Like was a moot point. With the aniseed, he used to kick and swish his tail. The effect of the extra-strong mints made him snicker, buck, and, considering his age and size, practically gallop round the field, his nostrils snorting out peppermint strong enough to fell an oak. But since he kept coming back for more, they made a point of packing them with the carrots, oats, and apples every time they paid a visit.
“I think he’s addicted,” she giggled.
“Guess that makes us pushers,” Georges quipped back, because her laugh was as magical as rainbows, hoarfrost, and snow-melt waterfalls, and he was as hooked on its sound as this old plough horse on mints. Sometimes he feared he would drown in those freckles.
And in return for otters, squirrel drays, and badgers setts, Sandrine introduced Georges to the Bee Gees, Star Wars, and the thrill of racing powerboats, courtesy of her father’s hire business.
“Night fever, night fever,” they’d sing together, Sandrine clicking her fingers, while Georges sped the sleek blue-and-white “Hire Me for 30F an Hour” advertisement past the new resorts that were springing up around the lake.
He’d never known anything like it.
Music that stirred his feet and his blood.
Tragedy.
A girl with hair the colour of the rich, red, Gascony soil and eyes greener than pastures in spring.
And now this. Scenery whizzing past in a blur, shirt billowing wide, and the wind in his hair — Georges cut the motor.
The powerboat went dead.
“What’s wrong?”
“Madame Morreau,” he said sombrely. “All she wanted was to feel the wind in her hair.”
Instead, Jean-Paul was feeling it in his for thirty francs an hour. Using Madame Morreau’s money.
“That’s the first I’ve heard of any fishing competition.” Irène looked up from her accounts. “Funny time of year, isn’t it?”
Never tell a lie if you can help it.
“This is something new they’re trying out for tourists.” Georges crossed his fingers behind his back. “You’re not allowed to keep the fish, you have to throw them back, but there’s a prize of—” He’d been going to say a hundred francs. “Three hundred francs.”
“Goodness me, I think I’ll dash out and buy a fishing rod myself,” Irène laughed. “Who’s putting up the money, do you know?”
Georges was prepared for this. “The man who runs that new boat-hire company.” He sneaked a peek at the notes scribbled in the palm of his hand. “He says the prize money is nothing compared to what he’ll fetch, renting out his boats to the competitors.”
“Sharp,” Irène said admiringly. “Maybe I should try to find something that’ll attract more visitors to Les Pins. Afternoon tea? Apéritifs on the terrace?”
“You will tell Jean-Paul Morreau, won’t you, Mother?”
This was how the conversation had started. With him asking her to pass the message on.
“I don’t really see him as the fishing type,” she said doubtfully.
“None of the other guests is interested, I’ve asked,” he cut in quickly, because the last thing he wanted was for her to broadcast it round the hotel, only to discover it was a better work of fiction than the Harold Robbins he was reading. Also... “It would be good publicity for us, too, if he won.”
“Good heavens, Georges, you do surprise me sometimes!” Every mother is proud of her children, but at that moment Irène thought her heart would burst out of her chest. “But you’re right, and what young man could possibly resist the lure of such a competition, given the right motivation by his hotelier!” Irène cocked her head. “Pity you’re not a tourist. I’ll bet you know exactly where the big fish live.”
Bingo! The moment he’d been waiting for.
“Oh yes,” he said, unable to hide the big, broad beam that cut his face in half. “I know where to find the winner.”
As the door closed behind him, Irène became aware of hot tears coursing down her cheeks. She couldn’t pinpoint the precise moment when her son had grown into a man. But she was fiercely proud of what he had become.
Fishing is as much about patience as anything else. Having baited his hook, Georges sat back, ready to reel in Jean-Paul, but even he was surprised at the speed with which he bit.
“Got a proposition for you,” he said, less than one hour later. “You help me catch the winner and I’ll go fifty-fifty with you.”
Georges swallowed. “The best time’s dusk. That’s when they rise to the surface.”
Weasel looked suspicious. “I thought they sank to the bottom.”
Never tell a lie if you can help it. Suddenly, they were trotting out like ants. “Not the big ones.”
“Dusk it is, then.” Jean-Paul rubbed his hands together. “Tonight?”
Georges studied the sky, confident the weather would hold. “Perfect.” The only thing that could have spoiled his plans was a storm that whipped up the water. But on a moonless night there’d be no tourists on the lake, and with his parents busy serving dinner, there’d be no one around to notice that two men went out but only one came back.
“What was that about?” Sandrine asked Jean-Paul, seeing him swagger out of Georges’s shed. She was about to get on her scooter to ride home. He was off to the coast for livelier entertainment than what was on offer at Les Pins.
“That, my little Gingernut, is about winning a competition, and you know the best thing?” He chuckled as he unlocked the car. “We’re going fifty-fifty.”
“What’s fifty-fifty?” Sandrine wasn’t good with maths.
Jean-Paul slung his jacket on the passenger seat and winked. “It means he catches me a fish and I give him a hundred and fifty francs.”
“I wish someone would give me a hundred and fifty francs,” she sighed. “I’d buy myself a haircut just like Farrah Fawcett’s.”
“Bloody dark out there. Sure you can see to row?”
“I’ve fished loads of times at night,” Georges said truthfully, but all the same his hands were clammy. “I know this lake like the back of my hand.”
“Not surprised, considering they’re the same size,” Jean-Paul sniggered. “Where’d you say the big boy lives?”
Georges couldn’t meet his eyes. “Far side of the island.”
Jean-Paul squinted towards a dark lump in the distance. “Wake me up when we get there.” He leaned back and pulled his cap down over his eyes.
Georges listened to the slapping of the oars and the pounding of his heart. It wasn’t too late. He could turn round. Tell Jean-Paul he had a headache or stomach pains, even admit he’d made the whole thing up...
It’s so nice to be able to take a walk, while I’m still able.
Madame Morreau’s sad smile hung in the air like the Cheshire cat’s.
Will you run? Will you, Georges?
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Madame Morreau was never going to feel the wind in her hair. He looked at the shoreline, growing thinner with each stroke. Glanced over his shoulder, at the island looming closer. She’d never see the sunset from the room where she’d shared so many good times with her husband. Never smell the leather of the seats of her old Peugeot, or run her hands across its walnut dash. She wouldn’t even have the chance to chide her nephew, or wonder where he’d got to when she needed him.
“We’re here.” He nudged Jean-Paul with his foot.
“It’s the middle of bloody nowhere!” Lights from villages twinkled like miniature fireflies around the lake as black as soot. “Still, for three hundred smackers, it’s worth getting spooked, eh, Slowpoke?”
“Stop calling me that, my name’s Georges.”
His tone made Jean-Paul look up. “Right.” Both smile and voice were unusually tight. “Georges.” He shifted in his seat. “So how long do you reckon it’ll take to track down our little winner?”