Monday 11 January 2016

Meeting Pierre

I think this story works as a stand alone but it is the next instalment of this story.
For audio click here

The train rattled along the tracks heading to Folkstone. Clifton pulled his coat tighter around him and dug in his pockets for his gloves. He'd chosen the only empty compartment in the carriage and slid the door closed and drew the curtains. He hoped no one would join him, but with all the other compartments occupied, the chances of that were slim.  He took his newspaper out and peered at the crossword but it was difficult to pick out the clues in the weak lemony light and difficult to concentrate on them with a restless brain. Instead he stared out into the darkness, wondering what the future held and hardly recognising his own bearded face that stared back at him.
They pulled into Maidstone station. One woman stood alone on the platform. Clifton guessed she was waiting to meet her lover off the train. There was a crunch of doors and a blow of the whistle and the train pulled off, slowly building up speed and rhythm. Clifton looked down at his crossword.
The door slid open. Clifton looked up expecting to see the guard, but it was the woman from the station who slipped into the carriage. She wasn't pretty in a conventional way but she was alluring, a fascinating face and a certain sex appeal.
“Is this seat taken?” she had a French accent which added to her appeal and a roman nose which didn’t. She was poured into her jeans and her sweater fell forward as she put her bag on the floor, giving Clifton a glimpse of a blue bra holding large breasts.
“Are you going to Folkestone?” She asked in her pretty voice.
“Oui, um yes.”
“Oh parlez vous Francais?”
“No, not really. Sorry.” Clifton straightened his back and looked out of the window watching the woman as she arranged herself and settled down. They sat in silence for a while Clifton alternating between the clues and the window.
“Do you have a light?”
He looked up and saw her brown eyes exploring him.
Clifton got out a box of matches and struck one, leaning forward to light her cigarette.
“Carlisle is a long way from Rome.” She whispered.  Clifton didn't flinch. He shook the match to extinguish it and she took a lungful of smoke. “When you get to Folkestone, a man called Pierre will pick you up. Look for a 2CV, Green. Go with him onto the ferry; at the other side he will drive you to Paris. Okay?” Clifton stared at her and she blew a puff of smoke into his face.
She raised one eyebrow inviting him to speak but he said nothing.
He just sat back and nodded and returned his attention to the crossword still unable to decipher the clues.
“Ah my stop,” the woman said as they pulled into Ashford. “Good luck,” she smiled a crooked smile and then she was gone leaving the scent of Chanel no 5 behind.
“Tickets please,” the guard was short and stocky. He was all smiles, but he seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to punch Clifton’s ticket.
“Any problem?” Clifton said.
The guard looked at him, looked at the battered suitcase on the rack and then back at the ticket. Finally, he snipped it and gave it back.
“Bon Voyage,” he said, and slid the door shut.
Clifton got off the train and walked down towards the port. The person in front of him stopped and asked a policeman for directions. Clifton tried to avoid their eyes. At the ticket gate there were two more coppers; and two more across the road. Were they there for him? He pulled down the brim of his hat and worked into the ferry port.
‘Tickets and passports please.”
Clifton took a deep breath. The passport in his pocket felt real enough, but this was the real test. He handed over his documents and waited. He’d learnt not to watch the officials when they checked the passport, so he stared ahead looking for a Green 2CV. The passport man smiled, closed the passport and handed it back to Clifton. With a curtly nod the men parted.  
The queue for the ferry was full of articulated lorries; the little 2CV must be in amongst them. Clifton didn’t want to look too desperate; he went to the café bought a tea and then tried to look like he was heading back to his own vehicle. There were plenty of cars but not the one he was looking for. The queue began to move. Quandary time, should he go on as a foot passenger or wait here for his ride? He was desperate to get out of the country, especially with all these police around. The last thing he wanted to do was spend the night at a ferry port. But on the other hand he was meant to follow instructions and being stranded in France alone was not too appealing either. Maybe Pierre had been picked up by the police. Maybe the girl on the train was a hoax.  He checked the parking lot once more, now the vehicles were moving it was easier to see, but still there was no sign of Pierre. He made a decision; he’d go on alone. As he crossed the road he heard a car screech around the corner. He’d been expecting a dull, army green but this was a bright lime colour that screamed look at me.
“Monsieur Edward,” the man in the car cried. “Bonsoir mon ami.”
“Bonsoir,” Clifton said.
The door swung open.“S'il vous plait” Pierre said, gesturing for Clifton to get in the car.
Clifton did as he was told and Pierre roared off and was waved onto the ferry. Pierre smiling and waving back to the dock workers. Nothing like hiding in broad daylight.
It was too cold to be on the deck really but Clifton needed the air. With salt on his lips and tears in his eyes he watched the White Cliffs recede into the dark and wondered if he’d ever see them again.





2 comments:

  1. Sexy French pronunciation:-) I like the plot , too:-)

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  2. Petra Goláňová16 January 2016 at 23:24

    "Instead he stared out into the darkness, wondering what the future held and hardly recognising his own bearded face that stared back at him."

    ReplyDelete