I was here, I reminded myself, not to wallow in self, but for one quite simple reason. To find James, if possible, and to restore him to his wife.

Florence.

Just you remember that. I said it aloud to confirm determination.

Florence …

Chapter 6

The bar was fairly quiet, it was still early and the men had not come in from the fields or wherever they worked. The same gaggle of youths were banging about at the pinball table, laughing, jostling. A couple of men at the bar. The television flickering on its shelf, the sound off – a cartoon, a mouse chased by a cat.

I took my Scotch across to the corner table. The tourist couple from Paris were either not down yet or had left.

Under the glass tabletop the map looked tattier than it had yesterday, and Saint-Basile still fell off the edge. The man behind the bar, bald, shirt sleeves, cigarette butt stuck at the corner of his mouth, made some remark which caused a laugh, lifted the flap of his counter and came across to turn up the volume on the TV.

‘The news,’ he said.

A sudden howling crash of cymbals and trumpets, a station logo, and a woman speaking, with crimson lips.

No one paid any attention, then one of the men at the bar half turned and I saw that it was Maurice from the taxi. His companion looked vaguely over his shoulder and away again; the world could explode as far as he, and the youths at the pinball table, were concerned.

The barman stood beside me, looking up, a dirty cloth in his hand, the cigarette butt switching thoughtfully from side to side of his mouth.

A cow and cud.

Then the sports news and a shout from the youths, the room was silent and attentive. Famine could reap its harvest, guns recoil, students leap barricades, flames roar from high windows and the only thing which held anyone’s attention was the sight of one thickhead kicking a ball at another thickhead. They cheered, pounded their fists in the air, embraced each other.

A final jingle of music and a météo summary for the region and the barman switched off the sound.

‘Lille won. Three nil.’

I followed him over to the bar, ordered another drink and nodded to Maurice. I asked him as we stood drinking if he could tell me where to rent a car for a few weeks.

‘A few weeks? How many?’

‘Two or three. I’d like to drive around, have a look at the land.’

He shrugged. Sipped his Ricard, suggested, politely, that this was not Nice or Cannes. There was no Hertz or Avis in Bargemon.

He pushed his cap to the back of his head with a thumb.

‘A Simca Brake?’ He suddenly made a suggestion. ‘My brother-in-law has one. He’s in the clinic for a time. Perhaps he would rent it? Last year’s model, good condition.’