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“The same boy,” my father went on, “who was supposed to meet you at the festival in Edinburgh, that one year?”
“The very same.” I’d gone to Edinburgh, as it happened. Harry had made it as far as Epping, where he’d met up with an old girlfriend… but that was, in itself, another story.
“Well,” said my father, “when he does turn up, tell him I’m waiting with bated breath to find out why he rang.”
“I will.”
“Mind you, he didn’t sound too urgent in his message. He’s probably forgotten all about it, now. Gone off on the trail of King John’s coat buttons, or some such other nonsense.”
I smiled. “That reminds me… wherever did you find that coin for him? That King John coin?”
My father coughed, pretending not to hear me, and asked a question of his own: “What are you doing there on holiday? You haven’t gone on holiday in years.”
“It was Harry’s idea. He thought it would do me good to get away.”
“Well,” said my father, faintly pleased, “he might be right at that. The village life’s no good for you, you know—not healthy, stuck down there away from everything.”
I could have reminded him that he had turned out healthy enough, having grown up in that same village, and that I’d only gone there in the first place because he’d asked me to mind the house for him, but I wasn’t given time to answer back.
“Must go now, my dear. Enjoy your trip.”
“Daddy…” I said, but the line had already crackled and gone dead. With a sigh, I set the receiver back in place. Honestly, I thought, they were all the same, the men of my family. Cut from the same cloth.
I shrugged my arms into my dressing gown and yanked my window open to let out the steam from my shower. Leaning out across the sill, I drew a deep breath of the morning air, drinking in the peaceful scenery.
I couldn’t see the castle from my room—that view was blocked by another building squared against the hotel wall, its windows tightly shuttered still against the morning sun. But if I leaned a little further out and looked off to my left, across the tops of the trees that filled the square, I could just see the river, shining silver, beyond the head of the Rabelais statue.
Somewhere close by a bell was counting out the hours. Seven times the bell rang out, then silence. I was straining further across the sill, trying to get a better view, when the silence was abruptly shattered by a reverberating crash from the room next door. The window just beside mine on the left had opened inwards, and after a long moment’s pause I heard a burst of helpless laughter followed by a cheerful curse that floated out into the clear morning air.
I must have made some sound myself, because Paul’s dark head came round the painted window frame, his expression apologetic.
“Sorry,” he said, in a hushed voice. “Simon’s knocked the curtain off again. Did we wake you up?”
I shook my head. “I was awake already.”
Simon’s head joined Paul’s at the window. “Some crash, eh? I swear Thierry hangs the thing low on purpose, just to make life difficult for me. Don’t you have any problem opening yours?”
“No.” I glanced upwards at my own curtain rod, which hung a good inch clear of the top of the frame.
“I told you,” said Simon to Paul, his chin defiant. “It’s only us. He does it on purpose.”
Paul shrugged and grinned. “Yeah, well, you’re on your own this time. You can tell him yourself.”
“I don’t know the word for curtain,” Simon hedged, a little hopefully, but Paul stood firm.
“So go look it up in the dictionary. It’s the only way you’ll learn the language.”
After a final glance at his brother’s face, Simon withdrew from the window, and Paul turned back to face me, still grinning.
“Beautiful day,” he commented. “You must have brought the sunshine with you; we’ve had nothing but rain for three days.”
It was beautiful, I conceded. The shadows hung sharp and clear on the turreted houses and tightly clustered rooftops of the medieval town center, and the pale stone walls gleamed brightly above the tufted green tops of the acacia trees. Two cars swung round the square below us, but the noise of traffic was muffled in the distance and the cheerful gurgle of the fountain carried over everything.
A second bell began to chime, quite near and rich and ringing, and I looked at Paul in some surprise.
“I thought the bell just went,” I said.
“There are two bells. I’ve been trying to figure out exactly where the second one is—it’s either at the Church of St. Maurice, just up the rue Voltaire
