aghast as she was helped to what looked like a large spoonful of everything on offer.
“It’s gripping, isn’t it?” said Duncan, misunderstanding my expression for one of deep concern for those on the train. “But there’s still more to come.”
“Monsieur?”
“I’m full, thank you,” I told the maitre d’. “Perhaps a coffee later.”
“No, nothing, thank you,” said Duncan, trying not to lose his thread. “By the start of chapter nine the terrorists have got themselves into the driver’s cabin. At gunpoint they force the chef de train and his co-driver to bring the engine to a halt for a second time. But what they don’t realise is that they are now on French territory. The passengers are told by the loner over the train’s intercom that this time it’s not a false alarm, but the train has been taken over by whichever gang I settle on, and is going to be blown up in fifteen minutes. He tells them to get themselves off the train, into the tunnel, and as far away as they possibly can before the explosion. Naturally, some of the passengers begin to panic. Several of them leap out into the dimly lit tunnel. Many are looking frantically for their husbands, wives, children, whatever, while others begin running towards the British or French side, according to their nationality.”
I became distracted when the maitre d’ began wheeling yet another trolley towards our table. He paused, bowed to Christabel, and then lit a small burner. He poured some brandy into a shallow copper-bottomed pan and set about preparing a crepe suzette.
“This is the point in the story, probably chapter ten, where the father of the American family decides to remain on the train,” said Duncan, becoming more excited than ever. “He tells the rest of his tribe to jump off and get the hell out of it. The only other passengers who stay on board are the millionaire, his wife, and the young newly-married man. All will have strong personal reasons for wanting to remain behind, which will have been set up earlier in the plot.”
The maitre d’ struck a match and set light to the crepe. A blue flame licked around the pan and shot into the air. He scooped his
I feared we had now passed the point at which I could tell Duncan the truth.
“Right, now I have three terrorists in the cab with the chef de train. They’ve killed the co-driver, and there are just four passengers still left on the train, plus the black ticket collector who may turn out to be SAS in disguise, I haven’t decided yet.”
“Coffee, madame?” the maitre d’ asked when Duncan paused for a moment.
“Irish,” said Christabel.
“Regular, please,” I said.
“Decaff for me,” said Duncan.
“Any liqueurs or cigars?” Only Christabel reacted.
“So, at the start of chapter eleven the terrorists open negotiations with the British police. But they say they can’t deal with them because the train is no longer under their jurisdiction. This throws the terrorists completely, because none of them speaks French, and in any case their quarrel is with the British government. One of them searches the train for someone who can speak French, and comes across the Greek millionaire’s wife.”
“Meanwhile, the police on either side of the Channel stop all the trains going in either direction. So, our train is now stranded in the tunnel on its own — there would normally be twenty trains travelling in either direction between London and Paris at any one time.” He paused to sip his coffee.
“Is that so?” I asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.
“It certainly is.” Duncan said. “I’ve done my research thoroughly.”
A glass of deep red port was being poured for Christabel. I glanced at the label: Taylor’s ‘55. This was something I had never had the privilege of tasting. Christabel indicated that the bottle should be left on the table. The waiter nodded, and Christabel immediately poured me a glass, without asking if I wanted it. Meanwhile, the maitre d’ clipped a cigar for Duncan that he hadn’t requested.
“In chapter twelve we discover the terrorists’ purpose,” continued Duncan. “Namely, blowing up the train as a publicity stunt, guaranteed to get their cause onto every front page in the world. But the passengers who have remained on the train, led by the American father, are planning a counter-offensive.”
The maitre d’ lit a match and Duncan automatically picked up the cigar and put it in his mouth. It silenced him…
“The self-made millionaire might feel he’s the natural leader,” I suggested.
… but only for a moment. “He’s a Greek. If I’m going to make any money out of this project, it’s the American market I have to aim for. And don’t forget the film rights,” Duncan said, jabbing the air with his cigar.
I couldn’t fault his logic.
“Can I have the cheque?” Duncan asked as the maitre d’ passed by our table.
“Certainly, sir,” he replied, not even breaking his stride.
“Now, my trouble is going to be the ending …” began Duncan as Christabel suddenly, if somewhat unsteadily, rose from her chair.
She turned to face me and said, “I’m afraid the time has come for me to leave. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, although I have a feeling we won’t be seeing each other again. I’d just like to say how much I enjoyed your latest novel. Such an original idea. It deserved to be number one.”
I stood, kissed her hand and thanked her, feeling more guilty than ever.
“Goodbye, Duncan,” she said, turning to face her former lover, but he didn’t even bother to look up. “Don’t worry yourself,” she added. “I’ll be out of the apartment by the time you get back.”
She proceeded to negotiate a rather wobbly route across the restaurant, eventually reaching the door that led out onto the street. The maitre d’ held it open for her and bowed low.
“I can’t pretend I’m sorry to see her go,” said Duncan, puffing away on his cigar. “Fantastic body, great between the sheets, but she’s totally lacking in imagination.”
The maitre d’ reappeared by Duncan’s side, this time to place a small black leather folder in front of him.
“Well, the critics were certainly right about this place,” I commented. Duncan nodded his agreement.
The maitre d’ bowed, but not quite as low as before.
“Now, my trouble, as I was trying to explain before Christabel decided to make her exit,” continued Duncan, “is that I’ve done the outline, completed the research, but I still don’t have an ending. Any ideas?” he asked, as a middle-aged woman rose from a nearby table and began walking determinedly towards us.
Duncan flicked open the leather cover, and stared in disbelief at the bill.
The woman came to a halt beside our table. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your new book,” she said in a loud voice.
Other diners turned round to see what was going on.
“Thank you,” I said somewhat curtly, hoping to prevent her from adding to my discomfort.
Duncan’s eyes were still fixed on the bill.
“And the ending,” she said. “So clever! I would never have guessed how you were going to get the American family out of the tunnel alive…”
Shoeshine Boy*
Ted Barker was one of those members of Parliament who never sought high office. He’d had what was described by his fellow officers as a “good war” — in which he was awarded the Military Cross and reached the rank of major. After being demobbed in November 1945 he was happy to return to his wife Hazel and their home in Suffolk.
The family engineering business had also had a good war, under the diligent management of Ted’s elder brother Ken. As soon as he arrived home, Ted was offered his old place on the board, which he happily accepted. But as the weeks passed by, the distinguished warrior became first bored and then disenchanted. There was no job for him at the factory which even remotely resembled active service.
It was around this time that he was approached by Ethel Thompson, the works convenor and — more
