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Authors: Michael Bond
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Yasmin, I think there will be no problem about tickets.’
‘Merci, Madame.’
He held her hand briefly, then turned to go. ‘I am sorry to have troubled you. I did not realise what had happened.’
Madame Caoutchouc followed him to the door. Halfway down the steps Monsieur Pamplemousse paused and lookedback at her.
‘You say you went with your daughter to the hospital? Did she – did she say anything while you were there? Anything at all?’
‘A few words in the ambulance, that is all. And they were a struggle. Nothing that made sense. I think she must have been delirious by then.’
‘Do you remember what she said?’
He immediately regretted asking the question. For a moment or two it looked as though Madame Caoutchouc was about to burst into tears again, then she recovered herself.
‘It was just the one word. It sounded like
pamplemousse.
Pamplemousse, pamplemousse, pamplemousse,
she kept repeating it over and over again. Who knows what she was trying to say?’
‘Who knows?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Who indeed knows?’
4
T HE S IX G LORIES OF F RANCE
Leaving his car parked outside the telephone
cabines
,
Monsieur Pamplemousse walked slowly back along the beach towards the harbour. The wind had started to freshen, but he hardly noticed it. He was sunk in gloom. He could still hardly believe the news about the girl’s accident. There was probably nothing at all that he could have done to help her, and yet somehow he couldn’t rid himself of a feeling of being in some way partly responsible. If only he had gone to see her the night before, perhaps it wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps she’d had her mind on some problem and that in turn had caused a momentary loss of concentration. He was glad he hadn’t seen her fall. That would have been too awful in the circumstances. Sensing his mood, Pommes Frites presented him with a stick he’d found. It was a specially large one with some seaweed attached.
When they reached the port Monsieur Pamplemousse bought a postcard for Doucette in a shop which sold everything from fishing nets to wooden
sabots,
via Breton lace, hand-painted china, and oilskins – a reminder that Brittany had ‘weather’ – even in summer. The card showed a man paddling a flat-bottomed boat through the local marshes; it was a choice between that, views of the harbour, the salt pans, or close-up pictures of lobsters awaiting the pot.
Coming out of the shop the first thing he saw was a picture of the girl. Her face looked out at him from the front page of a local
journal.
They must have worked quickly. He bought a copy and led the way to a café a little way along the front.
Suddenly realising how hungry he was, he ordered a
crêpe
au sucre
as well as a plate of
croissants,
a large cup of
chocolat,
and a bowl of water for Pommes Frites. Then, to the sound of halyards slapping against steel masts in the freshening wind, he settled down to read the
journal.
In the end it didn’t tell him much more than he already knew, or could have guessed. Le Cirque Bretagno was a small family-owned concern of Italian origin that had been going the rounds since before the turn of the century, handed down from father to son and currently being run by the mother. The father had died several years ago. It travelled all over Europe, seldom staying more than a night or two in any one place, and only intended being in Port St. Augustin for three nights before heading further south towards Bordeaux.
The accident had happened when Yasmin was performing a change-over on the high trapeze. It was a difficult manoeuvre – the high-spot of the act – but one which she had performed many times. No one knew quite what went wrong; a momentary loss of concentration, a split-second error of judgement; her hands had touched the other bar, but too late to tighten her grip. With such a trick there was no second chance. It underlined the ever present danger of circus life, and the fact that even with a safety
‘Merci, Madame.’
He held her hand briefly, then turned to go. ‘I am sorry to have troubled you. I did not realise what had happened.’
Madame Caoutchouc followed him to the door. Halfway down the steps Monsieur Pamplemousse paused and lookedback at her.
‘You say you went with your daughter to the hospital? Did she – did she say anything while you were there? Anything at all?’
‘A few words in the ambulance, that is all. And they were a struggle. Nothing that made sense. I think she must have been delirious by then.’
‘Do you remember what she said?’
He immediately regretted asking the question. For a moment or two it looked as though Madame Caoutchouc was about to burst into tears again, then she recovered herself.
‘It was just the one word. It sounded like
pamplemousse.
Pamplemousse, pamplemousse, pamplemousse,
she kept repeating it over and over again. Who knows what she was trying to say?’
‘Who knows?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Who indeed knows?’
4
T HE S IX G LORIES OF F RANCE
Leaving his car parked outside the telephone
cabines
,
Monsieur Pamplemousse walked slowly back along the beach towards the harbour. The wind had started to freshen, but he hardly noticed it. He was sunk in gloom. He could still hardly believe the news about the girl’s accident. There was probably nothing at all that he could have done to help her, and yet somehow he couldn’t rid himself of a feeling of being in some way partly responsible. If only he had gone to see her the night before, perhaps it wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps she’d had her mind on some problem and that in turn had caused a momentary loss of concentration. He was glad he hadn’t seen her fall. That would have been too awful in the circumstances. Sensing his mood, Pommes Frites presented him with a stick he’d found. It was a specially large one with some seaweed attached.
When they reached the port Monsieur Pamplemousse bought a postcard for Doucette in a shop which sold everything from fishing nets to wooden
sabots,
via Breton lace, hand-painted china, and oilskins – a reminder that Brittany had ‘weather’ – even in summer. The card showed a man paddling a flat-bottomed boat through the local marshes; it was a choice between that, views of the harbour, the salt pans, or close-up pictures of lobsters awaiting the pot.
Coming out of the shop the first thing he saw was a picture of the girl. Her face looked out at him from the front page of a local
journal.
They must have worked quickly. He bought a copy and led the way to a café a little way along the front.
Suddenly realising how hungry he was, he ordered a
crêpe
au sucre
as well as a plate of
croissants,
a large cup of
chocolat,
and a bowl of water for Pommes Frites. Then, to the sound of halyards slapping against steel masts in the freshening wind, he settled down to read the
journal.
In the end it didn’t tell him much more than he already knew, or could have guessed. Le Cirque Bretagno was a small family-owned concern of Italian origin that had been going the rounds since before the turn of the century, handed down from father to son and currently being run by the mother. The father had died several years ago. It travelled all over Europe, seldom staying more than a night or two in any one place, and only intended being in Port St. Augustin for three nights before heading further south towards Bordeaux.
The accident had happened when Yasmin was performing a change-over on the high trapeze. It was a difficult manoeuvre – the high-spot of the act – but one which she had performed many times. No one knew quite what went wrong; a momentary loss of concentration, a split-second error of judgement; her hands had touched the other bar, but too late to tighten her grip. With such a trick there was no second chance. It underlined the ever present danger of circus life, and the fact that even with a safety
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