Soldier No More

—M'sieur speaks French like a Frenchman! And, by the accent, from Paris . . . But M'sieur is an Englishman? And en vacances?

Roche warmed to his task. M'sieur was not on holiday, but on leave. M'sieur was of the British Army, with the honour of serving with the French Army—serving in Paris, Madame's ear did not deceive her—but also a student of French history, of which there was so much hereabouts, in the most beautiful region of France—

(M'sieur was also aware of Lexy, wide-eyed beside him, and that Madame was also aware of Lexy.)

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—and, as an old comrade of M'sieur Le Due, Milady Alexandra's father, as he was passing through, it had been his pleasure to call on Milady Alexandra, of course . . .

(Bandying words with a shopkeeper's wife, such words, was hardly necessary. But it was all good practice, and it was clearly impressing Milady Alexandra mightily.) (And, when Madame had digested it, and had acknowledged Milady with a little nod, it impressed Milady even more; because, if the nod was not yet quite approving, it was no longer altogether disapproving, and that was undeniably impressive.)

(It never failed, thought Roche with a mixture of cynicism and bleak self-knowledge, and satisfaction: the French were so accustomed to their contempt of the average Englishman for his halting use of their wonderful language that they were disarmed and flattered into helpfulness by any stray anglais who could distinguish a subjunctive from a hole in the road—

the women no less than the men, and perhaps even more so.)

—So! And now . . . there were clarets and Sauternes (Madame swept a glance over her wines, and dismissed them all, and came back to Roche fondly). . . but here in the south-west there were other wines of character, delicate and fine, of Bergerac and Cahors, of Rodez and Conques—pressed from the pineau grape—for M'sieur . . . and for Milady, the Monbazillac, sweet and perfumed—

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'God, David—I've never seen anything like it!' Lexy surveyed the loaded Volkswagen with disbelief after the dried-up shrimp, sweating and terrified at his wife's command, had transported the cases to the little car under the trees. 'What did you say to her? What did you do to her?'

Roche shrugged modestly. 'I didn't do anything. I just smiled at her.'

'Smiled at her! Wait until I tell Jilly and Steffy—she positively drooled over you, darling! Do you know what you've done—do you?' Lexy brushed ineffectually at the blonde tangle which had fallen over her eyes. 'That was Madame Goutard—La Goutard in person! No one's ever unfrozen her— not even David Audley, le Grand David.'

'Madame Goutard?'

'La Goutard—Madame Peyrony's bosom friend. They get together three times a week at the chateau, allegedly for tea ... I think they swop spells and work out who's next for the evil eye and the ague. But you charmed her. . . I swear she even almost smiled at me! And she'll be on the phone to La Peyrony, with a bit of luck, telling her that at last we've rustled up a decent and respectable young gentleman to look after us, and that'll put us in good with La Peyrony—she thinks the sun rises and sets by what La Goutard says . . .

What did you say to her?'

Roche spread his hands. This was evidently one of those days when he could do no wrong. 'I just talked to her . . .'

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'Well, you said the magic word.' Lexy brushed at the tangle again, with a hand only a little less grubby for its immersion in the Dordogne river. 'And like a native too—perhaps that's what did it. The Great David knows all the words, but half the time no one seems to understand what he's saying . . . and one look from La Goutard and I just dry up completely. But you were absolutely super!!' She gave Roche a huge, dazzling smile. ' And you paid for everything—' She plunged the paw into her handbag, which was the size of a haversack, and rummaged among its contents until she had gathered a fistful of creased and equally dirty banknotes.

Roche shook his head. 'That's my contribution to the housekeeping, Lady Alexandra. I insist.'

She blinked at him. 'Please don't call me Lady. My umpteenth great grandmother— great times ten, but not good

—was one of Charles II's innumerable mistresses, that's the origin of Father's title, and every time anyone calls me Lady it only reminds me that I'm a lady neither by merit nor inclination—especially as Father says I'm a throwback to the founding mistress of our line ... At least I can pay for the wine, yes?'

She was gorgeous, dirty hands and tangled hair and every other buttgn still undone, thought Roche protectively.

Cleaned up and well-dressed. . . if she was a ringer for one of the Black Boy's playmates then no wonder the King had succumbed to her ancestor. As she was, she was no less irresistible, dirt and tangle and all.

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But he had work to do. And dirtier and more tangled work too. He waved away the banknotes. 'I thought I might take a few bottles to—what's his name?—David Audley and his friends, if they're giving me room to pitch my tent among them—'

'A few bottles?' Lexy laughed. 'Darling, that'd be coals to Newcastle— they're permanently awash in booze at the Tower, they live in an absolute haze of alcohol and intellectual conversation. But you don't need to worry, because they can be jolly—and when I tell them about La Goutard fetching over you they'll welcome you with open arms . . . and open bottles.' She grasped the door handle of the Volkswagen. 'Did you make your rules-and-regulations phone call okay? Because I can't wait to tell Jilly and Steffy the great news of your conquest.'

Roche looked at his watch. 'Ah... I had a bit of trouble there—

the lines all engaged, or something—so if I could try again in a few minutes . . . You can show me the sights of the town in the meantime, maybe?'

Lexy shrugged. 'A few minutes is about right, darling . . .

because there isn't anything worth seeing, except the church, so they say . . . but I've seen it, and it isn't worth seeing either