm. Well they’ll be better off in the country. And that club Mr Lamont goes to must be chockful of germs, it sounds like the sort of place that never opens its windows!”

“Uh—oh! The gaming club! No, right!”

“Um, so what about your plans for Oncle Albert’s clubs, Egg?” I asked uneasily.

“In abeyance. He’s still keen, and Carter Bachelier’s still keen, but it’d be stupid to go ahead now.”

“Right.”

“I gather Carter’s still keen in another direction, too,” he said slily.

I went rather red, dash it. “I know. I’ve told him it’s N.B.G., and not to even consider flying to Europe at this stage in Earth history, it’d be the height of folly.”

“Well no, that’d be flying to China,” he murmured, “but I entirely agree. And the Paris cop?”

I sighed. “He was very startled to get my email from the château and wanted to know why I hadn’t said goodbye, et tout et tout. So I told him it was N.B.G., too.”

“I see. That’s a jolly old clean slate, then, is it, Mel?” he replied with a twinkle.

“Pretty much, yes. Apart from the spilt milk,” I admitted sourly.

“Oh Lor’! Don’t go all gloomy on us, old love! You said it yourself: one needs the practice!”

“Yes. Right,” I agreed with a silly smile.

“Er—and John Raice’d be the last to throw stones in glass houses, so to speak,” he added.

“Hah, hah. No, you’re right. –So what about you and Carrie-Ann?”

“Er—not exactly a couple, y’know. I did suggest she and her mum come to us down here—well, much healthier than the towns. But she said we don’t know each other well enough and her mum and her aunty would be—uh—making assumptions.” He pulled an awful face.

Well yes, but there’s nothing in the whole universe that’d stop a mum and an aunty from doing that!

“Got it,” I sighed.

“We’re keeping in touch, Mel,” he assured me.

Yeah. So were John and I, and tarsome was the word!

“Talking of which,” Egg added on a firm note: “thought that all the Junior Drones could have pow-wows now and then on that Zoom thing. Got it on your laptop? –No. Well I can send you the gen. Sort of like this Skype thing, but for groups. Everyone can see everyone at once, kind of thing.”

“Oh. Split-screen?” I fumbled.

“Something like that. Is there anyone at the château who’s techo enough to help you set it up?”

Er… “Bean?”

The Egg choked.

“No, well he’s jolly good on the viticulture and horticulture stuff, but he doesn’t like computers. Pity Marc-Antoine didn’t come with us. Well oddly enough Oncle Patrice is pretty cluey about that sort of stuff so I’ll ask him if I get stuck.”

“When,” the Egg corrected, looking prim.

“Okay, when!”

And we were both able to ring off or hang up or switch off, whichever one does with the dashed thing, with smiles on our faces.

… So since then all the Junior Drones, including Bean Minor, plus Mireille, Alysse and Carrie-Ann, now all Auxiliary Hon. Mems., and even Colas, as a sort of Supernumerary Chela, have had fairly regular meetings on dashed Zoom. Wearing of the gear mandatory. (Luckily the château’s attics are stuffed with all sorts of appropriate treasures, cream tennis or croquet bags being the least of it. Boaters galore.) And with an awful lot of parliamentary procedure and the Ayes having or not having it, which somehow sent Mireille into hysterics. Which Flossie seemed to enjoy greatly, but my God, at the end of a dashed “virtual” connection in the blasted ether?

Oh well.

Out in the world nothing was improving but at the château we were well hunkered down and the others reported from England that so were they, and both Alysse and Carrie-Ann were wearing masks conscientiously when they did the shopping for their mums and washing their hands fervently on their return, and what more can mere human ants do at this point in Earth history?

And gee, on the 12th of March Macron announced on telly that all schools and universities across the country would be closed. Good old Oncle Albert was right all along, wasn’t he? Not to say the Egg, who for a person of less than half the uncle’s age certainly has more than half of his acumen.

One will just have to keep determinedly optimistic and look forward not back, and be grateful for what we’ve got, rather than brooding over what we’ve lost, as the good old Egg keeps reminding us. Tho after slogging for nearly three years to get our bally degrees and then being pipped at the post, so to speak—

So much for the plans of mice and men and mere human beings!

But it isn’t, as the Egg insists, the end of the story yet, by no means.

Well let’s hope so. Fingers crossed.