Pack Up Your Troubles. Pam Weaver

       Six

      The Frenchie’s workshop, cluttered, untidy and littered with bicycle parts, doubled as an artist’s studio. She and Mandy stopped singing as they went through the door. There were pencil drawings and paintings everywhere. Connie spotted a fantastic drawing of Reuben sitting on the steps of his caravan smoking his pipe. High on the wall she saw a watercolour of two local fishermen she recognised from the beach at Goring from where they sold their fresh fish from the jetty. She looked at their rugged faces and rheumy eyes and knew that whoever had painted them had caught their likeness exactly. Kenneth had been good at drawing but nowhere near as good as this. The room itself smelled of engine oil and paint.

      As she and Mandy walked in, it was obvious that the men had reached a crucial stage of their work. There were about four of them in the large open area in the middle of the building, Isaac, Simeon and two other men. Which one was the Frenchie? They were all working together using a series of pulleys and chains to lower a large wooden frame onto a chassis on wheels.

      Calling the dog to heel, Connie stood in the corner by the door and drew Mandy into a protective embrace. One man was acting as instructor and guiding their every move. ‘Steady, steady. Keep that end nice and straight. Take your time, steady … Right, that’s it.’

      Someone let go of the chains and they clattered across the roof.

      ‘Careful,’ said the man. ‘Don’t damage the bodywork.’

      Once the bulky frame was secure, Simeon began screwing it into place. It was a very solid piece of work and she could see that with the door at one end, it would be like a small house on wheels.

      ‘Well, I’d best be off,’ said an older man Connie had never seen before.

      ‘Thanks for your help, Bob,’ said the one who had been giving the orders.

      Isaac grabbed his jacket and turned with a scowl on his face. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded when he saw Connie and her sister. Pip growled.

      Connie jumped. ‘I-I’m sorry,’ she spluttered. ‘Kez said you and Simeon were here and I thought … Sorry.’

      ‘That’s no way to speak to a lady.’ The instructor had come out of the shadows and into the light. Connie’s heart skipped a beat. He was broad shouldered and muscular. She could tell by the bulge at the top of his rolled-up sleeves that this man was used to heavy work and yet he moved fluidly and effortlessly. This must be the Frenchie. His brown hair was curled, not with tight curls but with more of an attractive wave. His face was streaked with perspiration. He glanced at her and Mandy and smiled. The smile transformed his whole face, revealing a long dimple on his left cheek. ‘Good afternoon, Madam,’ he said, bending to stroke the dog. His voice was like deep velvet, and he spoke like a Canadian with just a hint of a French accent. Connie felt her face flush and her heart began to beat a little faster.

      ‘She ain’t no lady, Frenchie,’ said Isaac bringing Connie back to the here and now.

      Connie’s jaw dropped but Mandy interrupted before she could say something.

      ‘We came to see where Simeon works,’ she piped up.

      The Frenchie waved his arm expansively and smiled. ‘And here it is!’

      Emboldened, Mandy started asking questions. ‘What are you doing? What’s that for? Why did you put that in there? Is that a picture of Mr Light?’ He answered all her questions patiently and with good humour, explaining that they had just repaired the van and were reconstructing it onto a new chassis. ‘That’s a very solid looking thing,’ Connie remarked.

      ‘It used to be called a living van,’ he explained. ‘It was the sort of thing road menders used to use when they stayed on the job. This one dates back to the turn of the century.’ He patted the wooden sides as he looked down at Mandy. ‘Back then you would see a steam engine on the front, then the living van, followed by a cart with all the equipment and finally the water cart to top up the engine, so the old timers tell me. It was a bit like a road train.’

      Connie was puzzled. ‘But what are you going to use it for now?’

      ‘This mush is full of ideas,’ said Simeon coming around the vehicle with a smile. ‘This is a travelling shop.’

      Connie was impressed. She could see it now. They were obviously going to put shelving along the sides and with the driver’s cab at the front, it would be ready to go.

      ‘And these paintings,’ Connie said with a wave of her hand, ‘did you do them as well?’

      The Frenchie glanced at Connie and gave her a shy smile. ‘Yes, I did. A hobby of mine.’

      ‘They’re very good,’ said Connie.

      ‘Thank you,’ he said, wiping his hands on an oily rag.

      ‘And now I have to go,’ he told Mandy. ‘I have to get ready to go out. It was nice to have met you and your mummy. I hope you’ll come again.’

      Mandy glared at him crossly. ‘She’s not my mummy. She’s my sister.’

      The Frenchie turned to Connie. ‘I apologise,’ he said quietly. ‘My mistake.’

      Connie’s heart was beating fast. She had never felt quite like this before. It was both alarming and exciting. ‘That’s quite all right,’ she said feebly. ‘I hope we didn’t intrude.’

      As Simeon reached for his coat, she and Mandy stepped back towards the door. The artist turned his head and their eyes met once again. ‘My name is Eugène Étienne but around here they all call me the Frenchie,’ he said extending his hand. Her small hand was all but swallowed by his. The grip was firm but gentle, warm and sincere. As he released her, he apologised and took a cleaner looking rag from a nail driven into the post and gently wiped her fingers.

      ‘Why do they call you the Frenchie?’ Mandy asked.

      ‘Mandy,’ Connie scolded.

      ‘It’s all right. You see, I never met him but perhaps you can tell by my name that my father was French,’ he said without a trace of bitterness. ‘I was brought up in an orphanage in Québec.’

      ‘Where’s that?’

      ‘Canada,’ he smiled. ‘I came over here during the war and forgot to go back.’

      Connie’s eyes widened. ‘They let you do that?’

      ‘Not actually,’ he laughed. ‘I was ill and I decided to stay here when the army discharged me.’

      ‘Nothing serious I hope,’ said Connie.

      The Frenchie shook his head. ‘Enough to keep me at the military hospital in Shaftesbury Avenue for a few months. I ended up falling in love with Worthing. I’ve only been here a little while but I want to make it my home.’

      A shadow fell over them. Someone was standing in the doorway. The Frenchie stepped back and looked up. ‘Darling,’ he said. ‘I am sorry. Is it that late already?’

      Connie was faced with the most beautiful girl she’d ever seen. She was blonde and tall and wore a pink floral dress with a straight skirt and a small white belt. She had the daintiest white peep-toed high heels and she carried a small clutch bag. Connie recognised her instantly. Mavis Hampton, the daughter of one of the richest men in town and Worthing’s very own beauty queen. Pip wagged his tail and headed towards her.

      ‘Oh no!’ she cried. ‘Don’t let that thing jump up at me.’

      Connie grabbed Pip’s collar just in time and although he never would have jumped up, Mavis eyed the two of them anxiously. There was no mistaking the curl of contempt on her lip. As Simeon walked past her on his way out, she shrank away as if he was poisonous.

      ‘I