Serene Falcon

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After the necessary delay during which the visitors could indulge in the obligation of sniggering at all persons debarred by nature from being French, the festivities began. The main guest was nobly concealing his bitterness at having to attend in the — entirely spurious in his opinion — interests of Franco-English Friendship. Le consul M. Macquart attended impeccably turned out in a light-grey suit; in his middle sixties with excellent thick brushed grey hair over Roman features of the austerer type, he had risen from a family of stone-masons by reason of his father having been, by reason of an unbelievably incisive mind, a fortunate marriage and some blackmail, the only real prole in the Quai d’Orsay sometime during the Thirties. His father had then risen through the civil government to assist the Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and then on to quite high office before compulsory retirement due to a belated investigation into the unfortunate deaths ( scattered over a wide area it has to be said ) of a few communists back in the Fifties and, just, early Sixties. Not a shadow of personal blame attached to his honoured name, it was merely thought he may have been a little indiscreet in discussing their habits, and addresses, and work-routes, with rogue Colons, despite having eventually plumped for being a devout Gaullist. If the present Monsieur Macquart had never attempted to emulate his papa’s meteoric career, being satisfied with the considerable gains of that office and a really good marriage of his own, and a social circle rather higher than the remnants of the Bonapartist aristocracy when back in Paris, he still felt he deserved better than surveying English schoolkids. As, along with most of his countrymen, the various varieties of sex were of less importance than the prurient British generally imagined, certainly less than personal power and a good dowry, quite apart from the deep vein of latin puritanism which makes parts of La France Profonde very depressing indeed, even the massed ranks of girls had no effect whatsoever. Apart from a glimpse of Yssy and two of her nearly as stunning friends. But that was not due to youth, which M. Macquart thought over-rated, as to her exceptional beauty, smashing into the senses at any time or place.

He noticed a younger lad talking to her, of the same delicacy; and realised that must be her brother. The boy smiled friendily as he went past, and for a second M. Macquart went back to his own youth. He had seen eyes like that before. Un type feral ?

One of the steering party composed of pupils with the remit to input suggestions and tributes, Jamie had reworked the schedule slightly. If he did not dislike the French, as did some of his dimmer colleagues, and certainly had no animus against the consul, even had he known of his background, and that venerable — and still consulted until 1999 at six years short of his century — father, he would have merely shrugged and pointed out that our own security services had an understanding with various blokes of a Cromwellian persuasion in Ulster at times: there was still a necessity to get back at them, as there was a necessity to get back at everyone who crossed his creeds. He had been elected since one pupil from each class had been needed for for the committee and his hand not only shot up faster than anyone else’s, nearly giving the French teacher a cardiac arrest sooner than was reasonable for a fairly new teacher since James Egremont never volunteered for anything, but his continental connections seemed suitable. His broodings on the frequent invasions of his beloved Germany by the French had, as usual, been kept entirely to himself.

It was agreed for a French note: infants singing Sur Le Pont D’Avignon. This was not an unalloyed pleasure. For an English note: the youngest infants singing All Things Bright And Beautiful. This would hit them like hail the size of curling-stones. Then Alison, a proud young lady of 15, the best French scholar who could actually sing, coached by Jamie, with whom she got on well enough: in a pure and decent young soprano sung ‘Maréchal, Nous Voila’ which Jamie’s detailed annotation implied was regarding Jehanne D’Arc. Then a reprise of Sur Le Pont D’Avignon, and ending with La Marseilleise. Jamie actually liked this bit; his own hero Wilhelm may have been dismayed at decent Tsarists listening to the revolution in song merely in order to suck up to the Bourse for more and more hard cash, but by now Jamie felt the song, like the French themselves, had as much revolutionary spirit as an old shoe. And he liked the tune. As did the froggies present eventually, whose mouths had remained open throughout the vigorous tribute to the Saviour of Verdun.

By the buffet in the common-room afterwards the Consul spoke restrainedly to the head-mistress. After thanks which were not perfunctory enough to convey his very real insincerity, but conversely definitely not over-laboured, he formed his finely-chiseled mouth into reserved smiling mode and enquired.
“That song… ? rather rare is it not ?”
“Sir Lee Pont ?” surprised, “It is well known here, I thought all your people sang it.”
“Noh,” ‘biche’, “the… other.” ‘And no doubt you also think we all wear bérets and wave baguettes about in the Chamber of Deputies.’ But he still smiled with that sickening French savoir-faire.
“Oh yes, very nice. It’s a tribute to our friendship with the French people that we can sing it.” burbled Madame Beeston. As a strong patriot she had had a minor reservation about celebrating the notoriously non-English loving Joan; but the fact that the maid had actually fought, as a female fighter, a soldier, beating men hands down at their own game, had swayed her completely. She made this clear, although, due to her ever-present assumption that people were able to read her mind, she did not specify that young lady: “And what a leader !”
The Frenchman’s jaw dropped slightly, but he merely replied that it was some time since he had last heard it, and changed the subject onto a more congenial note. In his latter briefing to DGSE, as from all duties, he decided, from prudence for family connections not to include that element. After all, it had not been as annoying for himself as for other countrymen, since it had swept him back to his heady youth when dear papa had been projected for a much larger sphere of power than in the unfortunate eventuality: still, his sainted mother had been quite correct to persuade papa to put down the Mas 38 ( far more elegant than the MP40, François felt, if not quite as powerful: if only it had been chambered for 9mm ) when the Amis foutus came rolling in the Square of that poky town to which they had prudently withdrawn. A dull place, all he could remember apart from that event, and the children who fast switching masters threw a few stones at him, was the heavy scent of lemons. Ah, childhood… A much overrated experience in his judgement. If he mentioned Madame Biest-tonne was of an authoritarian nature for their files, it was merely of his own opinion. Something that would have been confirmed from other judgements had they scrutinised her dossier at Langley. Something unlikely, since for agencies: sharing is the hardest thing to do.

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André Dassary – Maréchal Nous Voilà

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***

The visitor hurried in, nearly dropped his metal suitcase at what appeared to be a sly old gentleman chuckling at him but proved to be a painting, and looked around at the empty foyer. He sought a particular teacher, but had no frame of reference to find the school secretary’s office, despite the necessity of signing in in case he was a child molester. Not that it would have stopped one if they were in the habit of doing their own thing in a building with 786 souls — Lost Souls vide James Conrad Egremont, or Dead, according to his mood — tucked about.
A tall girl was down the corridor but upon his deferential bellow scampered off as if indeed he was a pervert. He wandered around wondering which alley to choose then a smallish schoolboy of slight proportions sauntered into view.
“Hi can you tell me where to find the Secretary, son ?”
“That’s on a need to know basis.” said the boy primly. “Have you got a gun in that briefcase ?”
“Don’t be silly.”
The lad sighed, it seemed with regret, “They’re not hot on signposting in this country. Go down there, and it’s the sixth room to your right, opposite the atrium, sir.”
“Thanks, I’m looking for Mr. Pooto, the IT teacher. can you say where he might be ?”
A dreamy look came into the handsome features.
“I’m afraid he’s out of the country at the moment.” As if this was normal for teachers.
“Good God, really ? I’ve come from London. Are you having me on ?”
A faint click in the atmosphere happened.
“No,” said the boy coolly, as one not prone to having his word doubted.
“He’s in Africa, he goes every six weeks. He’s very interested in crocodilians.”
“What’s a crocodilian ?”
“The genus of Alligators, or Crocodiles, or Caymans, or… ”
“Why don’t you say alligator then ?
“Because you don’t get alligators in Africa. They are the form in the western lands. He likes them all, but particularly the crocodiles over there. He does vital research. He’s established a bond with a family group, from birth in some cases, so he has to go over frequently so they don’t disremember his scent.”
The boy was so uninterested it seemed foolish to doubt any more: “Oh. What sort of research ?”
“Nothing wrong.” the boy assured, “he just observes them, talks and even swims with them. He’s very brave, I’d be frightened.”
“Swims ?”
“Yeah,” not very interested, “apparently safe enough if they know you. I wouldn’t though.”
The visitor agreed it was amazing and the boy said without intonation that it took all sorts to make a world. On this deliberated trite note they parted amicably and the former went to find the Secretary.
Here he found Mr. Pooto was indeed away on holiday having forgotten his engagement, and no-one else could sign the requisition form for the purchase of eight scanners and twenty-four modems he had brought along as requested, at a special price for scholastic establishments that was only 35% higher than as sold in the high street, excluding an extended warranty on which the real profit was made, since the headmistress was off sick.
Disappointed he made an appointment to return a week later when the errant Pooto had returned, and took his leave making a weak ingratiating remark regarding his hope that Mr. Pooto would enjoy swimming with the crocodiles.
The School Secretary stared at him as if he was mad. “Not many crocs in Calais,” she ventured.
“Calais ? I thought he was in Africa.”
“What made you think that ? He nips over four times a year and brings back a wish-list of fags and booze for the staff-room. You needn’t spread it about, but he takes the school van.”
The visitor explaining, she observed that not all the children stuck to the unvarnished truth, and advised him not to stop to chat to any of the girls if they indicated they needed his help: only from idle interest did she ask what the boy looked like, although she certainly wasn’t going to waste her time over the matter; it could have been any of a dozen lads, but she already felt quite sure.

Just now the little chap was returning to class, his errand fulfilled, glad he hadn’t spoilt it by adding Pooto covered himself with thick grease to ward off the cold, and meditating as to the strange ritual indulged by priests in ancient Egypt alongside and inside crocodiles, whom he should have thought would object like the dickens; he never had the faintest surprise or problem with the continuance of any ritual: the real puzzle was the first person to institute it. What impelled them, and why ? Much like most of the things in this ridiculous establishment.

Sedately he entered, reported and sat down. Miss Santos the teacher conveyed her appreciative smile from him, whom she especially liked, to the rest of the class and continued conducting them in Biology. He reciprocated this affection, but could not allow this to unfairly favour her teaching by giving it any more attention than any other class he was in. The most he could do was privately admit that she was a lady with more perception and good judgement than any woman he was ever likely to meet; and the fact of her added dreaminess helped in many ways: partially because she carried a torch for the late Rock Hudson and spent many hours meditating on the consequence of an instantaneous mutual attraction had she visited his home by chance in the 60s or 70s. She also, rarely for anyone in the teaching profession, had an extreme liking for children, which Jamie could only suppose was due to a mutated form of Stockholm Syndrome. Personally he wasn’t interested in most of his fellows.
Whilst her docile voice squeaked on about stamens, or it may have been gonads, he sat reading ‘The Year of the Horsetails’ under the desk’s cover.

***

The school had derived from an earlier establishment for the sons of clerks and artisans founded by Donald Wishart Hamilton, a revered Quaker merchant in the mid 19th century — approximately 1854, but then it had taken a lengthy battle with the parish worthies and the Bishop of the day before it was fully allowed to exist, not least since the latter was opposed not only to the British & Foreign School Society and, Hamilton’s co-religionist, it’s founder Lancaster, but to ‘Old Wicked Shifts’ earlier imposing state generosity to that scheme, and equally as much to the ragbag of a cabinet whose unparalleled stupor meant that his nephew was at present missing a limb in Scutari; and so had not begun to function until 1859 — and therefore bearing his honoured name. Another friend, in both senses of the word, Forster, was able to persuade him that it would function best under the auspices of the latter’s School Boards scheme: the local authority had taken over early in the 20th century, leading through various denominations to becoming a recognisedly superior comprehensive around 60 years later. The only trace of the past left in a singularly horrible building dating from 1964, which already with some hideous extensions worthy of Tate Modern, was soon to be replenished with some far worse additions, was a portrait of the illustrious, and unbelievably industrious, old chap beaming slyly a la Franklin but with rather more kindly pomposity and recognition of riches well-earned, placed in the slippery foyer as one entered the main ( glass, now replaced by a toughened variety after some bad incidents ) doors. Any distinctively Christian ethos had vanished in the rush to compassion and everything was now geared to universal love and tolerance. The old Friend would have been nauseated — not even that curious creed actively promotes self-abasement: or even the wholesale abandonment of all traditions — and he might not have recognised, although his business dealings had not been held in the highest regard by his comperes or even by what passed for any regulatory authority amongst the Victorians, a lax crew at the best of times, what precise value there was in MBA’s, for which some of the elite here were to be as nurtured as eagerly as for real degrees.
The author of ‘In Leathern Breeches’, not as modern pupils imagined, a discussion on a sexual stimulus or what they vaguely guessed TV announcerettes wore in the 17th century ( for some had no conception that a large number of inventions are in fact of a somewhat near date ) but a biography of George Fox — which according to legend had depressed Matthew Arnold, Algernon Swinburne and George Orwell at different times, but which Oscar Wilde had carried about in public for a whole two months from sheer perversity — had implemented his beliefs to the extent of, as very many persons of that piety did until at least WWI, wearing the same Civil War garb as his hero, though after some experiment choosing wool rather than leather; amassing an enormous fortune in ironmongery, especially export; and corresponding with John Bright on the twin subjects of the evils of war and the necessity of a free hand to the manufacturing interest in the conditions of factories and workplaces. It could not be denied that his pacifism was sincerely meant, and he had been one of a delegation to Lincoln — one of many many delegations, an untold number, to that unfortunate man: on subjects ranging from the request for consideration for the promise of a postal job in a town he had never wanted to hear of, to urgings to declare war on England or France, or wherever — to discuss the imperative of the War Between The States coming to an end instanter. ‘To prevent needless effusion further.’ he quoted, and which words were now affixed as a legend, black on gold, below the portrait of the mild and beneficent visage of this excellent old man; for this hatred of War was the only thing of his legacies so highly regarded by his inheritors in this scholastic state that it gained a total approval. So much so they revered him for his peace and pieces of wealth in a way he, in all charity, would have visited the True North Pole minus all breeches rather than reciprocate.

After reading all about him ( the School Prospectus felt that boasting of a Victorian foundation might imply it’s still steely resolve to inculcate the brilliant values of that era ), Jamie was less impressed, and the words were substituted for a while with an imitation legend formed from self-seal sticky metallic letters pasted over: ‘He Rode With Quantrill.’ below the Quaker worthy; but this stayed less than a few months since Nancy pointed it out to some of her friends, and one of these was conscientious. It was his first run-in with Authority.

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…
The figure turns half round, and the light falls upon its face. It is perfectly white — perfectly bloodless. The eyes look like polished tin; the lips are drawn back, and the principal feature next to those dreadful eyes is the teeth — projecting like those of some wild animal, hideously, glaringly white and fang-like. It approaches the bed with a strange gliding movement. It clashes together its long nails that literally appear to hang from the finger ends. No sound comes from its lips…

The storm has ceased — all is still. The winds are hushed; the church clock proclaims the hour of one; a hissing sound comes from the throat of the hideous being and he raises his long gaunt arms — the lips move. He advances. The girl places one small foot from the bed on the floor. She is unconsciously dragging the clothing with her. The door of the room is in that direction — can she reach it ?

With a sudden rush that could not be foreseen — with a strange howling cry that was enough to awaken terror in every breast, the figure seized the long tresses of her hair and twining them round his bony hands he held her to the bed. Then she screamed — Heaven granted her then the power to scream. Shriek followed shriek in rapid succession. The bed clothes fell in a heap by the side of the bed — she was dragged by her long silken hair completely on to it again. Her beautiful rounded limbs quivered with the agony of her soul. The glassy horrible eyes of the figure ran over the angelic form with a hideous satisfaction — horrible profanation. He drags her head to the bed’s edge. He forces it back by the long hair still entwined in his grasp. With a plunge he seizes her neck in his fang-like teeth — a gush of blood and a hideous sucking noise follows. The girl has swooned and the vampire is at his hideous repast !

Varney the Vampire; or, The Feast of Blood

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