Paris At Last

5

Paris At Last

May 7 Not. (Actually October.) Paris! Back at last! Already a slight autumnal nip in the air in the early morning, the leaves of the street trees turning, Oncle Albert genially promising oysters on the menu very soon (i.e. when the price had come down after the excitement not to say racketeering of the first few deliveries), Tante Louise’s unbeatable tarte Tatin, and the pure pleasure of being able to pop down to the laiterie and buy a fresh goats’ cheese.

    “But mon chéri, didn’t you have it down at the château?”

    No, we didn’t. The cowman’s wife makes a fresh cheese but it’s not the same, by any means. Tasteless, in comparison. Yes, the village laiterie does supply fromage de chèvre, and in fact the goats’ milk comes from one of the Château LeBec’s tenant farmers, but of course Grannie wouldn’t let us shop there.

    Horrified reaction from the aunts. “Not even with your masks on?”

    No. Not merely because of the pandemic: she’d taken one of her unreasonable dislikes to the woman who runs the shop, I explained heavily.

    Hands thrown up in despair, eyes rolled to High Heaven…

    Just like her! Quite. Also: one might have expected it, the woman was mad! Exactly.

    “Never mind, mon chou, you’re in Paris now,” said Tante Louise comfortingly.

    I sighed deeply. “Yes. I thought it’d never happen. It was even worse than being at school in England.”

    Naturally this struck a chord. “O, là, là! La pauvre!” Et tout et tout.

    Which wasn’t at all bad: it was very nice to have some sympathy from the elders of the tribe for a change.

    Only unfortunately it led on to consternation about poor little Tommy. I did try to point out that he was a human beanpole these days, the word “little” scarcely applied, he’d probably overtop the Bean before long, but it fell on deaf ears and the lamentations went on, escalating into a proposal to send him what I believe was called a Food Parcel in Britain during the War. But further consternation arose: would that madman (worse in French) Boris Johnson let it in? And when would a parcel arrive by post? Because of the pandemic the lorries for Britain were lined up for kilometres at Calais waiting to cross, and then it would have to go to some central depot to be sorted…

    Old Great-Uncle Maurice brilliantly suggested sending the parcel by Colas’s dad, Eugène, who could take it straight to the school. He could shove it up above his head in the space where the long-distance drivers kept their kit and often slept, the Douane never bothered to look there unless they’d been specially tipped off: all they were interested in these days was whether the lorry was trying to smuggle illegal immigrants into Britain, poor things.

    A demarcation dispute then arose between Tante Louise and Tante Thérèse over what to send, it being pointed out forcibly in the course of it that it was the former who cooks, so it was her decision. Acidly her sister retorted that anything like a fruit tarte would (a) go off before Eugène could get it over there and (b) get squashed. With an unnecessary but pithy addendum to the effect that that applied whether it was an upside-down one or not. Oh, Lor’. Likewise any pâté, Louise! On which she stalked out.

    Tante Louise was very red. “My pâté de campagne will not go off!”

    Er… in a super-heated lorry cab? ’Cos I did happen to know that the good-natured Eugène drove in his shirt-sleeves or a short-sleeved jersey-knit shirt of the sporting variety. With or without the name of a football club on it.

    Not unexpectedly Oncle Albert eventually had to adjudicate. Only tins or jars would be best. No, we can’t ask Eugène to keep his cab at cellar temperature just for a garlic sausage, Louise. Confiture de mirabelles? For once Oncle Albert appeared disconcerted. Yes, it should be okay but altho they of course were much nicer than other plums… Well—perceiving that discretion was the better part of V., here—if she thought so.

    The amount then assembled on the restaurant’s huge old kitchen table would have fed a family of four for a week. Old Great-Uncle Alphonse informed her roundly she was bats. (Worse in French.) Old Great-Uncle Maurice seconded him. Oops.

    Luckily for the plan Eugène was in Paris at the end of his run. Appealed to by the very flushed Louise he scratched his head dubiously. He could manage one carton.

    Well that useful word “ructions” once supplied by Bean Minor himself probably covered it. But finally it was settled and the bulging carton was safely stowed away.

    Eugène leaned out of his window, grinning. “Where is this Marbledown School, anyway?”

    Old Oncle Alphonse with his pipe—banned from the kitchen by Tante Louise—was outside in the Passage Jacob supervising. He removed the pipe, snorted richly, and replaced it.

    “Stop being funny and just go, Eugène!” snapped Tante Louise from the doorway.

    “Uh—no, I really don’t know where it is, Tante Louise,” he said weakly.

    Hopeless! Just to be expected from someone who’d been silly enough to marry that Francine— Et tout et tout.

    Meanwhile Mireille was quietly googling it. She handed the result up to him.

    “Thanks,” he said, grinning again. “Now what? Do I hang onto this all the way? I’ve got to go up to Scotland afterwards, remember, and then over to, eugh, quelquepart en Hollande,” he ended on a weak note.

    Tante Louise at this produced a rude noise and the aged great-uncle once again removed the pipe to snort.

    “Well I do,” he said weakly. “It’s a deal between a cheese producer and ce mec écossais… Never mind.”

    “Your regular route, sans doute,” noted the aunt acidly. –She isn’t usually acid but the argument with her sister had thrown her off-balance. Not to say her brother vetoing three-quarters of the stuff she’d put out for Bean Minor.

    Meekly Mireille explained: “I just googled ‘Marbledown School près de Brighton, Angleterre,’ Eugène.”

    “If you say so.” He tried it on his own phone. Gee, it worked.

    “If that’s what these newfangled pieces of electronic junk can do,” noted Oncle Alphonse, once more removing the pipe and this time staring up at the sky, “why didn’t he try it before, the cretin?”

    “Never mind,” I said quickly, as Tante Louise was opening her mouth to give the obvious answer. “It’s very good of him to bother, and Marbledown isn’t on his direct route, by any means. –Thanks very much, Eugène!”

    He winked. “Anything for you, ma belle!” And with that he revved up and backed out, looking very pleased with himself.

    “Cheeky devil,” noted Tante Louise grimly. “Ignore him, my dear.”

    Well maybe. There could be advantages to getting on the right side, so to speak, of a not-bad-looking lorry driver who has a regular run over to Britain.

    “Well I’m very grateful to him,” I said mildly. “And Tommy will be thrilled to get the parcel: thanks so much, Tante Louise!”

    And with that we all adjourned to the kitchen and got on with it. Whatever it was. Not all culinary-related, no. Tante Thérèse is a qualified jeweller and sometimes can use a certain amount of unqualified assistance in the matter of unstringing or dismantling, so to speak.

May 12 Not. So life resumed the even tenor of its whatsit in the jolly old Passage Jacob. It was pretty much business as usual, with the family occupying the upstairs flats but spending most of their time downstairs, and the big main door to the building, which only gives access to the flats, not being used much as of course there’s a back staircase, accessed via the kitchen. But in spite of the loud declarations to the effect that of course we were useful, Mireille and I felt that we really should be out in the workforce. True, as the weather got colder more regulations came into force about face masks—all the primary school children now having to wear them was, according to old Oncle Maurice, indicative. And the stricter rules about unvaccinated persons having to have had tests within twenty-four hours of turning up at places where health passes were mandatory—which places?—succeeded in completely confusing us all. What if you were vaccinated? Er... um, bring your health pass? Safer not to go anywhere, if there were so many unvaccinated idiots wandering about that they had to pass a new regulation! the aunts and uncles declared unanimously.

    And Oncle Albert pointed out that he was enforcing the health pass requirement anyway, no unvaccinated idiot was going to set foot in the resto and if that Gabriel Léger thought he was going to sit outside and breathe all over whoever had to serve him he had another think coming!

    The said G. Léger was not bright and according to report had got much worse since his mother died (some five years back) and probably didn’t understand that he had to be vaccinated, whereas if she’d lived his mother would undoubtedly have dragged him off to get a jab. However nobody argued, not even Jean-Louis, who knowing that poor Gabriel was almost illiterate had convinced him that he had to tip on top of the bill, whereas it was in fact service compris.

    So next time he turned up Oncle Albert in person, mask firmly in place, marched out and told him in no uncertain terms that unless he had “the paper” to prove he’d had an anti-COVID vaccination he wouldn’t get served and if he didn’t remove his person immediately from the premises the cops would be called. I don’t think anything short of Armageddon would force Oncle Albert to call the cops but poor old Gabriel believed him and slunk off. Oh dear.

    “Better than infecting everyone,” stated the uncle grimly.

    Well yes, but…

    “It’s the times we live in, Mel,” he added tightly.

    Alas, yes, it was.

    And altho the vaccination rules were being enforced so firmly, things didn’t immediately look as if they were getting better. In December the Omicron variant of the virus reached France (whatever it was, yes, Oncle Maurice), and then all nightclubs were ordered to close. Well Oncle Albert’s had only been doing a desultory business with half its usual complement of staff, and no half-clad girl wriggling on the tiny stage, and not bringing in very much at all, but still.

    Never mind, mes enfants, the uncle declared on a rallying note, it couldn’t last forever and then he would be in touch with Carter Bachelier in America again, and as soon as he rounded up some backers the plan to rejuvenate both the clubs, the one here and the one in London, would go ahead! And yes, it was definite, they would adopt Egg’s idea of calling the French one “The Club” and the English one “Le Club” and the would-be trendy sets would flock to them in droves!

    Well I called the Egg on Skype to report and he grinned like anything and said: “Good show! And by the time we get the All Clear Crumpy and I should have finished our courses and be all ready to go!”

    Okay, we’d do our best to look forward to that, then.

    Bean and Mireille had both been sharing the call. “He didn’t say anything about the Junior Drones coming over for Christmas this year,” noted Mireille sadly as we rang off.

    “No, well, Crumpy’s dad won’t let him: he’s still keeping him in cotton wool,” said the Bean heavily.

    “But aren’t they in London now, Bean?” she groped.

    “Yes. In cotton wool in London. Allowed out for short walks, kind of thing. And last time Crumpy emailed me he said that altho Mr Lamont does let Alysse visit them she has to wear a mask all the time.”

    We knew that she was allowed to visit—she sat her exams at the time we sat ours, passed magnificently with a First, unlike us, and has now embarked on a Ph.D. from UCL. She does her own research for that, of course, so unless she needs the library she can study “remotely”. Luckily she has an aunty who lives in London, so she’s staying with her, but it’s not a posh area and Mr Lamont is convinced that (a) the proletariat is more likely to spread the virus than the privileged (untrue, as far as we can see: it’s not the poorer classes who drive anywhere they please in their Rollers and Bentleys and take holidays slash hold parties regardless of what regs. might be in force at the time) and (b) the risk of catching COVID is multiplied exponentially if there are three not two concerned (a statistic which came from God-Knows-Where, like the rest of the rubbish circulating out there on the social media). The latter point also explaining why he didn’t ask her to stay with them as poor Crumpy wanted. Well Mr L.’s intentions are good, but isn’t the way to the Hot Place paved with them?

    “A mask all the time?” gasped Mireille in horror. “You mean poor Crumpy can’t even kiss her?”

    “Got it in fourteen, Auxiliary Hon. Junior Drone,” the Bean replied sourly.

    “Help,” I muttered. “And I suppose Carrie-Ann is still banned?”

    “You suppose correctly, Sister Bean.”

    Help, again. Carrie-Ann also sat her exams and triumphed to cheers all round with a First, tho not in Classics, in PPE (what that actually entailed not clear), and landed that position in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office she was aiming at! Doing what, unclear. But she is in London, also with Alysse’s aunty, who was very pleased to get the extra board, but of course this means FCO germs, doesn’t it? And to add to his other convictions Mr Lamont doesn’t trust anyone from that particular haunt of Establishment Right-Thinking. Well not wrong in that, we all privily agreed, but it was what Carrie-Ann wanted and considering that her background is entirely ordinary and altho pretty she isn’t spectacularly good-looking or spectacularly good-looking and Black, which would abso-bally-lutely have ensured her a place, she did jolly well.

May 16 Not. By mid-December the only new thing of note, possibly not the expression, that had happened was a very confusing edict about those who hadn’t had boosters, but it was eventually worked out that that only applied to over sixty-fives or, um, people who’d had a different sort of vaccine…? Bother. Bean and Oncle Albert both spent ages crouched over their laptops and finally concluded that none of it applied to us because we were all recently boosted (if that’s the way to put it), even those over sixty-five. No, Oncle Maurice, you don’t have to rush off and get another shot. No, Oncle Alphonse, you had your booster, remember? And in future everyone was to Keep A Record of what shots they’d had and when. Okay. Yes, sure. (Maybe.) Also: When in God’s name was it going to be over? And: didn’t the Spanish Flu just go away? Not helpful, really, but half the quartier was saying it, so… Mm.

    With Bean Minor’s Christmas break coming up there was of course the usual problem of how to get him over here safely. Tho, true, he wasn’t helpless, he was seventeen now: he could doubtless manage the transport facilities by himself. It meant catching the train to London and transferring to whatever. Oncle Albert (firmly) would buy him a train ticket to Paris, we didn’t want him caught in the crowds at the airports. Well great, that took care of that, and Bean Minor adored the train.

    But what about the gap between the local train’s arrival in London and the non-connecting time at which the Eurostar left the astounding, hard-to-believe-one’s-eyes St Pancras Station?

    This posed a certain problem. John Raice was incommunicado, gone off God-knew-where. Crumpy and Mr Lamont had gone down to the country early—the streets were too crowded with presumably germy Christmas shoppers. And Uncle Flossie had long since shaken the dust of the metropolis, not to say resigned from the Party, fed up with Boris Johnson’s mixture of, as he put it, “procrastination, shenanigans and just plain lies.” Staying with Alysse and Carrie-Ann was a possibility but the aunty’s place was miles out in the suburbs: it’d be horribly easy to miss the train, struggling across London. There were LeBec relations in London but we knew that none of them had room, their flats were really cramped.

    Bean coughed. “There is one other option. What do you think, Mel? He has got a key.”

    I sighed. “Where is she?”

    He shrugged. “Still in Guadeloupe, as far as I know.”

    “Your maman?” croaked Oncle Albert. “But it’s been two years!”

    This was true. She’d gone out on a combined luxurious holiday and Nature Photography venture (the lot to be written off as business expenses, without any doubt whatsoever), and simply stayed on when the pandemic struck. The initial luxurious hotel had given way to taking over the equally luxurious holiday home belonging to some distant cousins on the French side. Well that was what we heard back in… Crumbs: May 2020.

    Bean had conscientiously rung her a couple of times since then—on the grounds, I think, that she was still Bean Minor’s mother, never mind she’d signed over his guardianship to him. Incidentally her unfortunate Sidekick, Trisha, was also out there, having been ordered to accompany her to take notes—lending verisimilitude to the business trip story, yes. Well at least it was keeping poor downtrodden, meek Trisha safe.

    “Does Patrizia still even own the flat, mes enfants?” the uncle then croaked.

    “Yes—well she owns the ninety-nine-year lease. It’s still got about fifty years to run,” replied the Bean on a grim note. “She conned it out of one of her rich ancient admirers. When he popped off the wife tried to wrench it back but unfortunately for her it was watertight, in Mum’s name.”

    “Well I think you’d better ring her, just in case she’s decided to cash it in, Michael,” said Oncle Albert on a weak note.

    Sighing, the Bean produced his mobile. He put it on speaker-phone, so we all got the lot.

    “Darling!” she shrieked in her usual fashion. “Where are you? It seems an age! Trisha and I are still incarcerated here: the local Blacks totally hopeless, darling, incapable of pulling the finger out! All this rule from Paris stuff is ludicrously incompetent, and naturally the bureaucrats here are all jumped-up Little Hitlers, the French ones just as bad as the Blacks, and the health service is pathetic! Trisha and I are totally shut down and I said to Simone, ‘If you want to be paid, you’ll wear a fresh mask every day and not dare to take it off at all, and tell the damned shops to deliver, God knows we pay them enough!’ My God, I thought old Marthe was obstinate enough, but the woman’s like a bloody cow or something! One expects her to say ‘moo’ at any moment, she barely takes in a word one says to her! Mind you, there’s a sort of tropical frozen mousse thing she does that’s out of this world, but really! Service it is not, and I rang Jeanne and told her so in no uncertain terms!”

    Since even she had to pause for breath at this point, the Bean said loudly: “Mel and I are in Paris with Oncle Albert, Mum, and Tommy’s still at school. Can he stay at the flat when he comes up to London to catch the train, or have you sold it?”

    “Sell an asset like that in central London? My dear boy, you must be raving! I’d never find anything as handy, and it may have its drawbacks but at least it’s roomy! Would you believe Jimmy Hartington-Pyke was trying to persuade me to move in with him just before I left? In that poky little dump of his? ‘My dear,’ I said to him, ‘you will absolutely have to do better: there is no way I could envisage myself in a hutch!’ –Did you say Tommy’s coming up to London by himself? Really, Michael! That won’t do!”

    “Mum, he’s seventeen. He’ll be leaving School next year,” said the Bean heavily.

    “What? Nonsense, dear boy!”

    “YES! You’ve been in bloody Guadeloupe for TWO YEARS!” he shouted, losing it, alas.

    “Oh good God,” she said, but not sounding particularly disconcerted. “Well time does fly. What was it you wanted, dear?”

    Bean took a deep breath. “Can Tommy stay at the flat overnight, Mum?”

    “Of course. Tho isn’t it winter over there? Trisha seems to think the natives are getting ready to celebrate Christmas, so I suppose it must be. The heating won’t be on.”

    “Isn’t it centrally controlled— Never mind. He’ll manage, it’s only for one night.”

    “Of course.” She then broke off in order to scream at someone in French. Possibly a gardener, or someone carrying a pot plant? Unclear.

    “One can’t do anything with these people,” she resumed. “How can one get a decent shot of the bloody thing when it’s stuck out there in the middle of a bush?”—Okay, she was uprooting the native flora in the name of Nature Photography. It would not be the first time and doubtless not the last.—“Darling, the new book’s coming along splendidly, lots of divine shots, it’ll be a best-seller and I’ve already had two enquiries from production companies about filming here next year! Lovely to hear from you, dear boy—Pas ça, imbécile! TRISHA! DO something, for God’s sake, he’s doing it all wrong! —Must rush, darling, the natives are hopeless! Hugs!”

    Oncle Albert looked at us limply as the air tingled with sudden silence.

    “She’s like that,” I said heavily.

    He tried to smile. “Well yes, mon chéri, she always was.”

May 21 Not. Continuing straight on: Mireille hadn’t been exposed to the full blast before: she was looking at us in sympathetic horror.

    “At least it’s sorted out Tommy’s accommodation problem,” said the Bean with a sigh.

    “Mon chéri, if you’d like to go over to collect him—” began Oncle Albert.

    “No,” he said, going very red. “Thanks awfully, Oncle Albert, but it’d be a waste of money. He’s perfectly capable. The Eurostar gets in at the Gare du Nord, doesn’t it? We can easily pop up there to meet him.”

    Of course! And le beauf’ de Michel would take us up there in his taxi and wait for us and bring us back!

    This gentleman does have a name but is always referred to in the family as “le beauf’ de Michel.” Michel is married to a LeBec daughter but obviously le beauf’ is not on that side, he’s Michel’s sister’s husband. At the moment he and his family are sharing a small flat in the quartier with his old grandma. With the three kids it’s rather full but after all the old girl can’t last forever. Tho it is getting rather tarsome having to turn the sitting-room into a dormitory every night. And back again every morning. The taxi occupies a corner of the vast garage spaces at the end of the Passage Jacob which are, of course, owned by Oncle Albert.

    Well it would be lovely to see Bean Minor again. Something to look forward to.

    … Tho not entirely an antidote to the sour grudging sort of feeling that came over me whenever I tried not to think about Colonel John Raice. I’d rung his mobile number several times. Guess what I got?

    “Not here at the moment, sorry. Email me and I’ll try to get back to you.”

    And guess what his blasted email said in automatic reply?

    “Sorry but I can’t get back to you just now. All well. J.R.” –I knew it was automatic because I’d tried it three times and it never varied.

    After I’d got very upset and complained bitterly to my unfortunate sibling, good old Bean had tried John’s office email, which he’d only been given in case there was an emergency, e.g. with Bean Minor. Guess what it said?

    Right: “Colonel Raice is out of the office at present.”

    At that point steam started to come out of my ears and I had to go for A Very Long Walk all the way up the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis—well past the Gare du Nord—in order to cool off. By the time I’d staggered all the way down again—unfortunately the result of going for long walks—I was at least no longer steaming. And allowed old Oncle Alphonse to administer a slug of his special eau de vie de mirabelles. Phew! Well it’d kill any germs that were lurking in my system, whatever it might or might not do for the emotions.

    … And no, the dashed man had not contacted me to say “I’m off now” before he went. Well bother!

May 23 Not. The exciting day came, Mireille, Bean, Colas and I piled into le taxi du beauf’ de Michel, and drove the quite short distance up to the big station. The train pulled in and there he was, grinning like anything. My God, he’d grown even in one term! He was looking very worldly and greeted me with: “What-ho, Little Mel!”

    Sigh. It was hardly my fault that my genes had dictated I be female and short whereas his and Bean’s… Oh well. They’re all like that. It merely shows more on some.

    And with hugs and kisses all round and on my part an effort not to interrogate him as to why he’d only brought a small zippered bag with him and where was his school uniform, we crammed into the taxi and duly negotiated the Paris traffic at the usual death-defying speed achieved by le beauf’, possibly a Formula One driver manqué, and Bean Minor was then completely swamped by the aunts.

    One could say he had his revenge, because when his hold-all was forcibly taken off him and opened by Tante Louise, it proved to contain a change of socks and underwear plus a carefully-wrapped very special potted cactus for Colas!

    The aunts were speechless, tho alas, not for long.

    When the noise had died down Bean Minor just said calmly that he’d borrow off Bean.

    The noise broke out again. Words like “irresponsible” were heard… And had he even thought to bring a Christmas present for his sister?

    “Yes, of course I did.” He dug in the pockets of his sagging anorak and sagging many-pocketed trousers—where on earth had they come from? I didn’t recall seeing them before—and produced flat packages in bright Christmas wrappings. They looked like paperback books. There was one for me, one for Mireille and one for Bean, not to be opened till Christmas Day.

    “Even tho Colas has got his cactus now?” I ventured.

    “Don’t be silly,” the minor legume replied repressively.

    So we waited until the witching hour…

    The French contingent were rather surprised when Bean and I burst out laughing on unwrapping our flat book-like gifts and Mireille, after trying not to, followed suit. Bean Minor had found three ancient paperback P.G. Wodehouse vols.! Yes, in Brighton, but not in that dashed useless antiquarian bookshop, Bean: in a junk shop. He’d gone in because it had had a little picture in the window that he thought Tante Louise might like, and found a whole clutch of old books. These were the best, tho!

    The little picture in Q. was an oval-framed cheap reproduction of Gainsborough’s Blue Boy, but sure enough, Tante Louise was thrilled. And since Tante Thérèse was into jewellery— We quailed; she is, after all, a qualified craftsperson. But it turned out to be another little picture, again barely more than miniature size: he didn’t know who the artist was but the lady was wearing a very interesting pendant. She certainly was: it was, Tante Thérèse thought, a beautiful piece of seventeenth-century work—awarding him a round of smacking kisses on the strength of it. Oncle Albert’s present was less exciting, or I thought so, but he was very pleased: a little folder with small screwdrivers and, um, tool-like objects in it. Old Oncle Alphonse got a very good brand of English pipe tobacco (which couldn’t be worse than the compost he usually smokes), while Oncle Maurice, who follows the gee-gees, scored a keyring with a small not-silver horseshoe dangling from it. Which went down terrifically well, especially since Colas had given him a tie with horseshoes all over it! Next year he would definitely go to the Arc de Triomphe! the old man declared. Er—yes. Not the monument, the race.

May 25 Not. Carrying straight on: Of course Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without the feast, and naturally the aunts and Oncle Albert had pulled out all the stops. The family ate in the resto itself, tables pushed together, groaning under the weight of You-Name-It. Tante Louise’s bombe (chocolate and pineapple, one inside the other) was a triumph but possibly Oncle Albert’s pair of roast geese was the most startling offering. Well yes, there was a crowd of us, but— Okay, the poulterer had owed him one, ’nuff said. Both Colas and Bean Minor achieved that shiny, bloated look, and frankly the old great-uncles weren’t far behind. And the Château LeBec suppled sub rosa by Oncle Patrice flowed like water. He phoned us himself in the afternoon, informing us in hushed tones that “they” were lying down. Oh, dear. Poor darling little man. If only we could have brought him with us!

    The very nicest thing about the whole day was, in my opinion, Colas’s new cactus being allowed pride of place in the middle of the festive board! Even tho he was nearly eighteen, as he hadn’t failed to remind us several times (slight exagg., but almost nearly), he beamed like a three-year-old over it, oh dear! What a contrast to Christmas under Grannie’s roof, with all the denizens of the spiky realm banished to our common room.

    Added to which there were no recriminations of any sort whatsoever.

    So why I ended up blubbing—

    Poor Mireille discovered me in my room at bedtime with the tears dripping down my cheeks. “Mel! What’s the matter?”

    “I can’t—get hold—of John!” I gulped. “And I don’t know if he’s—dead or alive!”

    “I’m sure he’s all right,” she said, putting an arm round me comfortingly. “He did say he’d be out of touch for a while, didn’t he?”

    “Mm. Something like that,” I sniffled in agreement.

    “Well there you are, then. There’s nothing to worry about.”

    There was everything to worry about, but I didn’t argue, I just looked gloomily at my reflection in the mirror and said: “And I’ve eaten far too much. I swore I wouldn’t, after all the weight I put on down at the château.”

    “Not that much,” she replied firmly. “And Marthe said it’s perfectly natural for a young woman to fill out at your age.”

    Yes, well, all very well for Mireille to say so, she hadn’t gone up two bra sizes! I blew my nose and got out the tape measure to demonstrate.

    “See?”

    “Um, yes, but it’s only natural, Mel, I’m sure Marthe is right. And, um, I don’t think John will object!” she added with a nervous giggle.

    Maybe. If he ever got to see them. But I smiled reluctantly and admitted: “He is a bit like that.”

    “There you are, then!” she beamed.

    Yes, well. But I did feel a bit better. And in spite of intentions fell asleep almost at once instead of lying awake brooding.

    Next morning, tho, I didn’t have a croissant with my grand bol de café au lait. I mean, one has to draw a line somewhere. And two bra sizes is enough.

Next chapter:

https://theeggandfriendscomethrough-anovel.blogspot.com/2026/04/footloose-in-paris.html