There may have been a living room, sitting room, lounge — call it what you will — but we were led into the kitchen which was evidently the centre of household life, a stone-flagged room containing sink, dining table and two battered easy chairs by an open fire. Another hand-pump near the stone sink indicated water came from the well, and illumination was by paraffin lamp. I set down the case.

Our hostess turned out to be lovely; round, apple-cheeked face with grey hair drawn back in a bun, care-worn hands, long grey dress, white pinafore and a chirpy birdlike smile of welcome. She introduced herself as Madame Preece, and we gave her our names which were for her quite unpronounceable. Conversation would evidently be confined to more nodding and smiling, but I was grateful to have a place to stay at all, considering our predicament on the hill an hour ago.

Madame Preece indicated Bernadette might like to see the room and wash; such niceties were evidently not necessary for me. The two women disappeared upstairs with the handgrip. I walked to the window, which was open to the warm evening air. It gave out onto another yard at the back of the house, where a cart stood among the weeds near a wooden shed. Extending from the shed a paling fence ran a short way, about six feet high. From above the fence the blade of a great axe rose and fell, and the sound of the chopping of timber went on.

Bernadette came down ten minutes later looking fresher, having washed in a china bowl with cold water from a stone crock. The water coming out of the upper window into the yard would have accounted for the odd splash I had heard. I raised my eyebrows.

'It's a nice little room,' she said. Madame Preece, who was watching, beamed and bobbed, understanding nothing but the approving tone. 'I hope,' said Bernadette with the same bright smile, 'that there aren't any hoppers.'

I feared there might be. My wife has always suffered terribly from fleas and midges, which raise great lumps on her white Celtic skin. Madame Preece gestured for us to sit in the battered armchairs, which we did; and made small talk while she busied herself at the black cast-iron kitchen range at the other end of the room. Something that smelled appetizing was a-cook and the odour made me hungry.

Ten minutes later she bade us come to table, and placed before us china bowls, soup spoons and a long loaf each of delicious fluffy white bread. Finally in the centre she placed a large tureen from which protruded a steel ladle, and indicated we should help ourselves.

I served Bernadette a portion of what turned out to be a thick, nourishing and tasty vegetable broth, mainly of potatoes and very filling, which was just as well. It constituted the meal of the evening, but was so good we both ended up by having three portions. I offered to serve Madame Preece her portion, but she would have none of it. It was obviously not the custom.

'Servez-vous, monsieur, servez-vous,' she repeated, so I filled my own bowl to the brim and we tucked in.

Hardly five minutes had passed before the sound of the log-chopping ended, and seconds later the back door was pushed open as the farmer himself entered for his evening meal. I rose to greet him, as Madame chattered an explanation of our presence, but he evinced not the slightest interest in two strangers at his dinner table. So I sat back down again.

He was a huge man, whose head scraped the ceiling of the room. He lumbered rather than walked and one had the immediate impression — accurate as it turned out — of enormous strength allied to a very slow intelligence.

He was about sixty, give or take a few years, and his grey hair was cut short to his head. I noticed he had tiny, button ears and his eyes, as he looked at us without sign of greeting, were a guileless, vacant baby-blue.

The giant sat down at his accustomed chair without a word and his wif

e at once served him a brimming portion of the soup. His hands were dark with earth and, for all I knew, other substances, but he made no move to wash them. Madame Preece resumed her seat, flashed us another bright smile and a bob of her birdlike head, and we continued our meal. From the corner of my eye I saw the farmer was shovelling down spoonfuls of his broth, accompanied by great chunks of bread which he tore without ceremony from his loaf.

No conversation took place between the man and his wife, but I noticed she darted him affectionate and indulgent looks from time to time, though he took not the slightest bit of notice.

Bernadette and I tried to talk, at least between ourselves. It was more for the relief of breaking the silence than to convey information.

' I hope the car can be repaired in the morning,' I said. 'If it's something serious I might have to go to the nearest big town for a spare part or a breakdown van.'

I shuddered to think what that expense might do to our tiny postwar tourist budget.

'What is the nearest big town?' asked Bernadette between mouthfuls of soup..

I tried to remember the map in the car. 'Bergerac, I think.'

'How far is that?' she asked.

'Oh, about sixty kilometres,' I replied.

There was nothing much else to say, so silence fell again. It had continued for a full minute when out of nowhere a voice suddenly said in English, 'Forty-four.'

We both had our heads bowed at the time and Bernadette looked up at me. I looked as puzzled as she. I looked at Madame Preece. She smiled happily and went on eating. Bernadette gave an imperceptible nod in the direction of the farmer. I turned to him. He was still wolfing his soup and bread.

'I beg your pardon?' I said.

He gave no sign of having heard, and several more spoonfuls of soup, with more large chunks of bread, went down his gullet. Then twenty seconds after my question, he said quite clearly in English, 'Forty-four. To Bergerac. Kilometres. Forty-four.'

He did not look at us; he just went on eating. I glanced across at Madame Preece. She flashed a happy smile as if to say, 'Oh yes, my husband has linguistic talents.' Bernadette and I put down our spoons in amazement.

'You speak English?' I asked the farmer.

More seconds ticked away. Finally he just nodded.

'Were you born in England?' I asked.

Tags: Frederick Forsyth Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net