Part 5 (1/2)

Pop rose from an uncheerful breakfast of one croissant, one roll of bread, two cups of coffee, and a small pot of redcurrant jelly, in very low spirits. This, it seemed to him, was no breakfast for a man and moreover he had slept very badly.

Outside, the day was slightly less violent. The wind had dropped a little, though not completely, and now rain was merely coming down in a mad, unremitting waterfall, a grey curtain obscuring all but the closer reaches of harbour, sea, and sky.

In the small hotel lounge, behind rattling doors, among a cramped forest of decrepit wicker chairs, Mariette and Charley were looking at French fas.h.i.+on magazines; the twins were playing patience with Victoria, and Montgomery and Primrose noughts and crosses. Several French children were running noisily backwards and forwards or were reading and playing too, constantly pursued by the voices of remonstrating mammas calling them by name: 'Hippolyte! Ernestine! Jean-Pierre! Marc-Antoine! Celestine! Fifi!'

Pop thought these names were plain d.a.m.n silly and moodily congratulated himself that he and Ma, who was still upstairs giving Oscar his breakfast, had given their children sensible solid names like Zinnia and Petunia, Primrose and Montgomery, Victoria, Mariette, and Oscar.

At last he could bear it no longer. He put on his yachting cap and mackintosh and went out into a grey rain that had in it the chill of December, hopeful of somewhere finding himself an honest, solid breakfast.

The entire length of dark grey pave running along the little harbour was as deserted as the deck of an abandoned s.h.i.+p. Down in the harbour itself the black figures of a few fishermen in oilskins were busy tightening the moorings of their blue sardine boats, on the masts of which the furled sails were rolled like copper umbrellas.

In the morning air was a raw saltiness which sharpened the appet.i.te with a sting. Seagulls made continuous mournful cries as they quarrelled above the boats, hungry too. From a cafe at the end of the promenade came the smell of coffee, bitter, strong, deliciously mocking.

Inside the cafe Pop found himself to be the only customer. Presently a waiter who looked as if he had been awake all night and was now preparing to sleep all day came and stood beside his table.

'M'sieu?'

'Three boiled eggs,' Pop said. 'Soft.'

'Comment?'

Thanks to Mr Charlton Pop knew what this meant.

'Soft,' he said. 'S'il vous plait.'

'M'sieu?'

'Three boiled eggs. Soft,' Pop said.

'Ex?'

'S'il vous plait,' Pop said. 'Soft,' He held up three fingers. 'Three. Trois. Soft boiled.'

'Ex?'

'Yes, old boy,' Pop said. 'Oui.'

With his forefinger he described what he thought were a few helpful circles in the air and at this, he felt, the waiter seemed to understand. In a sort of ruminating daze he went away, muttering 'Ex' several times.

Two minutes later he came back to bring Pop a large treble brandy.

'ca va?' he said and Pop could only nod his head in mute, melancholy acquiescence, deeply regretting that among the French words Mr Charlton had taught him there had so far been none relating to drink and food. It was an omission that would have to be remedied pretty soon.

With increasing depression, as yet unrelieved by the brandy, Pop walked back to the hotel. It would be a pretty good idea, he thought, to buy himself a pocket dictionary and he was about to go over and consult Charley on the subject when the man in pince-nez came hurrying forward from behind the reception desk, mole-like, blinking nervously.

'Bonjour, Monsieur Larkin. It is possible to speak with you?'

'Oui,' Pop said. 'What's up?'

'Please to step one moment into the Bureau.'

Pop followed the man in pince-nez through the door marked 'Bureau'. The door was carefully shut behind him and the little office at once struck him as being markedly untidy, full of dust, and without a breath of air. Piles of dusty brown paper parcels were everywhere stacked on shelves, tables, and even chairs and in one corner stood a high heavy oak desk with a fretted bra.s.s grille running round three sides.

Behind this the man in pince-nez perched himself, less like a mole than a little inquisitorial monkey 'Monsieur Larkin, it is merely a little matter of the pa.s.sports.'

'I see,' Pop said and then remembered something. 'By the way, what's your name?'

'Mollet.'

'Molly,' Pop said. 'Always nice to know.'

'Monsieur Larkin,' M. Mollet said, 'I am finding some little difficulty in saying which of your pa.s.sports is which.' He held up a pa.s.sport for Pop to see. 'Par exemple, this one. Mr and Mrs Charlton. This is not relating to you and madame?'

No, Pop explained, it wasn't relating to him and madame, but to his daughter and her husband Charley.

'I see. And this one Sydney Charles Larkin. This is relating to you?'

That was it, Pop said. That was him all right.

'With the six children?'

'With the six children,' Pop said.

'Then what', M. Mollet said, 'is this one relating to? Florence Daisy Parker?'

'That's Ma.'

'Pardon? Comment?'

That's my missus. My wife,' Pop said. 'Ma.'

M. Mollet peered with startled, troubled, inquisitorial eyes above the top of the grille.

'Your wife? A single lady? With another name?'

'That's it,' Pop said. By this time the brandy had made him feel more cheerful, more his perky self. Any objections?'

'You are taking a double room in this hotel to share with a single lady while you yourself have six children?'

Pop actually laughed. 'Right first time,' he said.

M. Mollet, again looking as if he'd been pole-axed, took off his pince-nez, hastily wiped them with his handkerchief, and put them on again. When he spoke again it was with an uncertain quiver of the lips, his eyes looking down through the spectacles.

'In this case I regret that I must ask you to leave the hotel.'

'Not on your nelly,' Pop said. His cheerfulness had begun to evaporate. He had a sudden sneaking notion that the Froggies thought he and Ma weren't respectable. He began to wish he'd had another treble brandy. 'Not on your flipping nelly.'

'Nelly? What is that?'