| General Fiction posted June 4, 2019 | Chapters: |
...61 62 -63- 64... 
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It's a dog's life.
A chapter in the book The French Letter
The Three Horseshoes
by tfawcus
| Background Charles, who is now working for MI6, has been asked to renew his liaison with Helen, so they can be sent back together to her home in the Hindu Kush, to neutralise an international terrorist group. |
Last paragraphs of Chapter 62
"Working together? Now that's an idea that appeals, and I should dearly love to return to the land of my birth and childhood." She paused and searched within my eyes for her answer. "I think we should work together, don't you? But on our terms, not on theirs."
This time, when we raised our glasses and clinked them, not a drop was spilled.
Chapter 63
I was surprised by her enthusiasm and thought it wise to sound a note of caution.
"Are you sure you want to return to the Hindu-Kush? The trauma of your parents' murder..."
"... is exactly why I must go. There are ghosts to lay to rest. There are people to be brought to account."
"Violent, well-armed people who will stop at nothing."
Helen's eyes blazed. "People who have abused and mistreated the Kalash for years. It doesn't matter if you're talking about the Taliban, al-Queda, or Islamic State. At one time or another, they have all exerted pressure on us to break the ties to our culture and convert to Islam, often under pain of death."
There was an intensity in the way she spoke that I had not heard before. "The Hindu-Kush is our land. We have lived there for hundreds of years. I'm talking of my mother's people, the last surviving heirs of Peristan, faerie kingdom of the mountains."
"Yes, I know, you have spoken of it before. I have also read of it in Kipling."
"Kipling! He depicted us as ignorant savages. If you want a better sense of it, read Salman Rushdie. He understands the relationship between humans and the spirit world much better."
"Yes, I have read his book inspired by the Arabian Nights. Am I now to believe you're a reincarnation of Scheherazade, or a woman imbued with the spirit of a jinnia?"
"You are the storyteller! Think of me as a female djinn, spun from the silken mists of the faerie folk who tend the mountain goats of Tirich Mir."
"Would you grant me a wish if I rubbed your magic lamp?"
"Perhaps. But we are a tricky folk, master, and don't take kindly to being rubbed the wrong way."
This was something I already knew. I didn't need her to remind me of it. I looked at her, half-believing the account of her ancestry. I had seen that other-worldly dreaminess previously when she spoke of the Hindu-Kush. Perhaps she really was possessed by a jinnia spirit who had slipped through a crack in time and space.
I smiled and said, "I am not your master and will not offend you with my whims. I already have my heart's desire sitting in front of me, and I shall save any further wishes for another time."
"Go on," she teased. "Try me. After all, you have two more wishes. One has already been granted."
"All right then." I leaned forward and rubbed my finger around the rim of her wine glass. It emitted a musical hum. "There. That will have to do in the absence of a magic lamp. My wish is to fly with you to the rooftop of the world. From all I have read, Chitral is a fascinating place."
"Do you really think so?" Her eyes moistened. I could see how desperately she wanted me to believe in her world, the pure air of the mountains that transcended drug cartels, terrorism and murder. Yet, if we were bound there on a mission of retribution and revenge, how, I wondered, would it end?
She came and sat beside me, snuggled into the cusp of my shoulder, and kissed me on the neck. "Your wish is my command."
We continued to sit like that for some time. She, no doubt, remained wrapped in thoughts of her homeland as she gazed at the blur of Picardy flashing past the window, while my thoughts turned to Bisto and the task ahead.
I began to recall and jot down the names of squadron members I'd lost touch with years ago. I knew Bisto wouldn't be much help. He was one of those chaps with many acquaintances but few close friends. He'd always left social arrangements to Jenny, gone along with her plans, and been heartily pleased when everyone left and he could return to his beloved garden, the companionship of his dog, or the solitude of the river bank. Without her leavening influence, he might simply shut himself off from the world, becoming more and more reclusive.
I rang him well before Calais but there was no answer. Although I left a message, I doubted he'd bother to check his phone. He probably didn't even know where it was. There was nothing for it but to arrive unannounced and hope for the best. At least my MGB would still be in his garage. I'd be able to take Helen for a spin if it turned out he'd been scooped up and rescued by one of Jenny's bridge buddies.
I tried again when we reached St. Pancras but still no answer. Helen raised her eyebrows. "Are you sure he knows we're coming?"
"He certainly doesn't know that you're coming, and he probably didn't think I'd turn up quite so soon. Still, you never know with Bisto. I expect he's pottering about, busying himself with something to shut the reality from his mind. Anyway, if the worst comes to the worst, we can always drive down to my place and spend the night there."
She gave my hand a squeeze. "If that's the worst you have to offer, I don't mind being a pessimist for the day." As a provocative afterthought, she added, "I might even end up granting your third wish."
I kissed her lightly on the lips. "Hold that thought, darling. As tempting as it is, I really want to devote all my energy at the moment to helping Ian in his hour of need."
"Ian. That's a nice name. Why do you always insist on calling him Bisto?"
"It's just a nickname. We all used to call him that. You probably wouldn't understand. Like gravy. Rich and thick. Upside-down British humour."
"What a horrible thing to say. I thought he was your friend."
I sighed. "I knew you wouldn't understand."
There were many things that Helen would have difficulty in understanding in England. On the other hand, probably more that I wouldn't understand about Pakistan. We would have much to teach each other and I looked forward to it.
There are no direct trains from London to Henley-on-Thames. We had to change at Twyford and it was dark by the time we arrived. I tried one last time to ring Bisto.
"Hello? Charles, old chap, is that really you? Where the dickens are you?"
"Came as soon as I could. We're at the station. I'll call a cab and be with you in a quarter of an hour."
"Don't even think about it. I'll pick you up. How about we meet at The Three Horseshoes? It's only five minutes from the station and you can have a pint while you're waiting. Order one in for me, too, if you like. I won't be long." There was a pause before he continued. "Did you say 'we'? You and who else?"
"Helen. I told you about her when I was last here. She's a lovely lady. Dying to meet you."
"Can't think why," he muttered, "but any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Plenty of spare room in the old homestead. To tell the truth, I'm rattling around in it without Jenny."
Good as his word, Bisto arrived at The Three Horseshoes not long after us, ushering Biggles ahead of him as he took off his coat. The barman leaned over the counter. "Hello, Biggles. Haven't seen you in here for a while."
Biggles wagged his tail expectantly.
"Just a moment. Suzie, love, is that a morsel of ham on those plates you're taking back to the kitchen? I think I may have found a home for it."
"You're an old softie, Joe." Suzie paused just long enough for Joe to reach across and filch a bit. He tossed it to Biggles, who caught it and gulped it down in one movement.
"That's a lovely dog of yours, Mr. Kidman. Always a pleasure to serve him. You, too, of course. What'll be your poison?"
Bisto glanced across at us. "Thanks, Joe. I think my friends have already bought a round, but you could bring a menu across when you've got time. We'll be staying for a bite to eat."
He was wreathed in smiles as he approached. "Come on, Biggles. Now you behave yourself. Ladies present." Biggles trotted over and sat at Helen's feet.
"Where are your manners, old fellow. Shake!" The spaniel extended his paw, gazing at Helen with liquid eyes, and waited for her to accept it.
"What a perfect gentleman!" She held out her arms and, in a second, Biggles had both paws on her knee, tail wagging nineteen to the dozen.
I laughed. "Well, she certainly seems to have the seal of approval. Good to see you, Bisto. In case you hadn't realised, this is Helen."
Helen half rose, offering her hand. "Lovely to meet you, Ian. Charles has told me so much about you."
"Call me Bisto, my dear. All my friends do."
"No. I shall call you Ian, if you don't mind. It's a lovely name."
Bisto blushed and turned to me. "What a charming lady. Far too good for you, Charles."
"Working together? Now that's an idea that appeals, and I should dearly love to return to the land of my birth and childhood." She paused and searched within my eyes for her answer. "I think we should work together, don't you? But on our terms, not on theirs."
This time, when we raised our glasses and clinked them, not a drop was spilled.
Chapter 63
I was surprised by her enthusiasm and thought it wise to sound a note of caution.
"Are you sure you want to return to the Hindu-Kush? The trauma of your parents' murder..."
"... is exactly why I must go. There are ghosts to lay to rest. There are people to be brought to account."
"Violent, well-armed people who will stop at nothing."
Helen's eyes blazed. "People who have abused and mistreated the Kalash for years. It doesn't matter if you're talking about the Taliban, al-Queda, or Islamic State. At one time or another, they have all exerted pressure on us to break the ties to our culture and convert to Islam, often under pain of death."
There was an intensity in the way she spoke that I had not heard before. "The Hindu-Kush is our land. We have lived there for hundreds of years. I'm talking of my mother's people, the last surviving heirs of Peristan, faerie kingdom of the mountains."
"Yes, I know, you have spoken of it before. I have also read of it in Kipling."
"Kipling! He depicted us as ignorant savages. If you want a better sense of it, read Salman Rushdie. He understands the relationship between humans and the spirit world much better."
"Yes, I have read his book inspired by the Arabian Nights. Am I now to believe you're a reincarnation of Scheherazade, or a woman imbued with the spirit of a jinnia?"
"You are the storyteller! Think of me as a female djinn, spun from the silken mists of the faerie folk who tend the mountain goats of Tirich Mir."
"Would you grant me a wish if I rubbed your magic lamp?"
"Perhaps. But we are a tricky folk, master, and don't take kindly to being rubbed the wrong way."
This was something I already knew. I didn't need her to remind me of it. I looked at her, half-believing the account of her ancestry. I had seen that other-worldly dreaminess previously when she spoke of the Hindu-Kush. Perhaps she really was possessed by a jinnia spirit who had slipped through a crack in time and space.
I smiled and said, "I am not your master and will not offend you with my whims. I already have my heart's desire sitting in front of me, and I shall save any further wishes for another time."
"Go on," she teased. "Try me. After all, you have two more wishes. One has already been granted."
"All right then." I leaned forward and rubbed my finger around the rim of her wine glass. It emitted a musical hum. "There. That will have to do in the absence of a magic lamp. My wish is to fly with you to the rooftop of the world. From all I have read, Chitral is a fascinating place."
"Do you really think so?" Her eyes moistened. I could see how desperately she wanted me to believe in her world, the pure air of the mountains that transcended drug cartels, terrorism and murder. Yet, if we were bound there on a mission of retribution and revenge, how, I wondered, would it end?
She came and sat beside me, snuggled into the cusp of my shoulder, and kissed me on the neck. "Your wish is my command."
We continued to sit like that for some time. She, no doubt, remained wrapped in thoughts of her homeland as she gazed at the blur of Picardy flashing past the window, while my thoughts turned to Bisto and the task ahead.
I began to recall and jot down the names of squadron members I'd lost touch with years ago. I knew Bisto wouldn't be much help. He was one of those chaps with many acquaintances but few close friends. He'd always left social arrangements to Jenny, gone along with her plans, and been heartily pleased when everyone left and he could return to his beloved garden, the companionship of his dog, or the solitude of the river bank. Without her leavening influence, he might simply shut himself off from the world, becoming more and more reclusive.
I rang him well before Calais but there was no answer. Although I left a message, I doubted he'd bother to check his phone. He probably didn't even know where it was. There was nothing for it but to arrive unannounced and hope for the best. At least my MGB would still be in his garage. I'd be able to take Helen for a spin if it turned out he'd been scooped up and rescued by one of Jenny's bridge buddies.
I tried again when we reached St. Pancras but still no answer. Helen raised her eyebrows. "Are you sure he knows we're coming?"
"He certainly doesn't know that you're coming, and he probably didn't think I'd turn up quite so soon. Still, you never know with Bisto. I expect he's pottering about, busying himself with something to shut the reality from his mind. Anyway, if the worst comes to the worst, we can always drive down to my place and spend the night there."
She gave my hand a squeeze. "If that's the worst you have to offer, I don't mind being a pessimist for the day." As a provocative afterthought, she added, "I might even end up granting your third wish."
I kissed her lightly on the lips. "Hold that thought, darling. As tempting as it is, I really want to devote all my energy at the moment to helping Ian in his hour of need."
"Ian. That's a nice name. Why do you always insist on calling him Bisto?"
"It's just a nickname. We all used to call him that. You probably wouldn't understand. Like gravy. Rich and thick. Upside-down British humour."
"What a horrible thing to say. I thought he was your friend."
I sighed. "I knew you wouldn't understand."
There were many things that Helen would have difficulty in understanding in England. On the other hand, probably more that I wouldn't understand about Pakistan. We would have much to teach each other and I looked forward to it.
There are no direct trains from London to Henley-on-Thames. We had to change at Twyford and it was dark by the time we arrived. I tried one last time to ring Bisto.
"Hello? Charles, old chap, is that really you? Where the dickens are you?"
"Came as soon as I could. We're at the station. I'll call a cab and be with you in a quarter of an hour."
"Don't even think about it. I'll pick you up. How about we meet at The Three Horseshoes? It's only five minutes from the station and you can have a pint while you're waiting. Order one in for me, too, if you like. I won't be long." There was a pause before he continued. "Did you say 'we'? You and who else?"
"Helen. I told you about her when I was last here. She's a lovely lady. Dying to meet you."
"Can't think why," he muttered, "but any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Plenty of spare room in the old homestead. To tell the truth, I'm rattling around in it without Jenny."
Good as his word, Bisto arrived at The Three Horseshoes not long after us, ushering Biggles ahead of him as he took off his coat. The barman leaned over the counter. "Hello, Biggles. Haven't seen you in here for a while."
Biggles wagged his tail expectantly.
"Just a moment. Suzie, love, is that a morsel of ham on those plates you're taking back to the kitchen? I think I may have found a home for it."
"You're an old softie, Joe." Suzie paused just long enough for Joe to reach across and filch a bit. He tossed it to Biggles, who caught it and gulped it down in one movement.
"That's a lovely dog of yours, Mr. Kidman. Always a pleasure to serve him. You, too, of course. What'll be your poison?"
Bisto glanced across at us. "Thanks, Joe. I think my friends have already bought a round, but you could bring a menu across when you've got time. We'll be staying for a bite to eat."
He was wreathed in smiles as he approached. "Come on, Biggles. Now you behave yourself. Ladies present." Biggles trotted over and sat at Helen's feet.
"Where are your manners, old fellow. Shake!" The spaniel extended his paw, gazing at Helen with liquid eyes, and waited for her to accept it.
"What a perfect gentleman!" She held out her arms and, in a second, Biggles had both paws on her knee, tail wagging nineteen to the dozen.
I laughed. "Well, she certainly seems to have the seal of approval. Good to see you, Bisto. In case you hadn't realised, this is Helen."
Helen half rose, offering her hand. "Lovely to meet you, Ian. Charles has told me so much about you."
"Call me Bisto, my dear. All my friends do."
"No. I shall call you Ian, if you don't mind. It's a lovely name."
Bisto blushed and turned to me. "What a charming lady. Far too good for you, Charles."
 Recognized |
List of Characters
Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's an intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris, recently assassinated by Charles Asserted to be leader of an ISIS network
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Charles Brandon - the narrator, a well-known travel writer.
Group Captain Bamforth (alias Sir David Brockenhurst) - an intelligence officer with MI6 and Air Attache in Paris
Helen Culverson - Also a travel writer, whose relationship with Charles is complicated by her relationship with Jeanne Durand.
Kayla Culverson - her older sister, who disappeared somewhere in Bangkok and has surfaced again in Paris.
Madame Jeanne Durand - a French magazine editor and undercover agent with the French Drug Squad.
Madame Madeleine Bisset - Helen's landlady in Paris
Mr Bukhari - a Pakistani businessman (now deceased)
Ian 'Bisto' Kidman - an ex-RAF friend of Charles's.
Monsieur Bellini - a denizen of the French Underworld.
Andre (aka Scaramouche) - an actor in Montmartre and friend of Kayla's
Dr. Laurent - a veterinary surgeon in Versailles.
Father Pierre Lacroix - vicar of the Versailles Notre Dame church.
Madame Lefauvre - an old woman living in Versailles - the town gossip.
Alain Gaudin - brother of Francoise, a gardener at Monet's house in Giverney
Francoise Gaudin - Alain's an intellectually disabled sister.
Estelle Gaudin [deceased] - mother of Francoise and Alain, a prostitute
Mademoiselle Suzanne Gaudin [deceased] - Alain's grandmother, to whom the mysterious letter of 1903 was addressed.
Jack and Nancy Wilkins - a Wiltshire dairy farmer and his wife.
Colonel Neville Arnoux [deceased] - of whom we may hear more later.
Gaston Arnoux - Owner of an art gallery in Paris, recently assassinated by Charles Asserted to be leader of an ISIS network
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