Out of control (3 page)

“Pierre,” I said, raising my glass to him, “Your health. Thanks again for inviting me over here.”

“It’s my pleasure, Bob” he replied. “What’s the point of having a place like this if you can’t share it and who better to share it with than family?”

He raised his glass to me in return.

I was part of Pierre’s recently acquired family. He had only come into my life a few months before. I had been quietly getting used to widowhood and retirement in Letham, my home village in Scotland, when he had turned up out of the blue on my doorstep and informed me that he believed we were half-brothers.

Apparently during the war, when my father had been in France for a short time liaising with the French Resistance, he had had an affair with a French girl and, after he had returned home, she had discovered she was pregnant. She had known that Dad was engaged to a girl back in Scotland and had kept the information to herself.

Dad had never known about it, and Pierre had been brought up like many other children in France at the time knowing only that his father had been a Scottish officer and he had ‘gone away’.

Fortunately for us both, after his mother had died, he had decided to try to trace back his roots. His possession of an identical photograph of Dad in uniform had convinced us – me, my sister Heather and younger brother Mike – that the whole story was true.

Over his life time Pierre had built up a highly successful IT company but, nearing seventy, he had decided to sell out – for several tens of million euros - and enjoy the rest of his life. His decision to dig into his father’s history had resulted in him acquiring a family which he had never known.

The ‘place like this’ was a magnificent five bedroom villa, which I guessed to be about a hundred and fifty years old and which must originally have been built by a very wealthy Swiss. Pierre had bought it a year ago from the estate of the old lady who had lived in it all her life but whose heirs couldn’t afford to take it on. It had needed extensive renovation and even then would be expensive in upkeep. That, however, was not a problem for my half-brother.

“More or less recovered from your ailments?” Pierre asked solicitously.

“Yes, thanks.”

“Judicious nursing?” he asked with a smile.

I took another sip of my champagne thinking back over the events of the last few months.

Pierre’s arrival on the scene had led to more than just the addition of a half-brother to the family. We had all had become involved in the unmasking of a fraud at an asset management firm in Edinburgh, which had turned out to be dangerous for me and had resulted in a well- known local businessman ending up being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. It had also resulted in an attempt to dispose of me and in Maggie coming into my life.

It was the successful resolution of that which had prompted Pierre to invite me over to Geneva.

I smiled back. “Yes. It’s a pity Maggie couldn’t have come out but she really had to stay and look after the hotel. This is right in the middle of her busiest three months. She gets full bookings of hikers at this time of year, all eager to bag a few more Munros to their collection.”

“What’s a Munro?” asked Pierre.

I grinned at him. ”You can tell you’re not a real Scot. You’ve got some catching up to do on our culture. A Munro is a peak in Scotland which is at least three thousand feet above sea-level. There are two hundred and ninety three of them. Keen climbers like to boast of the number of Munros they’ve climbed. Mike has done twenty eight at the last count.

Pierre thought about this for a moment.

“So people collect mountain tops, do they?”

“Sure.

“And Mike’s got the collector’s instinct. Like the photographs of his conquests at home!”

“For God’s sake don’t tell him I told you about that and don’t mention them to Sophie.”

Sophie was an old friend of Pierre’s who worked as an IT consultant and had been instrumental in helping us in the AIM affair. In the process she had met Mike and seemed to have put an end to his bachelor existence. They were back in Scotland climbing.

“All I can say is that if he’s got any sense he’ll stop his collection now,” said Pierre with a grin.

Our bottle was soon empty and Pierre got up and disappeared into the house, coming back a few minutes later with a new one. As he proceeded to uncork it he said to me, “Bob, how would you like to do a little travelling – just you and me?”

“What do you mean? I’ve only been here two days.”

“I know but I’m feeling a bit restless. You showed me around Scotland when I was over. I’d like to show you a bit of France. You’ve got golf courses but we have vineyards. I could do with replenishing my stock. And there’s someone I’d like to look up who lives in the Loire valley. How about three or four days touring?”

“Fine by me,” I replied. The idea of discovering more of France and sampling a few wines appealed. So it was decided and we set off the next morning, planning to be away for three nights.

My only previous experience of France had been summer holidays in Brittany when Callum was a boy. Liz and I had been young and enthralled by the totally different culture – and also the food, the wine, and the weather. They had been good holidays but with a young boy in tow there hadn’t been much opportunity to explore. I was looking forward to being shown around by a native.

We took the magnificent motorway from Geneva towards Bourg en Bresse. It had been carved through the mountains – tunnels and viaducts and mountain lakes visible below us – and then drove up into the Beaujolais. The rolling hills were covered in vines as far as the eye could see. Pierre had a couple of small vineyards that he wanted to visit – one near Villefranche and another further up in the Burgundy country. At both stops we were received as old friends and, after the inevitable tasting of a selection of wines of various hues and vintages, we loaded up the boot with a few cases of Pierre’s selections.

On the journey Pierre added to my education about the various types of wine, on the subtleties of different ‘terroirs’ and, when we eventually drew up in front of a small ‘Logis’ in a hamlet not far from our last stop, I was beginning to appreciate how involved and complicated the whole business was. I would have to study it more. The village looked as if it had only a few hundred inhabitants. Narrow main street, old grey stone buildings, the inevitable ‘boulangerie’ and café, with a couple of tables sitting outside on the pavement, and that was about it. The hotel itself had a comfortable dark interior, old- fashioned simple bedrooms and a restaurant of about thirty tables, all set for dinner.

When we came down to eat I was surprised to find that we were the only guests. I presume on some occasions it was full but on that particular evening we had the place to ourselves and the undivided attention from Monsieur le Patron.

Lord knows how these places make any money but we weren’t complaining. When I mentioned this to Pierre he grinned. “Weekends, evenings, Sunday lunches and weddings.”

The menu was simple – a choice of three or four starters, four main dishes and half a dozen desserts printed out on two sides of a plasticised piece of A4 paper. The wine list however was presented 
ceremoniously to Pierre in the form of a large, leather-bound folder of at least eight pages.

I watched, amused, as Pierre glanced at the menu and made his choice in about five seconds and then proceeded to spend at least ten minutes studying the wines.
There followed a brief discussion with the owner/chef/waiter of which I understood not a word except “Très bien, Monsieur.”

He disappeared and came back a few minutes later with three half bottles of wine, at which I raised my eyebrows more than just a little.
“Bob, we’re going to enjoy our dinner,” he said contentedly sitting back in his chair after having inspected the labels. “You showed me some great golf courses. Now I’m going to show you some great wines.”
The following day we drove to Orleans and then headed west, following the Loire valley. Again vineyards were in evidence. Low-lying countryside, the magnificent wide slow-moving river, castles and enormous mansion houses several centuries old. It was easy to see why the French aristocracy had favoured this part of the country when they wanted to get away from the Court. All was bathed in sunshine.
After filling up the car with a couple of dozen bottles from a few   more vineyards, we arrived, late in the afternoon, at a set of large wrought iron gates obviously leading into a sizeable property. Pierre turned into the driveway and drove up through a long avenue of trees to stop the car on the gravel in front of a large mansion.
It was three stories high, completely symmetrical, with large multi-paned windows. Steps – about a dozen - curved up on either side to an immense glass-panelled front door.

The noise of our car arriving and stopping on the gravel must have alerted the occupants because as soon as Pierre got out of the car the door opened and an exceedingly attractive woman came out onto the steps. A slim, elegant brunette, probably in her early fifties, she was dressed casually in jeans and a light coloured blouse flowing free over a mid-blue tee-shirt. A puzzled expression at first, and then, clearly recognizing Pierre, a brilliant smile came over her face and she started to trot down the steps towards him.

I was almost sure I saw a brief hand gesture from Pierre as I followed him out of the car because she definitely slowed down her élan as she saw me and the smile took on a more normal expression – still a smile but slightly less sparkling.

“Pierre, what a lovely surprise,” she said, as she approached him and gave him an embrace on each cheek, holding both hands out to be taken by him.

“Madeleine, you look, as always, magnificent. I hope you don’t mind us dropping in. I thought we’d give you a surprise.”

“Not at all. It’s very nice to see you.”

She turned to me, welcomingly, and held out her hand while Pierre introduced us. I was introduced as Bob, a friend from Scotland.

It was clearly no problem for us to arrive unexpectedly and there would be absolutely no problem for us to stay the night.

“I presume Antoine is at home?”

“Of course”, she replied.” He’s in the library. He’ll be very glad to see you. Come on. We’ll go in. You can get your bags later.”

Madeleine’s English was almost fluent with just a tinge of a very attractive accent. I followed them up the steps noting how they were obviously so much at ease with each other.

“Come on, Bob. I want you to meet a very good and very old friend of mine,” said Pierre over his shoulder.

Madeleine ushered us into the library. It was a large high-ceilinged room with immense windows looking out over the gardens behind the house. The walls were covered with bookshelves full of, what seemed to me, to be hundreds of old volumes, mostly bound in leather and the majority looking as if they were anything between fifty and a hundred and fifty years old – the library of several generations.

Over by the window sat an alert, handsome man who looked about the same age as we were. He was, however, sitting in a wheelchair. He swivelled round as Madeleine breezed in with us.

“Antoine, unexpected guests – Pierre, with a friend.” she announced. “Pierre,” he cried with evident pleasure. They exchanged a few sentences in French which went over my head but I gathered that Pierre was explaining the reason for our surprise visit and he obviously also told him of my lack of French because they immediately switched to English.

“Bob, come over and let me introduce you to my very dear friend Baron Antoine de Clermont.”

Antoine shook my hand with a broad smile. “I’ve heard about you – the recently discovered brother if I understand correctly. Pierre has told me the whole story. Welcome to our humble abode.”

I warmed to him immediately just as I had when I had first met Pierre. I told him that Pierre hadn’t warned me where we were going and this was all a total and very pleasant surprise.

“Well, take a seat and make yourself at home.”

Apart from Sophie, Antoine was the first of Pierre’s friends that I had met and I was intrigued by him. Neat, intelligent and not in the least bit bothered about whatever ailment he had which had him imprisoned in a wheelchair. I was curious but didn’t want to enquire. After half an hour or so Antoine announced that he would be off to shower and change and he would see us at dinner.

“Pierre, you can give Bob the bedroom at the back looking out over the garden and I’ll see you later.”

He thereupon neatly circumvented the furniture and cruised out the door.

Madeleine came in a few moments later to announce that dinner would be in about three quarters of an hour.

“Pierre, feel free to tell Bob what happened to Antoine. He doesn’t like talking about it himself, as you know, but he is conscious of the fact that it’s better all round if people know and then any awkwardness is avoided.”

After she had left Pierre explained the story.

They had met about twenty years before when Pierre had been working on a major IT project at the pharmaceutical company where Antoine had been the marketing director. Antoine was a few years younger than Pierre and they were both single. They had got on very well together and had socialised outside work.

Then Antoine met Madeleine and they had got married. On the honeymoon in the south of France they had been staying in a villa in the country which had been lent to them by a friend. One morning Antoine had driven down to the village for provisions when, round a sharp bend, he had smashed into a tractor which had slowed down to turn into a field. The car was written off and Antoine was left completely paralysed from the waist down and condemned to a wheelchair.

“Madeleine has devoted herself to looking after him ever since,” he concluded.

*

Over dinner I learned a bit more about Antoine and began to appreciate him more and more. He was quick and had a sparkling wit – something not often found in a Frenchman. The conversation ranged over politics, his previous business career, wine and many other topics. I was made to feel completely welcome. I had to tell a little of my history and Pierre and I recounted how we had met and the dramatic consequences that had ensued.