Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft (8 page)

He could now see why so many postcards on sale in the local shops were shots taken from the air. Seen from ground level much of the countryside was flat and uninteresting; from some three or four hundred metres up, the Golfe du Morbihan was a wonderful series of creeks and inlets and the land behind it a maze-like pattern of fields and stone walls. With a bit of luck he would have enough pictures to warrant a whole series of articles in
L’Escargot – Le Guide
’s staff magazine.

At first Leflaix came to see him from time to time, but gradually his visits became less frequent. He seemed more interested in the stewardess, who had joined the others on the flight-deck, peering over their shoulders at the view ahead.

Carnac appeared on the starboard side, coinciding with a break in the clouds. The sudden burst of sunshine made the rows of menhirs look like lines of Roman soldiers forming up to do battle. As they flew over, the shadow cast by the airship
seemed strange, almost threatening.

Having decided to save the rest of his film for the return journey, Monsieur Pamplemousse settled down at the table. Things had gone quiet in the cabin and it was time to start work.

Feeling inside his jacket he removed a long white envelope which bore, on the back flap, an embossed reproduction of
Le Guide’
s symbol – two crossed
escargots
rampant. It contained the letter the Director had given him before he left, outlining his own plans for the inaugural flight.

Knowing how long-winded the Director could be when he got his hands on a dictating machine, Monsieur Pamplemousse had put off reading it for as long as possible. The Director was inclined to write as he spoke; brevity was not his strong point.

He skipped the first two pages, which were mostly a repeat of all that had been said in his office the day before. It read as though he had been interrupted in mid-sentence by the telephone, not once, but several times. It wasn’t until the middle of page three that he got to the heart of the matter.

‘… in short, Pamplemousse, my suggestion, and it
is
only a suggestion, but a good one, I think, nonetheless, is that we should confine ourselves to no more than six courses; simple peasant dishes of the kind one might find in any little café or bistro in the area over which the dirigible will be flying. Dishes that reveal the true glory of France – its food. If there is sufficient time, we might even produce a special souvenir
carte
on the cover of which, inscribed in gold leaf, are those very words:
Les Six Gloires de la France.
Underneath one could add the symbol of
Le Guide;
two
escargots
rampant. There is no reason why we should not profit from the occasion.

‘Now, to start with, one might have some of those little pastry delicacies – their correct name escapes me – but they are stuffed with
foie gras
and served alongside raw oysters. The two go particularly well together, especially when accompanied by a glass of very cold Château d’Yquem – I
would suggest the ’66. You may if you wish, leave that to me. I have a particularly good source.

‘After that, how about some
Oeufs Pochés aux Moules
? Eggs poached in the juice in which some mussels have been cooked. I had it the other evening. The eggs and the mussels should be served with
Hollandaise
sauce. I am told that for the dish to be at its best the eggs should be as fresh as possible …’

Suddenly aware that a gust of wind was blowing them sideways, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked out of the window. They were now flying inland. It was hard to make out where they were. He peered at the scene through his binoculars and immediately wished he hadn’t. All he could see was endless fields of artichokes. They looked rather sad, as though they, too, felt they had seen the best of the day. He wondered when the Director had last eaten in a simple Breton bistro. The menu might also account for his being on a diet; a sad state of affairs for the editor of the most prestigious of France’s many food guides. It sounded as though he was mentally trying to make up for lost meals.

‘… lobster, of course – or a
Langouste
– perhaps
à la
crème,
followed by a roast duck from Nantes. As I am sure you know, it is at its best when cooked in a sauce made from butter, cream and
eau-de-vie de Muscadet.
I will leave the choice of wine to you.

‘By that time they should be over Normandy where cream really comes into its own. I believe
les Anglais
often prefer to have their cheese at the end of a meal – a habit they most certainly didn’t acquire from the Normans. However, ours is not to reason why. That being so, we could continue the theme of simplicity with some of those delicious tartlets made with eggs and almonds and cream which are a speciality of the area. I believe they are known as
Mirlitons
…’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had some difficulty focusing on the next page as the airship hit a pocket of air and fell rapidly before rising, nose-up again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the hostess buckling herself into a seat. He thought she
looked rather white.

‘… then, Pamplemousse …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse could almost sense from the writing – the way the letters were slanted, that the Director was about to produce one of his masterstrokes, ‘… then, Camembert should be served – preferably a non-pasteurised example from the Pays d’Ange. Although the season is almost over, I have a special reason for suggesting it rather than, say, a Pont-l’Evêque or a Brillat-Savarin. Legend has it that when Napoleon first tasted Camembert he kissed the waitress who had the honour of serving him. So, who knows? With the exercise of a little tact, one might arrange matters …

‘Once again, Pamplemousse, I leave it to your good judgement. You have so much more experience in these affairs than I.

‘To round things off, for by that time they should be on the last leg of their epic journey and nearing
Londres,
in deference to our English guests, I suggest that with the
café
we serve, instead of
petits fours
, one of their own specialities. There is one I am thinking of which they call “trifle”. I have looked it up in one of their recipe books – a slim volume – it was left behind by an English girl we had staying with us a few years ago. You may remember her – a blonde girl with a predilection for a dish called “Spotted Dick”. For some reason my wife took a dislike to her and she had to go, but she was something of an expert on what the English call “puddings”. I believe that before she left England for France she had been a member of a well-known pudding club.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes. He did indeed remember the Director’s
au pair,
Elsie had been her name. An unusually well-endowed girl, she had given a whole new meaning to the words
‘au pair’.
He wasn’t in the slightest bit surprised she had been told to leave. Puddings were probably not the only thing she was expert at.

‘It seems to be a concoction which is made by emptying the contents of a can of tinned fruit over what are known as “sponge-fingers”, which have themselves been previously
steeped in sherry. The whole is then immersed in something they call “bird’s custard”. I cannot imagine what that is, nor what it tastes like – I have enquired at
Fauchon
and they have promised to telephone me back, but they have yet to do so – however, it appears to be very popular. The dish is then topped by a layer of thick cream …

‘I am not sure what would go with it; the combination might prove altogether too rich, but if there is any of the Château d’Yquem left –’

The airship gave a lurch. Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt extremely sick. Several things were abundantly clear. Not only was the Director sadly out of touch with the eating habits of both the English and the peasants of Brittany, he had never been up in a balloon either. Speaking for himself, he had never felt less like eating in his life. The
crêpe
he’d consumed at breakfast had been a ghastly mistake; the
croissants
a cardinal error; as for the
chocolat
…

Regardless of the sign warning him to keep his seat-belt fastened, Monsieur Pamplemousse released the clip and staggered towards the rear of the airship. He beat the stewardess by a short head, but he pretended not to have seen her. Never had the word
TOILETTES
looked so welcoming, nor a basin coming up to greet him so inviting. Pushing the door shut behind him with his foot, he slid the catch home all in one movement. It was no time for old-fashioned gallantry, more a case of every
homme
for himself. Not the most engaging girl he had ever met. No doubt she was prone to headaches.

Like the sign on the bulkhead above the flight-deck, the word
OCCUPÉ
above the toilet door stayed illuminated for the rest of the flight. Monsieur Pamplemousse was not in a mood to receive other callers. His head was spinning. His stomach ached – it felt as though it had been wrenched out at the roots. He was alternately bathed in sweat and shivering with cold. He hadn’t felt quite so ill since the time just after the war when he’d crossed
La Manche
during mid-winter on a visit to England. Death would have come as a welcome relief. He wasn’t even aware they had landed until he heard a familiar
scratching noise on the other side of the door and realised that the engines had been turned off.

Pommes Frites’ relief at his master’s safe return was tempered with an understanding that all was not well. His welcome was suitably muted. In any case he seemed to have other things on his mind. Once he’d exchanged greetings and bestowed a welcoming lick, he disappeared outside again. There was a thoughtful expression on his face which, under normal circumstances, his master would have registered immediately and wondered at. As it was, Monsieur Pamplemousse still had problems of his own.

He began gathering up his belongings, some of which had fallen to the floor. Fortunately that didn’t include the Leica, which was still on the table where he had left it. The stewardess was nowhere to be seen. She must have beaten Pommes Frites to the steps.

‘Sorry about that.’ Commander Winters climbed out of his seat. ‘We wouldn’t normally have gone up on a day like today, but your boss was most insistent when I telephoned him this morning to try and call it off. He said it was absolute top priority. Nothing must stop us. I hope you got what you wanted.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had a mental picture of the Director sitting in his office, totally oblivious to the plight of others. He made a mental note to get his own back one day should the opportunity arise.

‘Er, I wonder if you’d mind doing something about your dog? I think he is about to attack one of our chaps.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse joined Commander Winters at the cabin door and was staggered to see Pommes Frites at the foot of the steps, fangs bared, apparently engaged in a tug-of-war with one of the ground staff over a bag of ballast. The man appeared petrified, as well he might in the circumstances. When he felt like it, Pommes Frites could look extremely menacing. His plaster had disappeared and he was positively quivering with excitement as he dug his paws into the ground, absolutely refusing to let go of his end. The accompanying
sound effects boded ill for anyone rash enough to try and thwart him.

‘
Sacrebleu
!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse clambered down the steps as fast as he could go. ‘
Asseyez-vous
!’ The command, rapped out with all the authority he could muster, had an immediate effect.

Looking suitably ashamed, Pommes Frites let go of his end and sat to attention. If a flicker of surprise entered his eyes that his master should take the other man’s part, it was only momentary. He was too well trained to protest out loud.

‘Never mind. I expect he’s glad to see you back.’ Commander Winters stifled Monsieur Pamplemousse’s apologies. ‘Who’s a good boy, then?’ He bent down to pat Pommes Frites and then thought better of it. Instead, he picked up the bag. ‘Perhaps you’d like to keep this as a souvenir?’

‘
Merci
– you are very kind.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse would have been hard put to think of anything he wanted less as a souvenir than a ten kilogram bag of ballast. He tried to look suitably grateful as he took it, but he could see why the Commander had made the gesture. It was wet from Pommes Frites’ saliva.

Leflaix clattered down the steps, his expression grieved. Perhaps he felt disappointed at having been let down by a fellow-countryman.

‘You should always face the airship as you leave,’ he reminded Pamplemousse stiffly. ‘Otherwise it may take you by surprise.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. It was mid-day. They had been up for less than an hour, but it could have been ten times as long. The last twenty minutes had seemed like forever. He said goodbye to the others and made his way unsteadily towards his car.

Throwing the bag in the back of the car, he started the engine and drove off.

‘Don’t forget to face the airship!’ The words were permanently engraved on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind as he acknowledged the salute from the man on duty at the gate and
headed back towards Port St. Augustin. At that moment in time he felt as though he never wanted to look an airship in the face again. All he wanted to do was lie down somewhere and rest. But the grass at the side of the road looked damp and uninviting and the prospect of going back to the Ty Coz was not a happy one.

After a kilometre or so he opened the window to let in a welcome draught of cold air and almost at once started to feel better. He wondered if he should try his luck at the Hôtel du Port. A
digestif
of some kind might help, and if that did the trick, in the fullness of time he might even attempt an omelette; plain, of course, but with a
salade de tomates
and a slice or two of
baguette.
After that, he could explore the possibility of their having a room vacant. Whoever said ‘man cannot think on an empty stomach’ had a point. One way and another he had a lot to brood over.