Trench Rat - 2. Chapter 2

With the rucksack dangling heavily from my shoulder, I alternated between walking briskly and trotting to keep up with the surprisingly agile spectre. I followed him through the town centre and out the other side into a lane of solid darkness. Stars twinkled sporadically between the silhouetted branches of tall and elegant trees, like cypresses, but more likely poplars, difficult to determine by night. A good ten minutes later, he halted outside the blanched stone archway to a walled courtyard floodlit by moonlight.

"Ferme Latouche."

As if the words explained everything, he led me inside the compound. Illuminated palely by an almost full moon, the courtyard contained the shapes of three distinct buildings, all impressively large. One on the left appeared to be tall but windowless, a barn perhaps. Only the one opposite had windows. Long and rising to two floors, intermittent smaller windows lined the roof space. Solitary candlelight shone from a small downstairs window to the left of the solid wooden front door.

Thumping his fist on the frame, the man called out something in French. Minutes later, the large door opened a fraction, the head of an elderly woman peering suspiciously around the side. I stood away from them and allowed them to have a conversation. A couple of times, I picked out the name Madame Latouche and assumed this must be the farmer's wife. Every now and then, she peered over at me, unsmiling. Eventually, she held the door wide to allow me to enter.

"Follow her," said the large man before turning on his heel and heading back the way he had come.

I stepped into the gloomy hallway and waited while the woman closed and bolted the door. She, too, moved past me without casting a glance my way and headed into a room at the back of the hallway. After a few moments of hesitation, I followed mindlessly—what choice did I have—and found myself in a large, sparsely decorated and, thankfully, warm room lit only by an open fire. Two high-backed chairs sat either side of the tiled fireplace, with a long sofa facing front, all positioned around a darkly patterned square carpet. I stood behind the couch as the woman consulted with an old man seated at the far side of the fire. Now and then, he glowered up at me and nodded. Having finished, she moved to stand behind his chair, her arthritic hands clutching the back.

"Vous voulez louer une chambre, oui?" he said. Even with my limited French, I understood what he meant. Unlike the men at the bar, he had a softly spoken voice.

"Ah, oui. S'il vous plait."

"Passeport?"

Fortunately, I had my passport in my coat pocket. When I moved forward to show him, the lady came forward and snatched the document from me. After a short moment of scrutiny, she handed the document back to me. When she returned to her position, he looked up at her and seemed satisfied by their silent exchange.

"Cinquante euro chaque nuit. La chambre dans le grenier avec une baignoire. Ma femme vous donnera le petit déjeuner. Combien de nuits?"

Even though I could pick out a couple of his words, I didn't understand much. Except for the cost of fifty euros a night and the last question. How many nights would I be staying? Maybe just the weekend or until common sense kicked in.

"I don't—uh—know. Je ne sais pas. Deux nuits, peut être. If that's okay."

Would I really stay in this unknown place for two nights? To show good faith, I pulled out my wallet and plucked out a crisp green one hundred euro note. Tentatively, I moved forward towards him to hand over the money, but before I reached him, the woman stepped forward and snatched the note from my hand. Instead of returning, she headed to the door, but this time, she stood there and beckoned me to follow.

She collected the candle from the front window—a chubby white stub sitting in a cracked saucer—and led me up a solid wooden staircase to the first floor. Did the house have no electricity? As though to answer my question, she turned a corner at the top of the stairs and flicked a switch on the wall, illuminating a long wooden corridor. Partway down on the left side, another staircase rose upwards, this one steep and narrow. As she snapped on another light, I realised my room would be in the chilly upper eaves of the building. To be honest, I felt so tired by then that I would have happily slept on their carpet.

When she opened a door and switched on the single bulb light dangling from the ceiling, the frigid attic room presented a pleasant, if spartan, living space. Nothing fancy, a simple room with a sloping roof, an uneven floor of wooden boards, and a square attic window high in the wall. Only a single iron-framed bed stood there, its length pressed to the right-hand wall with a lamp built into the brickwork. On the floor sat a simple rug, and opposite, the left wall housed a small armoire and a plain dressing table with a mirror.

I wanted to collapse with tiredness, but British manners being what they are, I waited by the door for a signal from the woman. Ignoring me, she walked to the right and reached for a handle. Without breathing a word—I had begun to wonder if she spoke at all—she opened a door wide and gestured inside to a bathroom, complete with toilet, sink and a cast iron bath. In response, I nodded my understanding. Had I been given a choice, I would have preferred a shower, but most of all, I felt grateful to have somewhere to rest my head for the night. Heading back to the room, the woman pulled on a cord, and I heard what I assumed to be the wall-mounted electric heater above the bed begin to groan to life.

Once I had smiled my thanks, she peered around the room in assessment before nodding once and heading out through the still-open door. I went over and gently pushed the portal shut. After an evaluation of my own, I came over to the bed, dropped my rucksack, kicked off my shoes, and sat on the mattress with my back against the cold iron frame. By then, heating elements in the wall heater had begun to glow orange and provide minimal heat. More tired than I had realised, before long, the softness of the mattress, together with the gentle warmth on my face and neck, seduced me into a gentle doze.

Until an odd sensation and a strange earthen smell woke me.

"Qui êtes-vous?" came a male voice.

I shot up immediately, eyes wide, shocked from reverie. A young man stood just inside the room. I noticed his attire, which I took to be a farmer's work clothes, resembling old fatigues. His sturdy boots glistened with mud, and he wore baggy canvas trousers held up by thick leather braces over a buttoned-down vest, grandfather-style. A grubby towel lay draped over one shoulder. When my eyes reached his face, I felt momentarily humbled. Beautiful large brown eyes, thick brows drawn together in confusion rather than anger and a thatch of curly brown hair framed a stunningly handsome face.

"Où est Patrick?"

"Pardonnez-moi," I said, coming to my senses and peering beyond him to the closed door. "Je—j'ai—err—thought this was my room—ma chambre. Excusez moi un moment."

While he turned to follow my gaze, I took the opportunity to spring up from the bed and head out into the corridor to find Madame Latouche and fix the mess. Fortunately, she stood along the corridor, pulling towels from a cupboard concealed in the wall.

"Madame Latouche. Excusez-moi, mais il y a—uh—dans mon—ma—chambre—"

"Please speak English, Mr Farrell," she replied, in perfect and only slightly accented English. "Your spoken French is painful to my ears."

"You speak English?"

"Yes."

"You never said."

"You did not ask. And my husband does not comprehend, so prefers that I speak only French in his presence. Now, what are you saying?"

"Yes, well, I think there's been a mix-up. There's another man in my room. Asking for somebody called Patrick."

I am not sure, but a barely discernible expression—a mix of irritation and concern—flickered across her eyes when they darted over my shoulder towards the bedroom. Not for long, though, before her impassive stare returned and, in her world-weary way, she responded.

"That is not possible."

"I know what I saw. Another man—"

"You are our only guest, Mister Farrell. Perhaps you are overtired, no?"

"He's in there right now—" I said, extending my hand towards the door.

"Mon Dieu," she breathed out before turning and dumping the towels into my arms. "So. I will come with you. Anyway, I bring to you these clean towels."

When we returned to the room, Madame Latouche breezed in without a word, but nobody awaited us there. Somewhat excessively, she checked the bathroom, under the bed, and even opened the door to the armoire and peered inside, more, I presume, for her own amusement. Whoever had been there earlier had gone. Strange that nothing remained of his earlier presence, no scent in the air, nothing except the odour of long-neglected dust. No muddy prints stained the floor from the young man’s boots. I could discern nothing more than the presence of myself and the farmer's wife.

"I'm sorry," I said, rubbing my eyes. Had I been hallucinating? Very possibly. Tiredness weighed down my shoulders like a heavy overcoat. "You must be right. I am more tired than I realised."

She left without comment, after which I undressed and very quickly used the bathroom. Sinking into the cool sheets, I soon drifted off to sleep.