The Retreat Read online

  ‘Ah, that reminds me,’ Roman exclaimed. ‘Scout, can you back Immaculata’s car into the barn and make sure the drive is clear of broken glass for the morning? We had a delivery of wine glasses and one of the boxes split,’ he explained, reaching into his jacket. The car key was passed down the table.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ she told Scout. ‘I’ve left my diary in the glove box and it takes a different key.’

  ‘You don’t need a diary here,’ Sofka said. ‘Life just is. No beginning, no middle, no end.’

  ‘I’m not there yet,’ Joanna said ruefully.

  ‘Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed in one self place but where we are is hell, and where hell is, there must we ever be. I don’t mean here,’ Roman told Mackie. ‘I was quoting from Marlowe. The Devil, Mephistopholes, tells Faustus that we make our own hell – inner turmoils and so forth, the inability to make decisions. The thing to do, Joanna, is to get rid of negative patterns of thought. Make a choice and stick to it. But act. You’re right to cut down on the coffee.’

  ‘Faust sold his soul to the devil for glimpse of Helen of Troy,’ Sofka said.

  ‘She caused a lot of trouble, that one,’ Herbert grunted.

  Mackie got up from the table. ‘Shall we go, Scout?’

  Outside, the air was fresh, and she took a big gulp of it. There was a faint tang of salt as though the sea was nearby. The midsummer garden was retreating into shadow, the rhododendrons just dimming. Scout unlocked her car door and waited in silence while she rummaged in the boot and glove box.

  ‘It must be in my bag upstairs after all,’ she said. He gave her a withering look as he got into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Can you give me the key back when you’re done?’

  He revved the engine and didn’t answer.

  3

  Breakfast was taken in the kitchen, but there was no one there when Mackie came down at ten fifteen. She didn’t feel bad about oversleeping. All those early mornings in the force, working on into the night sometimes — many times, without rest or renumeratio — qualified her for a lie in. The problem with coming down late this morning was that there was nothing to eat and no one to ask. They had all disappeared.

  She went outside. There were about thirty cars parked around the gravel. She would never have got out if she had left her car there. Years of driving to incidents and sitting on her backside in interviews had made her a stranger to walking. She was about to go back to her room when she spotted a placard spiked into the verge to the left of the château.There was an arrow and a name: Agricola.

  The path cut through the rhododendron bushes. When she emerged she saw a low modern edifice with two floors. It reminded her of the station, except there was no blue lamp and no logo. There was a reception area, just like Albany Street, except the desk sergeant was replaced by a young woman in a neat blue suit, red lipstick and glossy bobbed hair. She could not have looked less like the women at the château. When she saw Mackie, she came out of her booth and pointed to list on a trestle table at the end of the foyer.

  ‘Bonjour, madame. Il faut s’inscrire ici.’

  ‘I’m not here for the conference. I’m a visitor at the château. They’ve all gone out.’

  The receptionist shrugged. She spoke good English. ‘I am the conference organiser. I can’t help you.’

  ‘Is Mr Roman here?’

  ‘He is not at this conference.’

  ‘I need a bicycle to get into town.’

  ‘You have to ask Monsieur L’Oiseau. Probably he is cultivating the vegetables. The terroir is behind the château.’

  Mackie retreated through the glass doors. The path behind the kitchen led up a slope to a large patch of ground planted with rows of lettuce, rhubarb, beans and broccoli. Behind them were frames of tomatoes, and behind them, bushes. Further up was a group of small trees that looked like an orchard. There was no sign of L’Oiseau. She walked up the slope and spotted Joanna in the middle of a line of healthy artichokes.

  ‘Good morning to you,’ she called. ‘I overslept. I’ve had no breakfast and I need to get into town.’

  Joanna looked round. ‘Didn’t you find the box?’

  ‘What box?’

  ‘The box Madame l’Oiseau leaves for us to get lunch. I’ll come and show you. — ‘Gerald!’, she called. ‘It’s coffee time. I’ve been told to keep an eye on him,’ she told Mackie. ‘He does too much and exhausts himself.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him? Is he really dying?’

  ‘He’s got a brain tumour. It’s benign though. Roman tells him he’s got years ahead of him, but he insists he’s on the way out. I think he enjoys being an old codger.’ She escorted Mackie back to the kitchen. ‘The box is always kept in the pantry.’ She fetched a tatty looking cardboard box and pulled out a cold roast chicken, a lump of pâté in grease-proof paper, hard boiled eggs, ham, baguettes, tomatoes, cucumber, lettuce and nectarines. ‘Someone’s been at this already,’ she said. ‘I bet it was Scout.’

  ‘Where’s he this morning?’

  ‘He’ll have taken the others into town. We have a market stall. Get something to eat, then I’ll get the bikes and ride down with you if you want to go.’

  Mackie found a plate and began to make herself a ham baguette. ‘Do you want one of these?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ve had breakfast.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be keeping an eye on Gerald?’

  Joanna shrugged. ‘It’s his fault if he works himself to death. Roman said I should leave him to it. We can’t be responsible for the actions of others. Would you like tea or coffee? I’m a coffee junkie.’

  ‘I thought you said it makes you agitated? You said so last night.’

  ‘It does if I have more than five cups a day. It’s still early. Iris only drinks tea. And tisane.’

  ‘I’ll have tea, thanks.’

  It tasted like that English Breakfast brew you get on holiday abroad. She would have to ask Niall to send her the strong leaf blend she drank at home, Irish char. Still, the bread and ham were good. ‘I haven’t ridden a bike for thirty years,’ she told Joanna.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not far, and there’s a cycle lane. You can ride along the river to the sea. You can’t get up there in a car.’

  ‘What do they sell on the market stall?’

  ‘Cheese, eggs, and whatever’s in season.’

  ‘They make cheese here?’

  ‘Herbert and Sofka make it. Iris makes marmalade. That’s the best seller.’

  ‘At home I get everything delivered from Tesco.’

  ‘There’s nothing like that here. There’s a small local supermarket, selling canned stuff, but we don’t tend to use it. We grow our own vegetables.’

  The bikes were old but looked well maintained. The ride to Pont du Calvaire was a piece of cake. When they got to the market square, Joanna dismounted and leant her bike against the wall of a bank. ‘Can you keep an eye out while I pop in here? I’m not paying a euro to park for five minutes. Oh God — I’d forgotten you were in the police.’

  ‘I’ll turn a blind eye.’

  The market was crowded. Cars were squeezed into places around the square. No sign of any traffic warden. Joanna returned and suggested they ride on to the quay. ‘It’s just that if the others see us, they’ll expect me to muck in. It’s not my day. ‘

  It was nearly noon but a red lamp shone outside the quayside bar. Fishermen wearing those sweaters that fasten on the shoulder were nattering and smoking outside in a language that Mackie assumed was Breton. The bar fell silent as she and Joanna walked in. Joanna called: ‘Bonjour, messieurs et dames,’ but none of them greeted her back.

  Mackie found a table in the corner. The place reminded her of a pub she’d strayed into on a driving holiday in Wales with Niall when he was a little boy. He wanted a drink of orange juice. There was an atmosphere, and it wasn’t friendly.

  Joanna bought over two glasses of cider. ‘They call this place Chez la Marse because the owner — she�
��s the woman behind the bar, comes from Marseilles. I don’t know it’s proper name, if it has one.’

  ‘It’s a long way from here to Marseilles.’

  ‘I think she came here with her son because they think there are too many North Africans in the south. I’ve heard them talking about it.’

  ‘So they’re racists.’’

  ‘Not with everybody. Scout comes in here a lot. Those are his mates.’ She pointed to a trio of tattooed men in vests who were ogling a striking blonde in ripped dungarees and biker boots. She was playing pool. The men thumped their table whenever she potted a ball.

  ‘They’re Dutch,’ Joanna said. ‘They’re all ex legionnaires, like Scout.’

  ‘Are there many foreigners here?’

  ‘Not really, apart from us. There’s a Vietnamese restaurant I go to with the community, but the locals don’t seem to go there. They don’t like outsiders, especially Parisians. Celts are OK. You’ll be alright. You look Irish.’

  ‘So do you, with your red hair.’ Mackie changed the subject. ‘It can’t be bad living in your own little enclave. Does the community get any funding or are are they self-sufficient?’

  ‘With what they make on the market?’ Joanna giggled. ‘The money comes from an organisation called Babel. They fund the conference centre which brings in the dosh. They hold regular meetings here. Roman always attends. And Scout too when the funders come. He picks them up if they’ve not got cars.’

  ‘I believe they have en suite bathrooms.’

  ‘Yes, but you have to be a delegate to get a room over there. Ask Roman about it. He’s usually in his study between four and six every week day, unless there’s a conference. I think you’ll like the ride down to the sea. It’s the estuary really. The road’s full of potholes. I got a puncture down there once and I had to wheel the bike all the way back to the château.’

  ‘I know how to fix a puncture.’

  ‘That’s useful. Shall we go then?’

  It was a bumpy ride. Mackie had a bike when she was young but didn’t recall a sore backside. When they got back to the château, she went upstairs to wash her face and change her shirt and shoes. Rudyard had given her bug-proof phone to be used for contact with the service. She called him up and and told him what Joanna had said about the funders.

  ‘It’s an outfit called Babel. B A B E L.’

  ‘Good. We’ll check it out.’

  ‘I can’t find any reference to them on the internet. It would help if I knew what I was looking for. I found Roman on a who’s who site. According to the citation, he’s got a masters in philosophy and trained as a psychotherapist. Then he founded a humanistic community in Brittany after writing a couple of books. One’s called The Route to The Self. The other is The Will to Act. He seems like the sort of man who needs to fill a vacuum.’

  ‘What with? That’s for you to find out. It’s a long game.’

  4

  Mackie knocked on the study door at five o’clock.

  ‘Wait a second. I’m just saving something.’ There was a pause, then Roman opened the door.

  ‘Is it convenient to talk?’

  ‘Of course, that’s what I’m here for.’

  She made for the chair opposite his desk but he got up and steered her to a chaise longue.

  ‘You’ll be more comfortable here.’

  She was used to the confessional. This is what he does, she supposed. Psychotherapy. He sat down beside her on an armless chair on wheels. She didn’t look at him. She wasn’t up for hypnosis.

  ‘To tell you the truth, now I’m here, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘How are you settling in?’

  ‘The food is wonderful.You were right about the bike. I’ve seen the town and the sea. Everything’s hunky dory.’

  ‘So what’s eating you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So why have you come to see me?’

  She was put on the spot: ‘Well, I suppose it’s my job. I don’t know whether to go back and face the music ,or resign.’

  ‘Face the music?’

  ‘I’ve done twenty four years in the police force, first on Merseyside and then in the Met. I used to enjoy it. I made inspector when I was thirty. But I’m disillusioned.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘In the last case I was working on, a man was arrested without my say so. I protested, and was told not to pursue it. In fact, I was advised to take leave, which is why I’ve come here. I know if I go back, it’s not going to be comfortable. But police work is all I know. I can’t talk to my son about it. He has his own life. He’s a dancer with the Royal Ballet.’

  ‘That’s impressive.’

  ‘I’m insanely proud of him and I love him to bits. But I feel kind of redundant. As a mother, I mean. It’s always been the two of us but he doesn’t need me now. He’s grown up quickly. I know that by coming here I can’t just wave a magic wand and it’ll all go away, but it’s good to talk to somebody about it.’

  ‘You seem to be living in the past and worrying about the future. You need to root yourself in the present, which is the only place where you can be effective. You were doing it today when you rode a bike into town, watching out for the road, exploring a new place. You need to get out. Focus on the change of scene. The newness. If you can live in the present, the worries about the future and the free floating anxiety about your son will recede.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’ll talk again. Every day if you like. You’ll always find me here at this time, certain conferences excepting.’

  She sat up. ‘I’ve never done this kind of thing before. Retreating. Being counselled.’

  ‘Whatever you say to me here won’t go any further. I’d like you to think of me as a friend. The community are going to Quimper tomorrow. Go with them.’

  ‘I feel I should be pulling my weight. Do some gardening maybe.’

  ‘Take care not to take on too much initially. That is often a problem for newcomers. You must do whatever speaks to your condition.’

  At dinner that evening, he behaved towards her exactly as he’d done before she spilled her guts to him. Patronising. Aloof. The starter was a platter of langoustines with bowls of freshly made mayonnaise. Iris moved down the table to be as far away from the beasts as possible, and turned her head when Herbert peeled a couple and passed them along to Mackie. She was thankful for that. She would have faced up to doing it herself but was glad not to encounter their soft, black eyes.

  ‘I believe if you can’t kill an animal yourself, you shouldn’t eat it,’ Sofka said.

  ‘When have you killed an animal?’ Herbert asked.

  ‘I killed a chicken once. It had hurt its wing and the other hens were pecking at it.’

  ‘Nature is red in tooth and claw,’ Gerald said.

  ‘The survival of the fittest,’ Roman chipped in.

  ‘I killed a mouse, ‘ Mackie ventured.

  ‘Did you trap it?’ Joanna asked.

  ‘She handcuffed it and tazered it.’ Scout called.

  ‘We got rid of them by sealing up the holes, but there was just one. You wouldn’t believe the mess it made. I tried a humane trap but it didn’t work so I got one that was baited with poison. When I got up, I heard this terrible squeaking noise coming from the corner of the kitchen. The mouse was writhing in pain, so I put it out of its misery.’

  ‘You should have taken it in for questioning,’ Herbert said. ‘Innocent until proven guilty.’

  ‘I picked it up by the tail, filled the sink, and drowned it.’

  ‘That was a brave thing to do,’ Sofka said. ‘I couldn’t have done that.’

  Roman touched Mackie on the arm. ‘This raises an ethical question, doesn’t it? Is it right to kill animals?’

  ‘Nature is red in tooth and claw,’ Gerald sighed. ‘Men are animals.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Joanna muttered.

  ‘People need to eat.’

  ‘I wish someone would put me out of my misery when the time comes,’ Gerald sighe
d. ‘They would if I was a dog or a cat.’

  Herbert nudged him.’Maybe you’ll come back as a cockroach.’

  5

  Joanna and Gerald weren’t among the group to board the minibus to Quimper the following morning. Sofka and Herbert were there but they both seemed preoccupied. Mackie was glad to be sitting up front with Scout — not that he made any attempt to start a conversation. The minibus turned on to a toll road and he held up a pass without acknowledging the man in the booth. Then he revved the engine and sped off.

  ‘Steady on,’ Herbert called from the back.

  ‘What time are you coming back for us?’ Sofka asked.

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘When’s that?’ Mackie asked.

  ‘Fifteen hundred hours. Or get the bus.’

  He drew up near the cathedral, blocking off a motorist who was trying to pull out. The man began a toccata on his horn, and shook his fist at the minibus: ‘Sale métèque,’ he shouted.

  ‘Fuck off frog,’ Scout returned. He lit a cigarette and stared straight ahead of him, ignoring the horn and imprecations coming from the blocked in car.

  Mackie got out. Sofka and Herbert were already on the pavement.

  ‘He’s going to get us a parking ticket,’ Herbert said. ‘Roman won’t like that. He’s told him before. I don’t know why that boy took a job in a foreign country when he can’t stand foreigners. God knows how he got the job as a driver.’ He crossed the bridge and started walking down the embankment on the other side. That just left the two of them.

  ‘Is there an English bookshop anywhere round here?’ Mackie asked Sofka.

  ‘Yes, near the cathedral. I’m going there myself to get some labels.’ She led Mackie down a narrow cobbled lane of half timbered buildings and stopped outside a shop. ‘The books are upstairs. They sell stationery on the ground floor.’

  ‘I might be a while,’ Mackie said.

  ‘I’ve got things to do. If you want to meet up for lunch, I’ll be at the crèperie at the bottom of this street at one o’clock. Have a look at the cathedral. I’ve seen it many times.’