| General Fiction posted May 31, 2019 | Chapters: |
...60 61 -62- 63... 
|
  |
Chapter 62: Charles returns to England with Helen.
A chapter in the book The French Letter
Thrills and Spills
by tfawcus
| Background Charles, who is now working for MI6, has been asked to renew his liaison with Helen, so they can be sent back together to her home in the Hindu Kush, to neutralise an international terrorist group. |
Closing paragraphs of Chapter 61:
... my phone rang. It was Bisto.
There was a pause before he heaved the words out on a tide of emotion, "It's Jenny. She took a sudden turn for the worse yesterday and ... and ..."
"...and you'd like me to come back and help with things."
"Yes - that's it - the arrangements. Would you mind awfully?"
"Of course not. What are friends for? Terribly sorry to hear the news. You must be devastated. Don't worry, I'll drop everything and come straight over."
I imagined the look of relief as he stammered his thanks and put down the phone.
I cradled my head in my hands. Poor Ian. I knew just how he must be feeling. Jenny had been the world to him, particularly as they had never been able to have children. All that was left for him was a house echoing with memories and their Cocker Spaniel, Biggles. I doubt if, in fifty years of flying adventures, the dog's illustrious namesake had ever faced a tougher challenge than keeping Bisto from falling apart. Reinforcements would be needed and there wasn't a moment to lose.
After delving for a handkerchief to wipe away an unaccustomed tear, I blew my nose loudly, grasped the table with both hands, pushed my chair back, and rose. Whether because of my imitation of a trumpeting elephant or the screech of the chair legs against the pavement, I found all eyes upon me, including those of Helen. She immediately sprang forward, sensing something was wrong.
"What's up, Charles? You look as though you've lost your last dollar."
"Worse than that, I'm afraid." I ran my fingers through my hair and barely restrained the trembling of my bottom lip. "It's my old friend, Ian Kidman. His wife has passed away. Cancer, you know. I think I told you about it." I gave her an anguished look. "He needs me. He really doesn't have anyone else."
"Then what are we waiting for?" She dragged me across to the kerb and flagged down a taxi. Bundling me in, she squeezed alongside and gave instructions to the driver. "La Gare du Nord. Rapidement."
As he pulled away, I heard a commotion behind us. Glancing back, I could see my waiter gesticulating wildly, giving full voice to all the imprecations at his command. It dawned on me that I hadn't paid the bill.
"That's the least of your worries, darling."
Helen put her arm around my shoulder and leaned in to give me a sympathetic kiss on the cheek. Suddenly, the events of the morning seemed unimportant. I was on a mission of my own choosing, supported by the woman I loved.
If Bamforth and Madame Durand had orchestrated this turn of events, they couldn't have come up with a better way of bringing the two of us back together. The fact that Helen was dropping everything to be by my side at this dark hour said more about her than any words. After all, she didn't even know Bisto. I found it remarkable that she should have been so wholly in tune with my feelings.
We arrived at the station half an hour before the next Eurostar departure but it wasn't until our train was well on its way to London that I broached the subject of Madame Durand's bizarre behaviour. Even then, I skirted around the subject tentatively while the attendant was pouring us each a glass of wine.
"I had an unexpected visit from Jeanne this morning after you left."
"After I stormed out, you mean."
"Yes. I suppose 'stormed' would be more accurate. That's twice in as many days that I've been drenched by you. If you're wondering what to buy me for Christmas, a hydrophobic shirt might be a good choice."
"What?"
"Hydrophobic. I read somewhere that there are shirts so tightly woven they repel liquids."
"Really? I'll bear that in mind. Talking of Christmas, what were you thinking of getting me?"
"Perhaps a misandrous yashmak? One that repels insensitive males."
Helen laughed. "No, I don't think so. You're not usually insensitive and I should hate to repel you at the wrong times."
"Easily fixed. You could always respond to my more sensitive moments by removing a veil."
She picked up her glass and made an extravagant gesture, as if to throw the contents over me. "You're incorrigible!"
I ducked and, in so doing, upset my own glass over my trousers. "Now look what you've made me do."
I leaped to my feet, then, seeing the look on her face, sat down again abruptly. The widening stain had drenched my inside leg, just below the crotch.
Scarcely able to get the words out through her hysterical laughter, she said, "I see you hang to the left, sir."
I picked up her glass and was about to douse her when the attendant tapped me on the shoulder. "I wouldn't advise that, monsieur. If you cause a disturbance, I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to leave the train." Under the circumstances, that seemed a Draconian punishment, since we were hurtling through the landscape at 300 kph.
I was about to sit down at his request when Helen suggested I might like to make use of the toilet facilities. "You could dab off the worst of the stain before it sets and use the hand dryer to get rid of the damp patch."
There was sense in what she said, so I excused myself and made my way down the corridor. It was a lengthy and painstaking process, but I was able to restore a semblance of propriety to my trousers. Eventually, I shuffled back out, murmuring my apologies.
The man at the head of the now lengthy queue pushed past me. "About bloody time, mate. We thought you'd died in there."
I returned to my seat, only to find that Helen had disappeared. All sorts of scenarios flitted through my mind, inspired by the series of unlikely events that had occurred over the past few days. Murder on the Orient Express? Extra-terrestrial abduction from the Eurostar? Whatever next?
However, I needn't have worried. She soon reappeared, bearing a half-bottle of wine and some sandwiches. "I thought these might help to restore your equilibrium," she said, with a smile.
"I know you are dying to tell me about Jeanne's visit and, yes, I did put her up to it. I thought it might teach you a lesson."
"Teach me a lesson?" I spluttered. "That was a real gun she stuck in my back, loaded with a real bullet. Some lesson."
Helen looked aghast. "I don't believe you. She'd never have done a thing like that."
'Well, she did, and it backfired. I spun round and dashed the gun from her hand. It went off when it hit the ground and, if you don't believe that, perhaps the shattered shower screen will convince you."
I felt sure that the look of shock on her face was genuine. I went on to tell her about the apartment being bugged. "I don't suppose you knew about that, either. These are dangerous, unscrupulous people we are dealing with. They want us to work together on some clandestine operation in the Hindu Kush."
"Working together? Now that's an appealing idea, and I would dearly love to return to the land of my birth and childhood." She paused and searched deep into my eyes for her answer. "I think we should work together, don't you? But on our terms, not on theirs."
This time, when we raised and clinked our glasses, not a drop was spilled.
... my phone rang. It was Bisto.
There was a pause before he heaved the words out on a tide of emotion, "It's Jenny. She took a sudden turn for the worse yesterday and ... and ..."
"...and you'd like me to come back and help with things."
"Yes - that's it - the arrangements. Would you mind awfully?"
"Of course not. What are friends for? Terribly sorry to hear the news. You must be devastated. Don't worry, I'll drop everything and come straight over."
I imagined the look of relief as he stammered his thanks and put down the phone.
Chapter 62
After delving for a handkerchief to wipe away an unaccustomed tear, I blew my nose loudly, grasped the table with both hands, pushed my chair back, and rose. Whether because of my imitation of a trumpeting elephant or the screech of the chair legs against the pavement, I found all eyes upon me, including those of Helen. She immediately sprang forward, sensing something was wrong.
"What's up, Charles? You look as though you've lost your last dollar."
"Worse than that, I'm afraid." I ran my fingers through my hair and barely restrained the trembling of my bottom lip. "It's my old friend, Ian Kidman. His wife has passed away. Cancer, you know. I think I told you about it." I gave her an anguished look. "He needs me. He really doesn't have anyone else."
"Then what are we waiting for?" She dragged me across to the kerb and flagged down a taxi. Bundling me in, she squeezed alongside and gave instructions to the driver. "La Gare du Nord. Rapidement."
As he pulled away, I heard a commotion behind us. Glancing back, I could see my waiter gesticulating wildly, giving full voice to all the imprecations at his command. It dawned on me that I hadn't paid the bill.
"That's the least of your worries, darling."
Helen put her arm around my shoulder and leaned in to give me a sympathetic kiss on the cheek. Suddenly, the events of the morning seemed unimportant. I was on a mission of my own choosing, supported by the woman I loved.
If Bamforth and Madame Durand had orchestrated this turn of events, they couldn't have come up with a better way of bringing the two of us back together. The fact that Helen was dropping everything to be by my side at this dark hour said more about her than any words. After all, she didn't even know Bisto. I found it remarkable that she should have been so wholly in tune with my feelings.
We arrived at the station half an hour before the next Eurostar departure but it wasn't until our train was well on its way to London that I broached the subject of Madame Durand's bizarre behaviour. Even then, I skirted around the subject tentatively while the attendant was pouring us each a glass of wine.
"I had an unexpected visit from Jeanne this morning after you left."
"After I stormed out, you mean."
"Yes. I suppose 'stormed' would be more accurate. That's twice in as many days that I've been drenched by you. If you're wondering what to buy me for Christmas, a hydrophobic shirt might be a good choice."
"What?"
"Hydrophobic. I read somewhere that there are shirts so tightly woven they repel liquids."
"Really? I'll bear that in mind. Talking of Christmas, what were you thinking of getting me?"
"Perhaps a misandrous yashmak? One that repels insensitive males."
Helen laughed. "No, I don't think so. You're not usually insensitive and I should hate to repel you at the wrong times."
"Easily fixed. You could always respond to my more sensitive moments by removing a veil."
She picked up her glass and made an extravagant gesture, as if to throw the contents over me. "You're incorrigible!"
I ducked and, in so doing, upset my own glass over my trousers. "Now look what you've made me do."
I leaped to my feet, then, seeing the look on her face, sat down again abruptly. The widening stain had drenched my inside leg, just below the crotch.
Scarcely able to get the words out through her hysterical laughter, she said, "I see you hang to the left, sir."
I picked up her glass and was about to douse her when the attendant tapped me on the shoulder. "I wouldn't advise that, monsieur. If you cause a disturbance, I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to leave the train." Under the circumstances, that seemed a Draconian punishment, since we were hurtling through the landscape at 300 kph.
I was about to sit down at his request when Helen suggested I might like to make use of the toilet facilities. "You could dab off the worst of the stain before it sets and use the hand dryer to get rid of the damp patch."
There was sense in what she said, so I excused myself and made my way down the corridor. It was a lengthy and painstaking process, but I was able to restore a semblance of propriety to my trousers. Eventually, I shuffled back out, murmuring my apologies.
The man at the head of the now lengthy queue pushed past me. "About bloody time, mate. We thought you'd died in there."
I returned to my seat, only to find that Helen had disappeared. All sorts of scenarios flitted through my mind, inspired by the series of unlikely events that had occurred over the past few days. Murder on the Orient Express? Extra-terrestrial abduction from the Eurostar? Whatever next?
However, I needn't have worried. She soon reappeared, bearing a half-bottle of wine and some sandwiches. "I thought these might help to restore your equilibrium," she said, with a smile.
"I know you are dying to tell me about Jeanne's visit and, yes, I did put her up to it. I thought it might teach you a lesson."
"Teach me a lesson?" I spluttered. "That was a real gun she stuck in my back, loaded with a real bullet. Some lesson."
Helen looked aghast. "I don't believe you. She'd never have done a thing like that."
'Well, she did, and it backfired. I spun round and dashed the gun from her hand. It went off when it hit the ground and, if you don't believe that, perhaps the shattered shower screen will convince you."
I felt sure that the look of shock on her face was genuine. I went on to tell her about the apartment being bugged. "I don't suppose you knew about that, either. These are dangerous, unscrupulous people we are dealing with. They want us to work together on some clandestine operation in the Hindu Kush."
"Working together? Now that's an appealing idea, and I would dearly love to return to the land of my birth and childhood." She paused and searched deep into my eyes for her answer. "I think we should work together, don't you? But on our terms, not on theirs."
This time, when we raised and clinked our glasses, not a drop was spilled.
 Recognized |
List of Characters
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's an intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris, recently assassinated by Charles Asserted to be leader of an ISIS network
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's an intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris, recently assassinated by Charles Asserted to be leader of an ISIS network
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. tfawcus All rights reserved. Registered copyright with FanStory.
tfawcus has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
