Had I missed some code word? “The other names are daft. Nice to see one of Astley Cooper’s chairs left plain. Goons nowadays decorate them with everything but Christmas lights.” I chuckled, but on my own.
The motor swerved violently. An open tourer shot close to us, horn blaring. A girl shook a fist at us, furious, blonde hair streaming. The young bloke with her was straight off some telly advert for South Seas surfing.
“Bloody idiot,” I muttered. The tourer’s lights were flashing. Both youngsters seemed angry, though Gerald was driving with a Briton’s usual guarded suspicion. “That was their fault.” Criticize other motorists, you’re in.
“I’m obeying the rule of the road,” Gerald said anxiously.
“Course you are,” Lilian said, her pride stung. “Always impatient. Same as at home.”
The tourer dwindled ahead. In newfound comradeship we relaxed into those where’re-you-from and heavens- my-auntie’s-from-there conversations that substitute for instant friendship.
“We’re looking at places,” Lilian said, too smooth by far as Gerald reasserted his motor’s rights. “For time-share holidays.” Aha. Their cover story.
“Good idea, time-share,” I said, thinking pretence the party line. Maybe the car was bugged? “I’m hitchhiking.”
The journey was pleasant, they eventually relaxed. Banter-time as we rolled —Gerald never raced—towards Paris. Luckily, I saw a Paris sign before they did, pointed it out as if I’d known all the time. They’d started up a small travel business. “Everything will be leisure, hen, in ten years.” Lilian was emphatic, but in a practised kind of way I couldn’t quite accept somehow. Still arguing about prices, the cost of renting a shop front in Glasgow…
“Dearer in East Anglia,” I challenged, to get her going. Women hate admitting that other people suffer more expense.
“You live there? And you think that’s dear? You come up to Clydebank, you wouldn’t know what’d hit you for prices! Gerald bought a…” The motor straightened after a small swerve, with this time no flashy youngsters cutting us up while overtaking. “… a share in a tour operator’s. It cost the
Gerald and Lilian Sweet, of Glasgow. Travel concessionaires. I listened, prattled, watched the scenery drift by. Marimee would have been proud of the three of us. Not a word passed our lips about the mission we were all on.
We stopped for nosh twenty kilometres short of the capital. I grinned, said I’d stretch my legs. As Gerald locked the motor with meticulous precision, Lilian took me in properly for the first time.
“Are you short, hen?”
“Had my stuff nicked, love. Pickpockets.” Stick to the pattern. Plenty of traffic about now, people have directional microphones these days. I could hear Marimee bark orders.
“We’ll stand you a bite, won’t we, Gerald?”
“Oh, aye.” He didn’t seem keen, though. Maybe Marimee checked their expenses. Lilian got her dander up and he surrendered. We went in this Disney-Gothic self-service for the loos. I was first out, and got collared by a flaxen-haired aggropath. He slammed me against the wall. My breath went shoosh! It was the sports-car maniac who’d bawled Gerald out on the road.
“What’s the game?” he said, through gritted teeth as they used to say in boys’ comics.
“Game?” I gasped, going puce. “Let me breathe for Christ’s sake! I wasn’t even driving!” Bog-eyed, I tried to point into the self-service. Let him throttle Gerald or Lilian. But not me.
“Drop your two friends. Wait by my Alfa. Thirty minutes!”
“Right! Right!” Quite mad.
“An’ if you don’t…” His eyes were so near, so pale, watery yet clear. The opposition hired madmen. You humour madmen, then scarper. I tried to nod, managed a weak smile.
“Kee!” The delectable blonde bird slipped up, nudged him.
And they were gone, into a murky-lit grotto place with slot machines and winking screens. I went jauntily towards my own couple, smiling at the prospect of grub looming. Henceforth, I would stick to the Sweets like glue. That Marimee should have told me there’d be dastardly foes on route. Typical. Always half a story. No wonder Gerald Sweet was ultra-cautious.
“Let’s see what sort of food they have, hen!” Lilian led the way in. “I hope they have a nice hot pasty!”
Love flooded my heart for the dear beautiful woman. A pasty! She knew my desperate need. I caught her eye in the mirrors. She coloured slightly, but it may only have been the steam from the cooking. Gerald was anxiously checking his pockets, craning to see his motor wasn’t stolen. Lilian laughed self-consciously.
“Gerald’s a real worrier, Lovejoy!” she told me. “Up all night phoning home to see the… the business hasn’t folded while we’re away!” Good. She was careful too.
I cleared my throat. “Really,” I said. Then as Gerald turned at my tone, “Nothing wrong with being careful, is there?”
“No, Lovejoy,” he agreed, and for half an hour gave me a lecture on how easy it was to get caught out in business. I noshed like a trooper, listening with half an ear. He was becoming more like Marimee every second. I promised to owe them the cost of the meal, got their phone number and address. They had it ready, to my surprise. Real pros, excellent cover.
As soon as we hit the road, I showed true military-style initiative. I deflected us down a road soon after leaving the service station. We shook off the two gorgeous loons in their Alfa Romeo. I was so thrilled.
The hotel was quite small, on the southern outskirts of Paris. I liked it, but maybe it was the relief of being back in a town, free of that terrible pretty countryside everywhere. There was a garden, a fountain thing, lights and tables outside. I’ve a theory that it’s the Continent’s weather that permits folk to be so laid back. In East Anglia you could never put awning umbrellas out, scatter romantic candlelit tables round an ornamental grove unless the weather gods freak out into a spell of sun. You’ve only to step outside for it to teem down.
They said I should stay for the evening meal. Then, as Gerald was about to start on his phone marathon, Lilian
