They threaded through the shop and arrived at the back in a large kitchen-cum-sitting-room. A rotund black woman froze in astonishment at the intruders, but was sharply set about her business. An external flight of steps took them to the upper storey; the wife fiddled with a key and stood back to let them enter, her eyes following them unblinking as a crow's.
'Merci, Madame? Renzi said. The room was small, but snug — a woman's room. It smelt of fragrances that made Kydd feel his rough-hewn maleness.
‘Le diner est servi a sept heures precises. Vois voire cle. Ne la perdez pas.' She closed the door on them.
'Supper will be at seven, you will be gratified to know,' Renzi said.
There were two beds, one an obvious extra. 'Turn 'n' turn about,' Kydd suggested, for the original bed was the better one. He chuckled. 'The throw o' th' dice,' he ruminated. 'B' rights, we should be in a doss-house o' sorts — maybe there ain't any in this town.'
'I have my suspicions as to the hospitality,' said Renzi, but would not be drawn. The door led to an upper veranda that overlooked the street and, with the jalousie windows, made it acceptably cool. It was infinitely preferable to the careless noise and drunken conviviality of a seamen's boarding-house.
They went into the kitchen and were ushered to places on either side of that of the head of the house, who entered last. A woman with a frosting of silver hair and an intelligent face was seated at the other end, and at Kydd's glance gave a slight nod and a tiny smile.
The table was spread, the wine was open in the centre of the table and the black maid stood by. A warning glare from Renzi was too late to stop Kydd reaching for a stick of interesting bread, which he crunched appreciatively. 'Rattlin' good,' he said, but was met with a chilly silence.
'I do believe that the French set great store by the preliminaries,' Renzi muttered. Kydd felt reproachful stares around the table.
‘Seigneur, nous vous rendons grace pour ce repas que nous nous appretons a partager .. .' The ancient words of the grace droned into the silence. Eyes lifted, and there was an awkward pause.
‘Et voici ma soeur, Louise' said Monsieur Vemou reproachfully.
'And his sister, Louise,' Renzi murmured to Kydd.
They turned down the table to the woman, who inclined her head graciously and said, 'Plissed to mit you.'
Kydd gave a broad smile. 'Aye, an' we too, er, ma'am!'
'I 'ave been the governess an' richer of French to ze English before.'
'Oh,' said Kydd. 'Before what?'
At the slight frown this brought, Renzi said firmly, 'Pray let us not be accounted boors, my friend.' The table sat expressionless. Renzi turned to Louise. 'Madame, your English does credit to your calling.'
Kydd let the conversation flow around him. It passed belief the situation he was now in. The French were a parcel of mad rascals who had murdered their king and now wanted to set the world at defiance — but here he was, on the face of it one of the conquerors of this island, being politely entertained by them. Perhaps the food would be poisoned? He glanced at Renzi, who seemed to take it all in his stride. He had the attention of the whole table — except Madame Louise, whose quiet gaze strayed from time to time in Kydd's direction.
'Tom, Madame Vemou wishes to know what it is like living in a boat,' prompted Renzi, keeping his face a study in restraint Kydd opened his mouth but recoiled, the task of rendering into polite talk the stern realities of life at sea beyond him. Renzi's smooth flow of French, however, seemed to satisfy the table.
During the meal, a tasty stew, Kydd tried to remember his manners. He grinned inwardly, thinking of what his mother would have to say to him, in this alien place so far from home. The watered wine was excellent medicine for the pork and beans, and he began to relax. 'Hear tell th't France is a pretty place’ he tried. The comment rippled out under translation, but caused some dismay. Mystified, he turned to Renzi.
'It appears, my friend, that none here has ever been to France.'
