Extract from 'French Sand'

Maurice du Chazand was attracted, in his own dispassionate way, to the English woman, Melanie Hodges. He had heard that she was separated from her husband – also English, it appeared – probably for a native woman – some of these natives were very lovely – but he kept his distance for unless she was seriously separated and getting a divorce there was no point in becoming involved. He was, albeit in a passive sort of way, on the look-out for a wife. He had done six years in Africa, two in the Gilbert Islands and now had three years’ work in Noumea. After that his wish was to retire early – he would be forty-four next year – to his vineyards in the Medoc, preferably with a wife. Back in his little town of Lesparre he assumed Francine le Grand was still waiting and hoping he would marry her – and if the worst came to the worst, he would – ( but he had never really fancied those huge child-bearing hips or her jam-making mother) – for she would make a good faithful wife who would doubtless produce a couple of children, who was of good local stock (her father was Monsieur le Maire) and whom he had known since school days. In the meantime if he could meet a pretty young woman like Melanie Hodges, that would be so much better. He took it all very seriously. He most certainly didn’t want to grow old alone and – even though old age was still a long way off – all this needed careful consideration.

I am accustomed, he wrote to his brother, to an active social life, to an international entourage, to not only mixing with people from all over the world and all walks of life but also with all sorts of tastes and aspirations. I dread the thought of settling down with a woman who has no conversation and who knows nothing beyond cooking and coffee mornings. I would not be happy. Our dear Francine le Grand is most charming, very kind, but I would rather find something a little more exotic – or at least a little different.

You write, his brother replied, almost as though you are choosing a new car!

This was a coincidence for du Chazan had just had a car shipped over from France. It had cost him a small fortune for it was a new Citroen, pale beige in colour with good cream-coloured leather upholstery. It was smooth and stream-lined and after all those years in the Congo, where he drove only landrovers, and sometimes pretty rough ones at that, made a more than welcome change. On arrival in Noumea he had been disappointed to find that most cars on the island were imported from Australia, usually Holdens or sometimes big old American cars. Not that he was a car man, he told himself, but it was most satisfying to seat himself in the comfortable Citroen with its hydraulic suspension and clean lines.

So du Chazan watched the Hodges woman discreetly. He didn’t mind about the little boy – he was of no particular interest and seemed healthy and intelligent. Du Chazan made a few casual and polite enquiries here and there from the other employees of the Commission. The Hodges woman had been abandoned, which was better than an agreed separation for it put her in the “right” somehow, and there was a rumour that another child was involved, not hers.

Sitting with his coffee on the Commission verandah, du Chazan often saw Melanie flit back and forth out of Hurst’s office. Fairly small (which suited him for he was not a big man) with long dark hair back-combed in to a chignon as was the fashion, she had pretty legs and occasionally he could glimpse a centimetre or two of lace petticoat under the full starched skirt. Something about her attracted him more than any other available woman in Noumea – and there were not many – and du Chazan settled back patiently to await the outcome.

His wait was brought to an abrupt end when the Hodges man was killed.

French Sand is a novel set in the South Pacific in the 1960s.

Catherine Broughton is a novelist, a poet and an artist. Her books are on Kindle and Amazon, or can be ordered from most big book stores and libraries. More about Catherine Broughton, to include her sketches and stories from all over the world, on http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk 

Extract from 'A Call from France'

“A Call from France” by Catherine Broughton.

“How do you say un bouc in English?” asked Debbie.

“A ram,” I replied.

“And the moutons ?” chimed in Bernie

“Sheeps,” Max told him.

“Sheep,” I corrected him, “it is sheep, whether one or several of them.”

We looked over the domaine several times, wandering through the huge, dark, empty rooms and round the dilapidated gardens. An ancient stone wall, some two metres in height, surrounded the entire plot of land – three or four acres – crumbling away in places. Ivy grew in dark green leafy strands through the broken stones and in parts the stinging nettles and brambles were so high you couldn’t see the wall at all.

“The garden was once lovely,” Euan commented.

He indicated an old stone bench hidden by overgrown shrubbery.

“Somebody once loved this place,” he said.

Here and there were the wild remains of trimmed and shaped hedges, roses, flower beds, stone urns, decorative trees and shrubs of all sorts. Lilac and forsythia spread haphazardly across what used to be lawn, and there were huge clusters of irises and even some agapanthus – which I hadn’t seen growing wild since South Africa – and all the while the sheep wandered lazily around, chumping at the grass. Most of the shutters had fallen off, or were hanging dubiously. The sturdy iron gates had rusted. The entire place was heaped with fascinating ancient features, from the wells and iron hand-pumps in the grounds, to the weedy remains of a vineyard. There were a couple of massive ancient stone sinks, dating back to the 1600s, lying in the bushes, clearly flung out during a “modernization” period before World War Two. The entire place was hugely romantic and we liked the idea of being near the sea – barely three miles away – and nearer Royan and Oleron, places that were lively if only in the summer. We both longed and longed for company and action of some kind.

“You really want to go back home,” Euan said, putting an arm over my shoulders.

“Yes, I do. I want to go home. But I don’t mind giving it one last shot. We’ve been here …” I counted, “ six years. I’d rather just pack up and go home, but if we can’t afford a house in England, this will do.”

“You could put up with a chateau in France, could you?” he asked, grinning.

I looked up at the crumbling building. The Chateau des Cypres. There was something about it that attracted us both. Only people like us could possibly take it on. There were several big old stone barns in varying forms of dereliction. Euan could turn his hand to any kind of DIY, anything at all.

Funnily enough I read an article at the hairdresser’s this morning about a house that had been renovated in Yorkshire and the writer (a woman) said “our friends thought we were mad to take it on”. Yet, by our standards, that house in Yorkshire was in perfect order.

The babes seemed happy with the move and it would also mean that they wouldn’t have to board at school because we were relatively close to Clion. We tried hard to not talk about “going home” in front of the babes, fearing it might upset them at some level. All three were so French in many ways.

“Come on, then!” Euan called out to the children, “time to go!”

“Ice-kweeem!” volunteered Bernie ..

“I expect so,” said Euan and helped him to strap himself in to the car. Debbie and Max turned away from the ram and sauntered towards us. I heard afterwards that you must never turn your back on a ram or a billy goat. He just calmly walked up behind Debbie and butted her in the back. With a cry of astonishment and alarm she fell forwards onto both knees, straight on to the stone path. I rushed forward.

“C’mon! Quick!” I grabbed her under the arms, frightened the ram was going to somehow attack. But he sauntered off back to the sheep almost as though he had his nose in the air. Debbie wailed and wailed.

“Max! Get in to the car!” I yelled, still frightened.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Euan, ever calm, came over and helped Debbie onto her feet.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

She wailed and wailed.

“Debbie!” I said more sternly, “we need to know if you are hurt.”

“My back! My knees!”

I turned to Euan.

“She went down with quite a whack,” I said.

Debbie hobbled between us to the car where she eased herself in to her seat, still crying loudly. We looked at her knees. She had been able to get up and move with no problem so we judged there was nothing broken. The knees weren’t even scratched.

“She’s shocked,” I said.

“C’mon Baby,” Euan cajoled her, “it’s not as bad as all that. I expect that was a nasty fright, but you’re not hurt.”

The wailing continued.

“Cry quietly,” I said to her in desperation.

Catherine Broughton is a novelist, a poet and an artist.  Her books are available from Amazon or Kindle or can be ordered from most big stores and libraries.  For more of Catherine’s work, to include her sketches and entertaining blogs, go to http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk

An extract from my novel - 'Saying Nothing'

Instinctively she knew that she must say nothing.

Seconds passed.  She smelled sweat, wine, coarse tobacco.   The pavement seemed to move.  A man was pushing her, a rough-skinned hand over her mouth.  She lashed out, stiffened, flailed her arms uselessly, tried to scream, tried to defend herself against something that was totally alien .… she had no idea who or what …. or where, or why …… there was something horribly wrong here.  Somebody, something, was horribly wrong  ……..   she tried bite the hand that was over her mouth.

She felt herself pushed in to a vehicle, landed heavily on her knees, attempted again to to cry out, and she sensed the hot night air, the stars, and heard – foolishly – a bird in a tree, making song in the Spanish night.  

“Cierra la puerta!”

Movements.  A car door.  Men shuffling.  Terror was like a cold cloth around her neck and mouth.

She realized she must be in the back of a van. She heard the engine, she felt the gear change and the picking up of speed.  Had she gone mad ?  She couldn’t think.   Shock made her stupid.   She searched around frantically in her mind, convinced she had got something wrong somewhere, this was a joke ……….. and yet she knew that it wasn’t.

What the ………. ?!

As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness she saw that there were two other occupants.  They sat silently opposite her, watching her.   Two men, obscure in the darkness and smelling of the wine and tobacco she’s been aware of on the pavement.  They hung on to the side of the van as it heaved and rattled on the uneven road, their faces non-committal, black eyes, unshaven jaws, an odor of sweat about them, expressionless.

She realized she was neither bound nor gagged.

“ What d’you want with me ?”

Her voice shook as she spoke.  The brown eyes looked at her, lips closed.

Catherine Broughton is a novelist, a poet and an artist. Her books are available on Amazon and Kindle, or can be ordered from most big book stores.  ”The Man with Green Fingers”, a novel set in Cyprus is her best seller.  More about Catherine, to include her entertaining blogs from around the world, on http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk