Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2 (22 page)

They heard the noise before they got out of the car. Chez Arantxa was on a side street just back from the town centre. Its windows were brightly lit, the frames painted in Basque red, light spilled out onto the pavement where all the tables were already occupied with groups of holiday makers, laughing and talking. The doors stood open. As they approached they saw that the inside too was crowded, long wooden tables covered in platters of food and bottles of wine, waiters rushing to and fro between the kitchen and the customers, orders being shouted, gusts of laughter rising to the ceiling.

A long bar in dark wood ran along the back, decorated with strings of Espelette peppers. The walls were painted cream and adorned with pictures of boats and sailors, Jill noted, painted in a naive style with bold colours.

Near the bar a table for six was laid with white plates and multicoloured-striped linen serviettes. At one end, in pride of place stood a high chair.

‘
Ils arrivent
!’

They recognised Antoine’s roar as they stepped inside, and suddenly found themselves in the centre of a mob of brown-skinned, flashing-teethed Antoine lookalikes. The Arantxa clan in all its splendour, minus the chef, doubtless occupied with his
plancha
in the kitchens.

‘
Edouard, mon petit
!’

‘
Petit
’ Edward was caught up in the embrace of a lady half his height and twice his girth, who could only be Antoine’s mother, thought Jill. Introductions somehow managed to be made in the general hugfest. Antoine’s father popped his head round the door and gave them a wave with a spatula, promising to join them ‘
plus tard’
. There were two Arantxa sisters, Marielle and Jojo, and two brothers, Hervé and Denis. Apart from all sharing the same Iberian good looks, they also shared the same manner of speaking which consisted of everyone interrupting everyone else, volleys of questions and exclamations, bursts of laughter, hand-waving and a lot of touching and kissing. Wow, thought Jill. Exuberance wasn’t the word.

Naturally the baby was the star of the show, staring up at everyone solemn-eyed, occasionally breaking into one of his beaming smiles, blowing saliva bubbles, or giving enormous yawns, all of which were deemed to be signs of outstanding personality by the Arantxas. The proud father got his back thumped so hard by Hervé and Denis he had to sit down. Edward was next, wincing under the blows while Caroline showed off her ring. Jill had been hanging back, smiling and listening. Suddenly Antoine grabbed her and placed her in front of him, hands on her shoulders, explaining that this was his ‘
amie irlandaise’
, introduced by Caroline.

Madame Arantxa gave her a warm hug, then stood back with an approving look on her face explaining that her sister Marie had told them all about her.

‘How did you enjoy your day in the Basque countryside, Jill?’

A blush rose to Jill’s cheeks as she struggled for her best French.

‘
La campagne, Madame, absolutamente marvellous,
et avec Antoine,
j’ai beaucoup beaucoup de pleasure…plaisir!’

A reply which had everyone in stitches and caused Antoine to blush as deeply as Jill who had turned to Caroline, mortified, hissing:

‘What did I say? What did I say?’

‘I think they’ve all got the message that you and Antoine seem to be having a great deal of pleasure together.’

Jill closed her eyes and her face turned the same shade as her hair.

Finally they all managed to sit down, and several bottles and dishes of olives and sausage appeared on the table. Jill watched the family in action, fascinated. They seemed to dance rather than walk, springing lightly between the tables, arms held out to the side, piled with over-sized plates which they deposited deftly in front of the customers without spilling the least grain of rice or drop of sauce. Every few minutes they would interrupt the inter-table ballet and swirl over to the villa group.

It was a good start to a good evening. The restaurant served typical Basque food, mainly fish. At the end of the bar, by the doors to the kitchen, the different specimens were piled up on ice under a glass display. Sole, bream, sea bass. Gambas, squid, octopus. The air was redolent with the smell of olive oil and frying garlic, the spicy tang of the Espelette
pepper.

Marielle whirled up with the appetisers, wafer thin slices of Bayonne ham, red peppers in olive oil, tiny fried squid, razor clams on the half-shell.

They ate like kings, fussed over by Antoine and his sisters, bottles appearing on the table like rabbits out of a magician’s hat, the empties whisked away, new baskets of freshly cut baguettes brought out from behind the bar for them to mop up the spicy delicious sauce. Conversation was impossible, they made do with shouted comments across the table.

Edward leaned close and murmured in Caroline’s ear.

‘Well done, sweetheart, you and Jill and Nadia. Our Jules is a different man.’

‘Isn’t he? And Nadia’s coming out of her shell. She’s obviously got a crush on him.’

‘Poor kid. I hope she doesn’t get too attached.’

Baby Joshua, after banging out a selection of bongo rhythms with a spoon, had fallen fast asleep and was dreaming happily in his carrycot, checked on every few minutes by an Arantxa female.

Antoine paused from time to time, in between serving drinks, bending down to say something to Jill, hovering close, the pair of them flushed and bright-eyed and obviously having a hard time keeping their hands off one another.

The evening passed quickly. Caroline, looking at her watch, was surprised to see that it was almost midnight. The restaurant was fairly empty now, things beginning to slacken off in the kitchen. Monsieur Arantxa came out and was congratulated on his excellent cuisine. Edward and Julian got bone-crushing hugs, the ladies a kiss on the hand. He returned to the kitchen to ‘check the boys were clearing up properly’, but promised to come out for a final glass with them before they left.

Caroline was just leaning across to say something to Jill when she heard a noise at the door and looked up to see a late group coming in, four men and four women. They spilled inside reminding Caroline of a flock of dark winter birds and sending an inexplicable shiver down her spine.

They’d obviously had a few drinks too many. More than a few she thought, as one of the women stumbled on the threshold and almost fell flat on her face. Her partner caught her at the last minute, laughing, swung her to her feet then bent her backwards to plant a sloppy kiss on her mouth. She was a petite brunette, hair in a pixie cut, wearing a very short lycra skirt and a leather bomber jacket in spite of the warm weather.

Some instinct made Caroline glance towards the bar, where Antoine was pouring cognac into four glasses on a round tray. Seeing the new arrivals, his face changed, eyes narrowing and lips tightening. He paused, a few drops ran down the side of the bottle and dripped onto the tray. His gaze was fixed on the couple. Jill had noticed too. She looked at Antoine, then back again at the couple who were still kissing and giggling.

Madame Arantxa came through the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a towel and saying something over her shoulder. She turned, saw the newcomers, looked at Antoine, gave a small shake of the head, then moved across the room like a small tug heading out to confront a liner. Caroline couldn’t make out what she was saying but it obviously didn’t please them. They started to protest loudly, but Madame Arantxa stood her ground, shrugging her shoulders and gesturing towards the clock on the wall.

The noise level rose, one of the men banged his fist on a table, and there was a sudden shift in atmosphere, a growing tension. Something seemed to change, casting a shadow over the brightly-lit restaurant. Caroline noticed that Edward had tensed in his chair. Then another man, with a nose ring and a sailor’s cap, threw up his hands in a gesture of disgust and shouted something about ‘going somewhere else’, and ‘shitty restaurant anyway, tourist crap’.

Everyone turned to leave. Caroline felt her shoulders relax. She exhaled. An unpleasant scene had been avoided. Good old Madame A, she thought admiringly. Small, but brave. But then running a restaurant must give rise to this sort of problem from time to time; Madame was obviously a lady of experience.

But just as Caroline reached for her glass there was a scuffle, the woman who had almost fallen when she came in broke away from the rest, pushed roughly past Madame Arantxa, and headed for the bar at speed. She was wearing very high heels and swaying like a tamarisk tree in a high wind. As she passed their table she staggered, almost fell, grabbed on to the back of the chair in which Julian was sitting. He started to get to his feet, but she heaved herself away and carried on, coming to an abrupt stop in front of Antoine. He was standing, hands on the bar, face impassive.

‘
Alors,
’ the girl was hissing the words, her voice slurred but comprehensible. ‘I hear you’ve got a new tart, a foreigner. Taken her for a ride on your bike, have you?’ She laughed unpleasantly. ‘Probably gave her the ride of her life.’ She pointed at Antoine. ‘So who is she? Some Eastern European slut ready to open her legs for the right price?’

The colour drained from Antoine’s face.

Several things happened at once.

Edward was on his feet, pushing back his chair. The kitchen door swung open with a crash and Antoine’s sisters hurried out. Madame Arantxa and the man in the cap both rushed over to the bar. The man got there first, grabbed the girl by her arm.

‘Come on Melodie, leave it.’

‘Get off me!’

She tried to shake loose from his grip. Her eyes were wild, mascara smeared down one cheek like a bruise.

Antoine’s sisters had formed a line in front of the bar, arms folded, faces hostile.

‘You’re drunk,’ said Marielle contemptuously. ‘Don’t you have any pride?’

‘That’s right, defend baby brother, you stuck up bitch!’

The kitchen door swung open again. Antoine’s father and brothers emerged, their faces darkening when they saw what was going on.

‘Enough!’

Antoine’s voice was like thunder. He vaulted over the bar so fast that everyone gasped. He moved in front of his sisters, his face inches from the girl called Melodie.

‘That’s enough I said!’

He turned to the man in disgust.

‘Get her out of here.’

The man gave another tug but Melodie with a sudden wrench broke free and threw herself at Antoine, wailing.

‘No! Why are you doing this? Antoine,
chéri!
’

In a surprising move, a sort of standing jump, she managed to get her arms and legs round Antoine, clinging to him like a monkey climbing a tree. Her skirt had ridden up almost to her waist. Antoine was trying to disentangle himself, the expression on his face so horror-stricken that it was almost comical.

After a short tussle, the woman called Melodie was finally dragged off. The man with the nose ring had hold of her arm with one hand and the collar of her jacket by the other. He was propelling her towards the door, swearing as she kicked and flailed, but at the last moment she wriggled away and turned to hurl a last piece of abuse at Antoine.

‘She’ll find out what you’re like soon enough, your new slut. And then you’ll have the police on your doorstep again. You got away with it once, you and your mates, but next time you’ll pay! Bastard!’

***

As the car turned into the drive of Villa Julia, the scene was still sharp in Caroline’s mind. They had all been taken completely by surprise, the ambience shattered with the suddenness of a glass hurled against a mirror.

The group had swooped into the restaurant, ruined the evening and driven a wedge between Jill and Antoine. All in the space of minutes.

After Melodie had screamed her final burst of abuse they had been startled by a cry from behind them, a frail faint wail at first and then a full-lunged sobbing.

In unison, Julian and Nadia had swivelled round and rushed over to Joshua’s carrycot.

‘Oh baby boy, what’s the matter? Come to Daddy, come on, don’t cry, Daddy’s got you.’

Julian was holding the sobbing baby against his chest, patting his back. Nadia was muttering something in Polish, hunting frantically for his rabbit.

Madame Arantxa, wringing her hands, had hurried over to see if she could help, while the rest of the family hovered indecisively between the door and the baby. The few remaining customers, who had also witnessed the spectacle, hurriedly paid their bill, waving away the
cognacs
that Antoine had poured for them.

Antoine, a stricken look on his face, had hastened over to Julian, apologising profusely.

‘Oh man, I’ve upset him. I’ve woken him up, frightened him.
Merde.’

‘Antoine, don’t worry, it’s not your fault, it was that lot, all their shouting. Look, he’s quietening down already. But who on earth was that woman? Are you OK?’

Julian had patted Antoine’s shoulder distractedly while holding Joshua against his shoulder.