Page 23 of Mrs. Endicott's Splendid Adventure
“I thought of mentioning that before we left Marseille,” Dora said, a note of smugness in her voice. Ellie swallowed back her annoyance.
As they climbed to the top of another ridge, she stared in alarm. “Is that smoke? Do you smell burning?”
A white mist was rising from the bonnet of the Bentley.
“I do see smoke, or is it steam?” Dora peered out of the windscreen.
“Is the engine on fire?” Mavis sat up in alarm, clutching Dora’s seat. “Shouldn’t we get out before it blows up?”
“I think it’s steam,” Ellie said. “It must be the radiator. I should have checked before we left. Oh damn and blast. How far to the nearest village, do you think, Dora?”
Dora peered down at the map. It was now quite dark and hard to see.
“I don’t see anything on this road for a while. There are villages along the coast. Maybe we should head for the closest one. Take the next turnoff.”
They proceeded slowly, the Bentley still showing its displeasure, hissing steam escaping. At the foot of the slope, a tiny road went off to their right. A small hand-painted sign read “Saint-Benet.”
“It might just be a church or a monastery,” Dora said. “I don’t see it on the map.”
“At least there would be someone who can help us.” Ellie turned the car on to the road, little more than a track. It took them down another steep-sided valley, lined with thick pine forest. Olive trees grew beside the road. Vineyards climbed in terraces up the hillsides.
“At least there is cultivation,” Dora said. “We’re not in the middle of nowhere.”
“I don’t see any houses.” Ellie peered hopefully through the windscreen.
The road snaked downward, seemingly forever, the tall hillsides blotting out the last of the setting sun. Ellie found she was holding herbreath, waiting for the inevitable moment when the Bentley ground to a halt and they were stuck far from any help.
Then, at the moment the valley was about to be plunged into darkness, it widened out. There were small farms with stone farmhouses in the middle of cultivated fields, their shutters already closed for the night. Buildings appeared on either side of the road—a church with a square tower, a row of narrow houses. The street ended in a small harbour lined with pastel-coloured buildings. On either side of the village steep cliffs rose, the sandstone glowing blood-red in the last of the setting sun. Brightly painted fishing boats bobbed at the quay, and beyond stretched the Mediterranean, as wine-dark as Homer had described it. Lights already shone in some of the buildings and sparkled on the water. From somewhere came the sounds of an accordion playing, a baby crying, voices, laughter.
“Oh my.” Ellie slowed the car, her mouth open, staring in wonder. She had never seen anywhere more perfect. The thought came to her that she didn’t want to leave. As if confirming this, the Bentley gave a hiss and died.
Chapter 10
Ellie got out of the car, her hands stiff from gripping the steering wheel so tightly, and looked around. To the left of the harbour there was a bar or café with a group of men sitting at an outdoor table. At that moment she noticed a man stand up from the group at the bar and come towards her. He was a big man with unruly, dark curly hair, a hint of stubble at his chin and a scowl on his face. He was wearing an old open-necked shirt, revealing a hairy chest. There was a sense of menace in the purposeful way he strode towards them. Behind her she heard Mavis give a little gasp of alarm.
“Hey, what do you think you are doing? This is not a place to station your car. Move it at once,” he roared in French, waving his arms as if shooing away pigeons. He took in the Bentley. “You think because you are English that you can park wherever you wish, eh?”
Ellie turned to face him. His eyes were flashing angrily, and his whole appearance was quite alarming. She took an involuntary step back. “I am sorry,” she said, trying to form French sentences in her head. “We have had a small problem. We need a garage for the car.”
She saw him realize that she was a woman, not a man. “There is no garage here, madame.” He was still glaring at her but no longer roaring. “You must move your vehicle. The lorry comes to pick up the fish first thing in the morning and must station itself here.”
He was now towering over her, at least six feet tall, and burly but not fat. Muscular. She couldn’t tell how old he was. Maybe forties?Fifties? His hair showed no signs of grey in the failing light, but his face was weathered from a life in the sun.
“Monsieur, I’m afraid the car will not move. There was smoke, steam. I don’t know what’s wrong, but now it has stopped. It will not go.” She found she, too, was using her hands to speak. “Is there no garage nearby? No mechanic?”
She thought she saw a flicker of amusement in those dark eyes. “There is Louis,” he said. “He does the repairs around here. Everything—boat engines, plumbing, probably automobiles. He will be able to tell you what is wrong. And maybe be able to acquire the parts you need.” He gave a very Gallic shrug meaning “maybe yes, maybe no.” When she didn’t respond, assessing this, he went on: “We are not much in need of automobiles here. Monsieur Danton has one, he is the notaire. The doctor ... And the priest has a small Citroën. But apart from that ...”
Again he shrugged.
“So how do you get into the nearest town? Is there a bus?”
He smiled now, the smile completely changing his face. He was younger than she had thought. “Oh no, madame. No autobus. There is the postal van, a lorry that brings supplies once a week, and we sometimes take the boat into La Ciotat or even to Marseille. It’s not too long a journey on a good day.”
“Oh, I see.” She looked around. The other men at the table were now watching with frank interest. “Could you direct me to this Louis? Would he still be working, do you think?”
Now he laughed. “Oh no, madame. Louis is sitting here, with us, drinking wine. He will attend to you in the morning. In the meantime, however, we must move your automobile.” He shouted something to his friends. As they came across from the bar, Ellie asked, “Is there a hotel where we can spend the night?”
“I regret there is not, but there is the pension,” he said. “Pension Victoria, named after your queen who used to come here to spend the winter, as you probably know.”
