Not Nearly The End

23

Not Nearly The End

September (ctd.) The Bean decided firmly that the first thing to do was to get the château’s bally roof fixed! Having taken on board Oncle Patrice’s advice on that point. Besides which we knew that one more winter was pretty well guaranteed to bring it down in several places. And the second thing, the new propriétaire declared grimly, was to get central heating installed and spare poor old Marthe and Jacques-Yves! What with the cold from all that dashed stone seeping into their poor old bones, and having to trail up and down stairs all day—

    Oncle Albert thought it might be sensible to get a structural engineer’s opinion first. Someone used to dealing with old buildings, mon cher, because Heaven knew what a sudden access of heat might do to all that grey stone.

    Well okay, but it needed to be done urgently! It was already nearly the vendange, and the good weather couldn’t last. And of course the wine was the most important thing, everyone would soon need to concentrate on that, so the château’s problems needed to be settled now!

    At about that point I slid out quietly.

    “Still going strong?” said John wryly.

    “Yes. Well it’ll all have to be done, of course, but how are they going to make Grannie even let anyone in?”

    “She has presumably received Maître Barbier’s official letter.”

    “Yes, and she’s told Jacques-Yves to bolt all the doors!”

    “Then I suggest,” he said coolly, “that Michael tells him not to.”

    “John, he’s terrified of the woman! I’m not exaggerating!”

    “No, very well darling, I see. Hmm… In that case—”

    … Golly. I gaped at him.

    “Drastic times call for drastic measures,” he said calmly, “and Michael’s right: the good weather can’t last and he needs to move soonest.”

    And so it came to pass, one gloriously sunny morning in late September, that a rotund figure wearing her best hat over her best scarf, laden down under three coats and lugging two suitcases and a bulging shopping carrier, and a slighter figure, bent almost double under the weight of two overcoats and a knapsack and lugging two suitcases and a strange long, thin container (fishing rod), staggered out of the back door of the Château LeBec and over to the stable block where, strategically at its rear and out of sight of the main building, they bundled into Oncle Albert’s roomy Citroën, and were wafted off to Tante Élisabeth’s house. Where they were given guest bedrooms and told firmly they were not to do a thing, they were en vacances and if they fancied it, Jean et Mélisande would take them on a little trip to l’Australie before they need come back! By which time M. Michael, M. Albert and M. Patrice would have it all sorted out!

    Well they both burst into overwrought tears but Tante Élisabeth was calmly unsurprised and, ordering them to take those coats off and hang them up in the wardrobes, departed to make a nice tisane for them.

    There had been some debate as to the timing of the next step, but John’s calm good sense prevailed, and they didn’t wait for Grannie to have to spend a night alone in the château, fuming. Instead he, Bean, Oncle Albert and Oncle Patrice all fronted up to her. They’d agreed that Bean and Oncle Albert would be the spokespersons, that Oncle Patrice should be there to show solidarity, and that John’s presence, as an outsider, would show her they really meant business. –Jacques-Yves, incidentally, had plucked up courage and left all the doors unbolted!

    She started off by ordering them to get out of her house. Which gave Bean his cue.

    “Grandmère,” he said nicely, “I’m afraid it isn’t your house. It’s legally my house now. But of course you must stay for as long as you like. You can have either your old rooms or new ones, whichever you please.”

    To which she shouted: “How dare you!”

    This was Oncle Albert’s cue. “But in the meantime, chère madame, the building is in such bad repair that we feel it would be bad for your health for you to remain here, especially as Michael is getting the builders in before winter.”

    “Yes,” Bean agreed. “And I’ve already got the old servants out of it, I don’t want to be taken to court for forcing them to live in conditions injurious to their health.”

    “Taken to court!” she scoffed. “They wouldn’t dare!”

    “No, but the authorities would. I’ve already had a notice,” he lied cheerfully, “warning me that the building is unsuitable for human habitation as it stands and that a prosecution could result.”

    “Yes,” chimed in Oncle Albert. “Of course we explained that up until M. Fernand’s sad passing the responsibility for the household was entirely yours, madame.”

    “Don’t you threaten me, Albert LeBec!” she shouted.

    “I beg your pardon. I was only pointing out the facts,” he said humbly.

    “Yes but don’t, please, Oncle Albert,” said the Bean. “If we comply with the regulations straight away, there won’t be any further trouble.”

    “It’s pure spite!” she shouted. “Those pettifogging ronds de cuir were just waiting for Fernand’s death to pounce!”

    —Well quite. This was one of the points that my Machiavellian Col. John Raice had made: divert her venom onto another object.

    “Yes, civic officials are always like that, I’m afraid,” Oncle Albert agreed.

    “So you see, Grandmère, you would be much safer out of their reach. Perhaps a nice holiday somewhere? At my expense, of course,” the Bean offered meekly.

    “Holiday!” There was a short pause. Then she said grandly: “I shall think about it. Meanwhile, Michael, I’m glad to see you taking up your responsibilities in a proper manner.”

    —“WHAT?” I shrieked at this point in the narrative.

    “Yes!” they confirmed gleefully, and Once Albert refilled our glasses, ignoring Tante Élisabeth’s and Tante Émilie’s points that theirs were still half full.

    So John’s strategy had carried the day, and the entire village turned out to watch as “Madame LeBec” was borne away in full panoply and a large black chauffeured car for a holiday. In Grasse, which apparently she’d always wanted to see.

    … “Nothing to stop her going any time she liked, of course,” Oncle Patrice noted. “Shall we just pop into Le Chat Gris, my dears?”

    But alas, pleased tho she was with him and thrilled at how well it had it all turned out, this was too much for his magisterial spouse and she vetoed the notion firmly. We would all go home for a decent lunch. And he could ring the roofers and tell them to go ahead!

    “Yes, my dear,” he said meekly, not letting on that they were due on the morrow.

    And so we all retreated to the house, to find Tante É.’s cook, very flushed, and an even more flushed Marthe, arms akimbo, at loggerheads in the kitchen…

    Oh well! One can’t have everything, after all!

    “By God!” cried the Egg, his eyes shining. “That’s something like! Wish I’d seen it!

    “Gosh yes!” agreed Crumpy, his eyes almost bolting from his head.

    “She actually went?” croaked Alysse. –Her face was still a bit swollen, poor thing, but at least the bally tooth was out now.

    “Abso-bally-lutely!” the Bean confirmed. “John’s point that everything’d be hunky-dory once it sank in that it’d be me footing the bill was spot-on!”

    “So, um, did you book her into a decent hotel in Grasse?” croaked Carrie-Ann.

    “Of course! The best! Well it’s costing a packet but I decided to put that five thou’ that Oncle Fernand left me towards it, y’see.”

    “But Bean, that was your money!” she cried. “Shouldn’t the estate have paid?”

    He shrugged. “Probably. But frankly I’d have done anything to get rid.”

    “Understandable,” Egg allowed.

    “Er, there is one small point, old chum,” put in Flossie.

    “Flossie,” I warned, “if this is something legal, we don't want to hear—”

    “No! Well it could come to that, but I’m sure Bean won’t let it. No, had it occurred that the old dame might decide she wants to stay there, or somewhere equally expensive, rent a villa or some such, at your expense, old thing?”

    The Bean’s mouth firmed. “Yes, actually. I’ve talked it over with Bean Minor, and we’ve decided that we simply can’t have her trying to interfere with the business again—she gets down to the winery, y’see, and countermands one’s orders, and all the old chaps are scared stiff of her, and Oncle Fernand’s lost countless good younger men because of her. So whatever it takes we’ll foot the bill. Besides, she’s bloody well eighty-seven now. And even it if takes ten years, we’re prepared.”

    “Yes, the business has to come first,” Crumpy agreed. “I mean, hundreds of people’s livelihoods depend on it. Well—y’know. Not just the ones who work directly for you, old chum, but all the pickers and the suppliers of this and that, and the neighbourhood small businesses that only flourish because the winery and the vineyards are there providing work, and the workers have to eat and so forth!”

    “Commerce 101: quite,” drawled Flossie. “No, sorry, Crumpy! You’re right, of course. Well thank God it’s worked out okay, Bean.”

    “Yes. Well it’s all due to John, of course! Even Oncle Albert couldn’t come up with an infallible plan.”

    “Good thing you managed to snare him, then, Mel, old girl,” he decided.

    “Thanks,” I replied drily.

    He laughed. “No, honest! –So, anything further on that front? Patter of little feet?”

    What? The cheeky blighter!

    “Shut up, Flossie,” said the Egg quickly. “None of your dashed business.”

    “No? Well in his shoes I’d make sure of her pronto. There were at least a dozen chaps at the funeral who looked as if they wouldn’t half mind a bit.”

    “Crap. It’s always been her Colonel for Mel, y’fool. –I suppose you’ll be heading back to Australia, will you, Sister Bean?”

    “Yes, John has to get back to work, Egg.”

    “Right. We’ll expect the next dispatch from there, then!”

    And with best wishes to me and John for the trip and to Bean for the harvest, the Junior Drones signed off.

October. The weather was quite mild! One might have said that we were home in the Bourgogne! But how odd: we were on the other side of the world! Feebly we attempted to explain to Marthe and Jacques-Yves that it was spring here in Australia, so yes, it would be quite warm… I don’t know if it sank in, but they agreed to a little trip “to see the sea”. I’m quite sure they never realised where Queensland is, but they enjoyed the visit with generous Betty Burns very much, and as John flew over from Canberra for the weekend we were all able to go to the Great Barrier Reef. Wasn’t it wonderful? Who would have thought that such miraculous “bêtes” would just be there in the sea, free to see! Er—yes. Well with a certain amount of the readies dished out to good old Lachie Grahame for the services of him and his glass-bottomed boat!

    We had suggested that the two old dears might like to go to Nouvelle Calédonie, where everyone spoke French, and it wasn’t far, but after Queensland they decided that that was quite warm enough, it’d be too hot. So I took them over to Adelaide.

    How le petit Tommie had grown! And wasn’t he so like feu M. Fernand! And goodness yes, a vineyard here in l’Australie! Not like our old vines of Bourgogne, of course, but yes, la syrah was not a bad grape… Et tout et tout. In short, they had a lovely time, even though of course the Silvercreek crowd didn’t speak French except for a few viticultural words, and they only spoke a couple of words of English, namely, “Michael” and “Tommy”. Then we flew back to Sydney, where John met us, and after a night in a hotel we loaded them onto the nice safe Air France plane for Paris. Phew!

    “Well,” John concluded with a smile, “they’ve missed the vendange for the first time in their lives, but I think they enjoyed themselves.”

    “Yes, thank goodness! And at least they won’t have to face Grannie at the château!”

    No, they wouldn't. Those who’d thought she might opt to stay in the south of France had been spot-on. She’d rented a villa, beating down their price as it was for a year, not just the tourist season, but nevertheless at Bean’s expense. But at least now he could have the château repaired and run the business without interference. Duck had been a tremendous help, but he was home again now, having provided not just a list but a whole huge report on what needed to be done. And the order had gone out to the Spanish barrel sellers pronto. So the precious wine wouldn’t be languishing in large steel vats and rapidly deteriorating, as the old boys had been bitterly predicting.

    So the excitement was all over. And John and I settled back into the dull diplomatic life in Canberra…

    Not.

    As I explained, or thought I did, to the Junior Drones when they called up from London via the magic Zoom. Replying in answer to the Egg’s pleasant: “So how’s it going in Australia, old thing?” with:

    “It’s terrible, Egg! They’ve changed everything, and now we have to leave almost right away! And we’ll be miles and miles away, and I was planning to have my Scottie dog down at the cottage, and my little brass bell lady on the mantelpiece and everything!”

    “Um, it’s a bit of a commute, but John had a flat in London before, didn’t he?” ventured the Crumpet. “Er, didn’t mean to be tactless, old thing,” he added hurriedly as various people winced. “But you could do that: flat in town, go down to the cottage for weekends.”

    I had to blow my nose. “Yes of course, Crumpy. That’s what we were thinking we’d do, you see.”

    “Only?” said the Egg in hollow tones.

    “Only now the putrid MOD has decided he’s got to do another fill-in job as an attaché! In horrible Wuh-Wuh-Washington!” I wailed, bursting into sobs and wasting those Zoom waves or rays or whatevers, pixels? um, them, horribly.

    … Yes, well. There you were. We were slated to fly to Blighty in November, a fortnight’s leave, then the U.S. of A.

    Absolutely all our plans were upset. We’d been intending to get over to France for Christmas, to join Bean for his first Christmas as the master of the Château LeBec, taking Bean Minor and Trelawney as well. Mireille, Colas, and as many of the Paris contingent who fancied it were all cordially invited too, and the Junior Drones from England as well!

    The château, or part of it, had been declared habitable. The structural engineer had checked it out, and the central part of the main structure was sound, apart from some roof timbers that needed replacing. However, the other bits, particularly the towers, were unsafe. It would cost a packet to shore them up properly, but given the château’s age and historical significance in the wine industry, Oncle Albert was pretty sure they could get a grant from the French government—anyway, he was onto it, so it was highly likely it’d happen. And the engineer and the heating expert had conferred, and were agreed that fires needed to be introduced into the individual rooms gradually, while they worked on installing the steam heat. Then by the time the system was ready to be turned on, the building would have adjusted. Well that was the theory, but after all, they were the experts.

    So now what would we do? Fly over from Washington and then fly back? Well we weren’t made of money, and tho Bean and Bean Minor had insisted on paying for the two old servants’ holiday and Oncle Patrice had chipped in as well, the exchequer wasn’t looking too rosy. Um, there was that five thou’ of mine from Oncle Fernand, of course. But we’d sort of thought we’d put it away for the future.

    Bother.

    … “What’s up, sweetheart? Not brooding?” said John in some alarm, finding me sitting in the dark one evening.

    “Not really, John. I was watching the sunset… It’s over a year since I came out to Australia with Egg and Crumpy and dear old Sid and the horses.”

    “Well the cottage isn’t far from the stables, darling: you’ll see them when we go home on leave.”

    “Yes of course. Not that. Looking back to that girl in the old yellow cap that was me, it somehow feels like a whole lifetime ago…”

    “Mm,” he said, sitting down beside me and putting an arm round me. “No regrets, Mel, I hope?”

    “About us? No, of course not!”

    “That’s good,” he said mildly. But his grip tightened noticeably. Well one wouldn’t have thought John Raice was the sort to need reassurance, but there you are.

November. It had rolled round inevitably, like the proverbial D. and T., yes. My dashed luggage seemed to have multiplied or something! Where had all these clothes come from? The packing seemed to take forever. Even tho we owned very little in the flat and had decided to leave the thrice-blessed slow cooker for the next inhabitants, because the Yanks had different electricity, apparently. And of course we had our original slow cooker at the cottage. Tho come to think of it maybe we could have had this one in the London flat that we hadn’t yet had to acquire. Oh well. There must be shops in London that sold them, and if all else failed, Harrods, as dear Clive Lamont would say.

    I rechecked those peculiar drawers that lurked inside the peculiar Australian wardrobe. What? Bother. Okay, all these knickers would have to go into one of John’s suitcases. More frantic repacking ensued. But at last that did seem to be that and I sat down on the bally pile with a sigh.

    “Benny’s here with the car. All packed, darling? Ready to leave?” he said brightly, coming in looking fresh as a daisy.

    Something like that, John. As ready as one could be for an unknown country and a future that seemed impossible to plan! As for all those get-togethers with the Junior Drones that I’d been picturing ever since the words “back to Blighty and the cottage” had first been uttered, John Raice…

    Oh well. That was Life for you, wasn’t it?

    “Ready, Colonel,” I agreed. “Let battle commence, and non carborundum!”

THE END OF THE STORY OF THE EGG AND FRIENDS DOWN UNDER

but

The Junior Drones’ story continues in The Egg And Friends Forge Ahead

 https://theeggandfriendsforgeahead-anovel.blogspot.com/