Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (8 page)

While he was talking Doctor Furze pushed open the door to the gymnasium and before he had time to remonstrate, Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself being propelled through the gap. There was a click as the door closed behind them, followed by a dull thud as Pommes Frites applied his full weight to the other side.

‘Good. You appear to have the room to yourself.’ Ignoring the interruption, Doctor Furze punctuated his remark with a metallic click as he operated a catch on the door. ‘We must make sure you are not disturbed.’

Torn between wanting to protest and the need to preserve his masquerade, Monsieur Pamplemousse inwardly registered, but passed no comment on the paraphernalia of keep-fit gadgetry surrounding him: rowing machines, stationary
cycles, parallel bars, apparatus he’d only ever seen adorning the pages of glossy magazines.

Deciding that discretion was, for the time being at least, the better part of valour, he allowed himself to be helped onto a machine whose purpose he would have been hard put to it to define had he been asked. It looked more like the cockpit of a space module than anything remotely connected with keeping fit.

A moment later, as he lay back in a semi-prone position and felt leather straps being tightened round his ankles and wrists, he wished he hadn’t given in so easily. But he had left it too late. As Doctor Furze reached up and pressed a button on a panel mounted to one side of the machine, he felt his legs begin to move in a kind of pumping action, slowly at first, then gradually gathering speed. At the same time his outstretched arms were carried upwards over his head, then inexorably back again. The Doctor flicked another switch and there was a sudden surge of power.

Closing his eyes, Monsieur Pamplemousse was dimly aware of voices and vague movements in front of him. Then they disappeared and he heard a door close.

Fighting back the feeling of utter helplessness which came over him as he realised he was on his own, he concentrated all his efforts on trying to ride with the machine rather than resist it, knowing that if he once allowed himself to falter, panic would set in. He was determined not to give Doctor Furze the satisfaction of seeing him in a state of collapse when he returned.
If
he returned. The memory of the woman on the stretcher came flooding back and he wondered if she, too, had found herself in the ‘hot seat’. It had certainly felt warm when he’d first climbed onto it.

How long his ordeal might have lasted, Monsieur Pamplemousse had no means of knowing. All he was aware of were clouds of a reddish colour filling his brain; redness, followed by purple, then total blackness enveloped him as he passed out. It was followed by a feeling of floating on air and an unaccountable warmth; a perfumed warmth which came from somewhere overhead.

He opened his eyes and saw, first Pommes Frites, or rather Pommes Frites’ tongue as it reached out to lick him, and
beyond that an impression of peaches, a peachlike skin covered in soft down.

‘Are you all right?’ The peach swam into focus and formed itself into a face. ‘What an awful thing to have happened. Thank goodness your dog kicked up such a fuss. I found him trying to scratch the door down. I can’t think how it could have been left locked. Luckily I had my pass key with me.’

While she was talking the owner of the face set about undoing the straps and Monsieur Pamplemousse realised for the first time that the machine was no longer working.

As the last of the straps fell away he tried to dismount, then he fell back again as his legs started to buckle beneath him.

‘You’d better come back to my room.’ The voice took charge and a hand reached out to take hold of his. ‘What I still can’t credit is that anyone could be so careless. It would be bad enough at the best of times, but to let it happen to someone in your condition!’

‘My condition?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly remembered he had a part to play. He groped around with his free hand in search of his stick. Pommes Frites, ever alert to his master’s needs, picked it up in his mouth and handed it to him.

‘My room’ turned out to be further along the corridor and far enough away from the gymnasium for Monsieur Pamplemousse to breathe more freely. As far as he was concerned, the further away the better.

He stole a quick glance at the inscription on the door as it was held open for him. It bore the name
COSGROVE. MRS ANNE
COSGROVE
. The label said,
PÉDICURE ET MASSAGE
. Below the name there was a list of appointments for the day. He considered the matter for all of a hundredth of a second. A few minutes earlier he would not have remotely considered having his toenails attended to, let alone subjecting himself to a massage, and yet … Instinct told him it was an offer he shouldn’t refuse.

Mrs. Cosgrove held the door open and very gently placed a hand on his left elbow. She was wearing a white trouser suit which must have been stock issue as he had seen other staff wearing it, but somehow she managed to make it seem as thought it had been specially tailored. Perhaps it was because she had made certain modifications. The zip which ran the
length of the jacket front, from the high-collared neck down to the bottom hem, had been replaced at some time by one in bold, black plastic, with a large ring attached to the fastener. The sleeves were short, the trousers beneath closely fitting and held firmly in place by a figure that was both full and inviting.

‘I’m afraid I do not have an appointment. It is perhaps a case of – how do you English say? – pot luck.’ As he allowed himself to be led into the room, Monsieur Pamplemousse drew on the small stock of phrases remembered from his stay in Torquay. In England at that time there had been a lot of pot luck.

‘Oh dear.’ Mrs. Cosgrove smiled ruefully. ‘Is my accent
that
bad?’

‘Not at all.’ He was about to say he had seen her name on the door, but he stopped short in the nick of time. Instead, as she took hold of his hand to guide him into a waiting chair, he essayed a compliment. ‘You have the skin of an Englishwoman – it is very smooth and flawless.’

It was true. As she leant over and he felt the warmth of her body close to his he was reminded once again of peaches. Peaches and cream on a hot summer’s day by the Marne, or perhaps even more appositely, on the banks of the river Thames. Henley, perhaps, where the English had their boat races.

‘When you have the misfortune to inhabit the world in which I live,’ he said simply, ‘you acquire an extra sensitivity.’ Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Pommes Frites watching him intently, hanging on his every word. He turned the chair slightly on its swivel. Pommes Frites could be very off-putting at times.

‘Gosh, yes. I suppose so.’ Mrs. Cosgrove sat down on a stool in front of him and began removing his shoes and socks. ‘Is it true what they say about blind men then?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt himself heading towards deep water. ‘People say many things about many people,’ he said non-committally. ‘Some are true, some are not.’

Mrs. Cosgrove crossed one leg over the other as she reached over towards a tray of instruments. Her free leg began to swing to and fro like the pendulum of a clock. According to Didier in Planning it was a sure sign of some deep frustration, and he should know. He’d been married three times.

‘I mean about their being good lovers.’ Mrs. Cosgrove hastily uncrossed her legs and lifted his right foot onto her lap. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t really have said that.’

‘It is a question you would have to ask of another woman,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He gritted his teeth as Mrs. Cosgrove set to work, first on the instep, then gradually moving up towards the ankle. It felt as though his foot was on fire.

‘George has got very good eyesight.’

‘George?’

‘My husband.’

‘He is here?’

Mrs. Cosgrove gave a hollow laugh. ‘I should be so lucky. No, he’s at home, in England. He doesn’t hold with this sort of place. Too much like hard work. He’s probably out shooting or fishing.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse digested this latest piece of information, trying to form an equation between a man who was rich enough to spend his time out shooting and fishing on the one hand and on the other a woman massaging his ankles in a remote corner of France. Perhaps Didier was right in his theory and it accounted for the frustration.

‘Life goes on.’ Mrs. Cosgrove was one step ahead of him. ‘They say a change is as good as a rest. I took a course years ago. Not,’ she continued with feeling, ‘that it’s doing me much good. I seem to spend most of my time either fending off geriatric foot fetishists or digging toenails out of the curtains.’

‘Every occupation has its hazards,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And few people are without their problems.’

Mrs. Cosgrove sighed. ‘You can say that again. This place is full of them. It’s funny really.’

‘Funny?’

‘Well, it’s the first time I’ve worked anywhere like this, but it isn’t at all what I expected. It’s on two levels, if you know what I mean. Half the patients are barely tolerated – almost as if they are a necessary evil. They come and they go and then they are forgotten, whereas the privileged few get treated like lords. You hardly ever see them. When they arrive they have their own separate car park and they disappear into the Tower Block. But you try going up there if you haven’t been invited.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse pricked up his ears. ‘You have been?’

‘I tried once. You’d have thought I was trying to burgle Fort Knox. All hell broke loose.’

‘And how about the other patients? Are there many who don’t last the course?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse related his experience outside the gymnasium that morning.

Mrs. Cosgrove looked as if she had heard it all before. ‘That’s the second this week. It’s a regular occurrence. They’ve a set routine. The flag over the entrance gate gets lowered to half mast. Old Schmuck puts on his black arm band. Then the hearse arrives and carts the body away and everything returns to normal as if nothing had happened.

‘Mind you, they probably die happy, which is more than a lot of old dears can say. He can turn on the charm when he likes. He calls them his “investments” and he certainly makes sure they get their dividends.’

‘Is it usually women?’

Mrs. Cosgrove paused for a moment. ‘You know, it’s funny you should say that. I’ve never really thought about it before. I don’t remember it being a man. Not while I’ve been here anyway. Mind you, it’s a matter of statistics. A lot of rich old widows come here simply because they’re lonely. Rich old widowers don’t have the same problems.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes. His mind was starting to fill with facts. Facts which needed sorting and relating one to the other. Not for the first time he wished that Pommes Frites had the power of speech. There had been something odd about their encounter with the stretcher party in the corridor; something he couldn’t for the moment quite put his finger on. Pommes Frites had sensed it too, of that he was sure. It came to him suddenly. Herr Schmuck had already been wearing an arm band. He must have been very quick off the mark.

Mrs. Cosgrove glanced up at him. ‘I must say your glasses are a bit disconcerting.’ She reached for his other foot. ‘I can’t tell at all what you’re thinking.’

‘I was thinking it would be nice to see you again.’ It wasn’t strictly true. He was also feeling that an ally on the staff would be a great asset. ‘Perhaps when you have finished for the day?’

Mrs. Cosgrove lowered her head. Her hair, he noticed, was fair down to the roots; a natural blonde. The nape of her neck looked eminently kissable.

‘Staff are not encouraged to fraternise with the patients.’

‘And if they receive encouragement from them?’

‘Then it is expressly forbidden.’

‘That is a great pity.’

‘What block are you in?’

‘C.’

‘Mine is the adjoining block. Room thirteen. I usually have a work-out around four o’clock. We could have tea together afterwards.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse rose. Thirteen was his lucky number. He would leave the rest of his toes until another day. It would be good to have something in reserve. And when Mrs. Cosgrove was through with them, had he not read somewhere that the human foot contains something like twenty-six separate bones, not to mention all the attendant joints, ligaments, muscles and supporting tissues? More than enough to cover the rest of his stay at Château Morgue.

‘Shall we say four-thirty then?’

‘Make it a quarter to five. I’ll leave early and pop down to the village for some cakes. You must be starving.’ Mrs. Cosgrove held the door open for them and once again, as she touched his elbow he felt her warmth. ‘
À
bientôt.
’

‘
À
toute
à l
’heure.
’

Monsieur Pamplemousse bowed and hobbled on his way, conscious of her eyes following him as he tapped his way back down the corridor. Aware, too, of a certain reserve in Pommes Frites’ manner, an aloofness which hadn’t been there previously, as he led the way, looking neither to the right nor to the left.

Safely round the corner, Monsieur Pamplemousse bent down and gave him a pat. The response was luke-warm to say the least. He sighed. It was to be hoped there would be no unpleasantness. If they were to share a room for the next two weeks that was the last thine he wanted. Besides, he was going to need all the help he could get.

The rest of the journey back to the room was carried out in silence. Pommes Frites clearly wanted to draw a veil over the whole proceedings, whilst Monsieur Pamplemousse,
struggling to keep up with him, allowed his mind to dwell on other problems.

Apart from some minor youthful sorties in Torquay, it was his first real encounter with an Englishwoman, and he had to admit that many of his preconceptions and prejudices had received a severe dent. In no sense of the word,
par
exemple
, could Mrs. Cosgrove have been called ‘cold’ – something he had always been brought up to believe about her compatriots. Nor was she in the slightest bit ‘angular’. Again, very much the reverse. A trifle ‘horsy’ perhaps; she had a generous mouth and slightly protruding teeth. He could picture her on a winter’s morning astride some galloping steed, clutching the reins with one hand, a whip in the other, its flanks tightly gripped between her thighs – its nostrils steaming. Perhaps hers would be too.