| General Fiction posted June 20, 2019 | Chapters: |
...66 67 -68- 69... 
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Chapter 68: A NIght to Remember
A chapter in the book The French Letter
Things Warm Up at Moonrakers
by tfawcus
| Background Charles and Helen, who are now working for MI6, have their trip to the Hindu Kush put on hold while they travel to England to support Charles's old friend, Bisto, in his hour of need. |
Chapter 68
Although Ian was effusive in his thanks for the help I'd given him, it didn't take long for me to realise he needed time alone, working through his grief without the distraction of others. Essentially a shy and private person, he didn't find it easy to fulfil the role of host. He might have coped better if I'd come without Helen. Her presence was adding an element of tension. I had noticed it in some of his snappish comments over the past twenty-four hours.
Since the funeral wasn't for another two days, I decided to take her across to Moonrakers for a short break. I knew that locals would pop in occasionally to see that Ian was all right. His next-door neighbour had already presented him with a basketful of precooked meals for the freezer, and I felt sure there would be an embarrassment of culinary gifts yet to come. He'd probably end up taking refuge on the river in his beloved boat.
Having reassured him that we were only a phone call away, I thought it best to set off that afternoon in my little green sports car. I needed to get the old girl out of his garage and take her back where she belonged. Before we set off for Pakistan, I would have to grease her, put her up on blocks, and disconnect her battery, but in the meantime I intended to show Helen something of the West Country.
I could sense her anticipation as she slid into the seat beside me, adjusted her flamboyant silk scarf and Gucci sunglasses, and waved a cheerful goodbye. I gunned the engine, spitting a spray of gravel across the lawn as we skidded down the driveway. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I saw Biggles cowering behind his master's legs and suddenly felt rather foolish, a middle-aged man in his second childhood. However, Helen's radiant smile as she clutched my thigh dispelled any such maudlin thoughts.
As we followed the meander of the Thames towards Reading, watery sunshine filtered through a fairy-tale canopy of amber and bronze, throwing a shadow-speckle across the bonnet of the car. We joined the M4 thirty miles west of Heathrow. High above us, a maze of condensation trails stood out against the blue, a chilling reminder of a world beyond the Cotswolds, a world filled with contrails of a different sort. I wondered whether one of the specks in the sky was winging its way home to Karachi under the aegis of the crescent moon. I felt a fluttering sensation in my stomach and shivered.
As I accelerated to motorway speed, I noticed Helen shivering, too. With the sun now lower in the sky, there was a distinct chill in the air. "There's a mohair rug behind the seat if you need it, or, if you like, I can pull over at the next junction and put the hood up."
"No, the rug will be fine. I'm used to the cold," she added.
I reached back and felt for it under the tonneau cover, swerving in the process and narrowly missing a delivery van in the nearside lane. Its driver thrust the middle finger of his right hand up with bestial vigour and leant on his horn. I didn't need to be a lip reader to understand the stream of invective accompanying his obscene gesture.
Helen giggled and blew him a kiss. "I bet he grunts when he does that in bed." I was taken aback by her remark. Her forthrightness still caught me off guard sometimes.
An hour later, we reached the Dodington Ash exit, and turned south onto the A46 towards Bath. Then, swinging left down a series of high-hedged lanes, we pulled up a few miles further on, in front of Moonrakers Cottage. I gingerly eased myself out of the seat and went around to open the door for Helen.
"What chivalry," she said, as I took her arm and helped her to her feet. Then, I leaned against the side of the car and did a couple of stretching exercises.
Helen looked amused. "What's all that about?"
"I'm feeling a bit stiff after the journey."
"Really? Sounds like my lucky day."
I pretended to ignore her.
"What a sweet little cottage. Is this really where you live?"
"Yes, really. Do you like it?"
"I absolutely adore it."
I showed her around the downstairs rooms with ill-concealed pride.
"Look, why don't you make a cup of tea while I put the car in the garage and get the fire going? Everything you need is in the kitchen. I'm sure you'll find your way around."
She pouted. "I'm not very good in kitchens. Why don't I put the car away while you light the fire?"
"All right," I said, little knowing how those two small words were about to alter my life. It didn't take me long to build a pile of kindling and place a few larger logs on top for when the flames caught.
After that, I headed straight for the kitchen to put the kettle on. A few minutes later, Helen came up behind, wrapped her arms around my waist and blew softly onto the back of my ear. "You haven't shown me upstairs yet. Come on, while the kettle's on the boil."
I allowed her to lead the way, following two steps behind, mesmerised by her swaying hips. She peered briefly into each room before pulling me into the bedroom and kissing me fiercely on the mouth. I pulled the door closed behind us.
Neither of us took the least notice of the frantic whistle of the electric kettle. It continued its warning screech for several seconds before the automatic shut-off silenced it. Half an hour later, there was a dull thud as a smouldering log rolled out of the fireplace, coming to rest against a nest of small cedar tables by the sofa.
Who knows how long it lay there before the first flickering tongues of flame started to take hold? After a few minutes, wisps of smoke crept under the bedroom door. Even that, initially, did nothing to disturb us.
Although Ian was effusive in his thanks for the help I'd given him, it didn't take long for me to realise he needed time alone, working through his grief without the distraction of others. Essentially a shy and private person, he didn't find it easy to fulfil the role of host. He might have coped better if I'd come without Helen. Her presence was adding an element of tension. I had noticed it in some of his snappish comments over the past twenty-four hours.
Since the funeral wasn't for another two days, I decided to take her across to Moonrakers for a short break. I knew that locals would pop in occasionally to see that Ian was all right. His next-door neighbour had already presented him with a basketful of precooked meals for the freezer, and I felt sure there would be an embarrassment of culinary gifts yet to come. He'd probably end up taking refuge on the river in his beloved boat.
Having reassured him that we were only a phone call away, I thought it best to set off that afternoon in my little green sports car. I needed to get the old girl out of his garage and take her back where she belonged. Before we set off for Pakistan, I would have to grease her, put her up on blocks, and disconnect her battery, but in the meantime I intended to show Helen something of the West Country.
I could sense her anticipation as she slid into the seat beside me, adjusted her flamboyant silk scarf and Gucci sunglasses, and waved a cheerful goodbye. I gunned the engine, spitting a spray of gravel across the lawn as we skidded down the driveway. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I saw Biggles cowering behind his master's legs and suddenly felt rather foolish, a middle-aged man in his second childhood. However, Helen's radiant smile as she clutched my thigh dispelled any such maudlin thoughts.
As we followed the meander of the Thames towards Reading, watery sunshine filtered through a fairy-tale canopy of amber and bronze, throwing a shadow-speckle across the bonnet of the car. We joined the M4 thirty miles west of Heathrow. High above us, a maze of condensation trails stood out against the blue, a chilling reminder of a world beyond the Cotswolds, a world filled with contrails of a different sort. I wondered whether one of the specks in the sky was winging its way home to Karachi under the aegis of the crescent moon. I felt a fluttering sensation in my stomach and shivered.
As I accelerated to motorway speed, I noticed Helen shivering, too. With the sun now lower in the sky, there was a distinct chill in the air. "There's a mohair rug behind the seat if you need it, or, if you like, I can pull over at the next junction and put the hood up."
"No, the rug will be fine. I'm used to the cold," she added.
I reached back and felt for it under the tonneau cover, swerving in the process and narrowly missing a delivery van in the nearside lane. Its driver thrust the middle finger of his right hand up with bestial vigour and leant on his horn. I didn't need to be a lip reader to understand the stream of invective accompanying his obscene gesture.
Helen giggled and blew him a kiss. "I bet he grunts when he does that in bed." I was taken aback by her remark. Her forthrightness still caught me off guard sometimes.
An hour later, we reached the Dodington Ash exit, and turned south onto the A46 towards Bath. Then, swinging left down a series of high-hedged lanes, we pulled up a few miles further on, in front of Moonrakers Cottage. I gingerly eased myself out of the seat and went around to open the door for Helen.
"What chivalry," she said, as I took her arm and helped her to her feet. Then, I leaned against the side of the car and did a couple of stretching exercises.
Helen looked amused. "What's all that about?"
"I'm feeling a bit stiff after the journey."
"Really? Sounds like my lucky day."
I pretended to ignore her.
"What a sweet little cottage. Is this really where you live?"
"Yes, really. Do you like it?"
"I absolutely adore it."
I showed her around the downstairs rooms with ill-concealed pride.
"Look, why don't you make a cup of tea while I put the car in the garage and get the fire going? Everything you need is in the kitchen. I'm sure you'll find your way around."
She pouted. "I'm not very good in kitchens. Why don't I put the car away while you light the fire?"
"All right," I said, little knowing how those two small words were about to alter my life. It didn't take me long to build a pile of kindling and place a few larger logs on top for when the flames caught.
After that, I headed straight for the kitchen to put the kettle on. A few minutes later, Helen came up behind, wrapped her arms around my waist and blew softly onto the back of my ear. "You haven't shown me upstairs yet. Come on, while the kettle's on the boil."
I allowed her to lead the way, following two steps behind, mesmerised by her swaying hips. She peered briefly into each room before pulling me into the bedroom and kissing me fiercely on the mouth. I pulled the door closed behind us.
Neither of us took the least notice of the frantic whistle of the electric kettle. It continued its warning screech for several seconds before the automatic shut-off silenced it. Half an hour later, there was a dull thud as a smouldering log rolled out of the fireplace, coming to rest against a nest of small cedar tables by the sofa.
Who knows how long it lay there before the first flickering tongues of flame started to take hold? After a few minutes, wisps of smoke crept under the bedroom door. Even that, initially, did nothing to disturb us.
 Recognized |
#267 2019 |
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
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