Nettie’s Secret. Dilly Court
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‘That’s marvellous, Byron. But how will we get there?’
‘Monsieur Durand, the bargee, has agreed to let us travel with him, providing we work our passage, and your father will be kept busy making sketches of the old fellow and his precious steam boat. Apparently Robert has met an art lover at last.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ Nettie said wholeheartedly. ‘I don’t feel as though I can walk another step.’
‘Take my arm. The café is just over there. I’m sure your father can wheedle a cup of coffee for you. He seems well in with all of them, even though he can’t speak much French.’
Arm in arm they made their way to what was little more than a wooden shack, but when Byron opened the door Nettie was enveloped in a warm fug laced with the heady aroma of coffee, wine and the inevitable hint of garlic. Her father was seated at a long table with several others, and she could tell by his expression that he was enjoying himself. His pad of paper, slightly crumpled after its soaking, was propped up before him and he was using charcoal to sketch the proprietor. An empty cup and wineglass suggested that his artistic talents were being appreciated in the most practical way. Nettie moved to his side, greeting him with a tired smile.
‘You look comfortable here, Pa.’
Robert looked up at her, beaming. ‘I’ve made some wonderful friends, and I’ve been treated with the greatest hospitality.’ He signalled to the barman, pointing to Nettie and making a drinking motion with his hand. ‘Café, please, Monsieur. For my daughter.’ He glanced up at Byron. ‘What’s the French for “daughter”?’
Byron went to the counter and translated. He returned to the table moments later bringing a steaming cup of coffee for Nettie.
‘They think you’re very pretty,’ he said, smiling. ‘They show good taste.’
Robert tugged at Nettie’s sleeve. ‘I want you to meet Monsieur Durand, the gentleman who appreciates art and who is going to take us to safety.’ He turned to the man seated on his left. ‘Aristide, my friend, this is Nettie, my daughter.’
Aristide took Nettie’s hand and raised it to his lips. Such a gallant gesture seemed oddly out of place from a man more used to working the river than mixing with polite society. Aristide was dressed, like his fellow bargees, in baggy trousers and a coarse linen shirt, open at the neck. A bright red and white spotted neckerchief added a splash of colour, and a battered peaked cap lay on the bench beside him. He smiled and his shrewd blue eyes twinkled irresistibly beneath shaggy grey eyebrows. Nettie knew at that moment that she was going to like Aristide Durand and she had a feeling that he was a man to be trusted.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur,’ she said, smiling.
Later, when Aristide took them to where his vessel was moored, Nettie experienced a frisson of excitement. She had grown up within yards of the River Thames and she was accustomed to seeing vessels of all types, but there was something solid and appealing about the craft that bobbed gently on its moorings, rocking like a baby’s cradle. Aristide boarded first, followed by Robert and then Byron, who held his hand out to steady Nettie as she bundled up her long skirts and stepped onto the deck. The planking was scrubbed to bone whiteness and Aristide showed them round like a proud housewife showing off a much-loved home. The cargo was stowed in the hold beneath vaulted hatch covers on either side of a single funnel, which smoked gently like an old man seated on a park bench with a pipe clenched between his teeth.
Aristide said something to Byron, who nodded and patted him on the back. ‘Monsieur Durand says this was one of the first steam barges on the Seine.’
Robert nodded vaguely. ‘Yes, that’s all very well, but where will we sleep? Ask him that, Byron.’
After a brief conversation Byron translated yet again. ‘The accommodation is very small so we’ll have to sleep on deck.’
Nettie could see that her father was about to protest. ‘That will be exciting,’ Nettie said hurriedly. ‘Please tell Monsieur Durand that we’re very grateful to him.’
‘I need a comfortable bed, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers,’ Robert said gloomily. ‘I just hope that the fellow doesn’t expect me to swab the decks.’ He wandered off to sit in the bows with his pad and charcoal and began sketching the view.
Nettie shrugged and sighed. It seemed that nothing would ever change her father; he would go through life oblivious to the chaos he caused along the way. Perhaps all creative people were like that. She could only be glad that she had not inherited her father’s artistic temperament, and she thought longingly of the blank pages in her notebook that begged to be filled with her next attempt at the novel. Maybe she would set it in Paris, or it might be a story about life on the river – that was a chapter just waiting to be told. She dragged her thoughts back to the present, wondering what Aristide was saying to Byron. They were having a long conversation, and it was obvious that Byron struggled at times in his attempt to understand Aristide’s rapid French. Then they shook hands and Aristide strolled off to speak to Robert.
‘What did he say?’ Nettie asked eagerly. ‘How are we going to pay our way? We can’t expect him to provide transport and feed us for nothing.’
‘Aristide had a youth who crewed for him, but the boy became ill and he had to send him home to his parents. I told the old man that I know nothing about sailing a barge, but he says he needs someone to stoke the boiler and work the locks. He said we can all help in one way or another.’
‘I’ll be happy to cook or clean, but doing hard physical work is a bit different from sitting in a law office copying dull documents,’ Nettie said, frowning. ‘Do you think you’re up to it?’
‘It’s true that I’ve never done manual labour, but we need to get away from Paris and I want to find my mother’s family, so this seems to be the best solution all round.’
‘I’ll do what I can to help,’ Nettie said, smiling. ‘Pa will do what he always does, which is as little as possible, but I suppose I shouldn’t grumble. It was his gift with people that made Monsieur Durand offer to help us.’
‘And it was your father who got you into this mess in the first place.’
‘Yes, I know, and it’s a shame that you’ve been dragged into our affairs.’
Byron took her hand and held it in a firm grasp. ‘I knew what I was getting into, and I wanted to come to France. It was my choice.’
‘I hope we find your mother’s family, but meeting them for the first time might not be easy. After all, they turned their backs on her.’
‘I’ve thought it through and I want to find out where I came from, whether it’s good or bad. I just need to know.’
‘I understand, or at least I think I do.’
He smiled and squeezed her fingers. ‘We’re in this together, Nettie.’
‘Byron, mon ami.’ Aristide was suddenly active, marching towards them, waving his arms and shouting instructions.
Byron leaped to attention. ‘We’re off, Nettie.’ He caught the mooring line that was thrown to him from one of Aristide’s friends on the river bank. He was attempting to coil the rope when Aristide hurried up to them, and showed him how it was done. He spoke rapidly and Nettie had no idea what he was saying, but it was obvious that she was the subject of the conversation.
‘He wants to show you where he does the cooking,’ Byron said at last. ‘I think you’re to take over.’
‘That’s one thing I can do.’ Nettie nodded to Aristide, who grinned in response and headed off in the direction of the accommodation in the stern of the vessel.
Every effort had been made to use the available space, from the bench seat that pulled down into a bed, to the rows of pots and pans that hung above the tiny stove. Talking volubly and miming with dramatic gestures, Aristide managed to demonstrate