Nous Nous Reverrons, Mate! We’ll Meet Again, Mate!

By Allan McFadden

On the French Riviera, summer was approaching, and Mary-Anne Walton was due back in Cannes. I could hardly wait!

I’m Dougay Roberre, ex-pat Australian living in Nice, and Mary-Anne had employed me as a second unit director for international movie producer Harold Kempenski to supervise the filming of snow-capped Swiss mountains for his upcoming production of Heidi.

Ahead lay an uncomplicated sensuous summer with Mary-Anne. However, suspect property developer Paul Villan; a Thai kick-boxer; a Swiss starlet; and meddlesome international lawyers had other ideas.

Why does trouble search me out? And why can’t people just keep their hands off my hedonistic dreams?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035826216

Allan McFadden

Allan McFadden trained as a secondary school music teacher and has worked as a teacher, music arranger, actor and theatre composer. His scores include: Madame De; Noli Me Tangere; Air Heart and My 60’s Hero. As an author he has written Big Gig in Rock ‘n Roll Heaven and the Dougay Roberre series, beginning with Au Revoir, Mate! All books are published by Austin Macauley.

Book preview

About the Author

Allan McFadden trained as a secondary school music teacher and has worked as a teacher, music arranger, actor and theatre composer. His scores include: Madame De; Noli Me Tangere; Air Heart and My 60’s Hero.

As an author he has written Big Gig in Rock ’n Roll Heaven and the Dougay Roberre series, beginning with Au Revoir, Mate! All books are published by Austin Macauley.

Dedication

For Lori Jeffrey,

in appreciation of her insightful reading.

Copyright Information ©

Allan McFadden 2024

The right of Allan McFadden to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035826209 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035826216 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

The Dougay Roberre Series

Book One: Au Revoir, Mate!

Book Two: A Bientot, Mate!

Book Three: Une Autre Fois, Mate!

Book Four: Nous Nous Reverrons, Mate!

Notes

All characters and situations in Nous Nous Reverrons, Mate! are fictional. They bear no resemblance to anyone alive or dead.

The areas and streets of Nice, Montreux, Lyon, Marseille and Aubagne exist, though some of the buildings occupied by the characters do not.

Parc naturel regional Gruyere Pays-d’Enhaut is the mountainous region next to Montreux. The lookouts Rochers de Naye and Pointe d’Avenayre are found there.

Heidi, is a work of children’s fiction, written by Swiss author Johanna Spyri. It was originally published in 1881 in two parts. Heidi: Her Years of Wandering and Learning and Heidi: How She Used What She Learned.

NOTE: The two unrealised films of Heidi, mentioned in the text, bear no resemblance to any version previously made.

Je m’appelle (French) means ‘I am called’.

n’est-ce pas? (French) means ‘is it not?’

I Get a Kick Out of You is a song written by Cole Porter.

Another Saturday Night is a song written by Sam Cooke.

The blue shuttered Herboristerie (founded in 1849) in Place Saint-Jean, Lyon, exists, though the business operated there has no connection with this story.

Bar Berti at Place des Capucines, Marseille, exists.

Only Sixteen is a song written by Sam Cooke.

D’accord (French) means ‘okay’.

Darebak (Czech) means ‘rascal’, ‘villain’ or ‘rogue’.

The Ibis Hotel next to Gare de Nice, exists.

Mate (Australian) is a term for a friend, though it can be used ironically.

Chapter 1

Je m’appelle Dougay Roberre: L’Homme Engager. In French, that sounds impressive, n’est-ce pas? In English, I am simply Douglas Roberts: man-for-hire, or rather jack-of-all-trades. Not so impressive, huh? I live off whatever job comes my way, and over the years, I’ve had plenty of odd ones come my way in pursuit of day to day survival.

I’m no high-flyer, no daredevil, no Have Gun, Will Travel type. I’m not a secret agent, though I am a secret because not many people have heard of me. I’m no one whose exploits warrant the aid of a ghost writer as I tell my own story and I make my own mistakes. I’ve sure made plenty of those.

I’ve never been jetted into an Arabian oil well to extinguish an uncontrollable blaze. I’ve never been asked to rescue a bunch of mercenaries trapped in some African jungle, having failed a coup attempt. I’ve never been asked to sleep with some gorgeous foreign spy, to attain the combination of a keyed locking system, linked to a deadly count-down computer, which in two minutes and thirty-seven seconds, will launch a collection of super missiles all aimed at the capital cities of the free world.

However, I have wrestled a ferocious dog, while my detective boss took snaps of a politician being serviced by one of his beautiful blonde constituents. That was life threatening enough for me!

I guess secretive, high-paying employers, who dwell in the shadows, do not look for heroes in Nice, Cote d’Azur, France, under a bright summer sun.

I relocated here a little over a year ago to try to reconnect with my French heritage—not familial, rather spiritual. I’d been taken by my parents at age three, from somewhere in France to Sydney, Australia, as they had to be placed into a witness protection program. So the name I answer to, whether in English or French, may not in fact be my birth name. I’ll never know.

Approaching forty years of age, following the natural deaths of my parents, I decided to ‘return’ to France in search of ‘myself’. I settled in Nice, as I couldn’t see myself living too far from the sea, and if you’ve ever been to the French Riviera, you’ll know that Nice is one of the few affordable places along the strip. Try buying a bread stick and a bottle of milk, late on a Saturday night in Monaco!

I may find my jobs at the unglamorous end of the employment market; however, I do own an apartment and a five percent stake in a café. Not bad for only having spent fifteen months here. Having ‘substance’ behind me, I’m not a man easily laughed at, though all my friends do.

Just quietly, my friends do not know that I have in the bank a substantial amount of money from the legal sale of ten diamonds and one pornographic painting of the young Mozart beating his giant penis on a piano keyboard. I also have hanging above my bed, a painting that one day, I hope, will give me a sizeable return.

My money will be staying in the bank as I have no intention of whittling away my nest egg, or blowing it on some fly-by-night investment. The reason I live as I do—hand to mouth—is that I have no worthwhile qualifications, though my parents did instil in me their work ethic. Most days I have to be doing something.

However today, I was intending to do as least as possible after I finished up in the café. I’d been for my regular morning swim now the water and outside temperature was warming, walking down the stone steps opposite Rue de Congres and falling into the turquoise Mediterranean. Crossing Promenade des Anglais, the wide street hugging the sea, I always looked carefully both ways. Even after all the time here, I cannot recall instinctively from which direction the traffic hurtles at me.

A few weeks ago, Claude Tanguay, the ninety-five percent owner of our café, L’Opera Mozart, decided to extend our trading hours now summer was approaching. Louise Modisette, our chef and only waitress, said we were going to need to employ an additional casual. She had someone in mind—her boyfriend, Martin Tetreault. I know and like Martin. He is honest and reliable and has helped out in the café previously. After the summer, he’ll be taking up his first appointment as a school teacher, so he can do with some money until then.

Louise, if I’d been a social worker, would be my working case study. We’d bumped into each other when she tried to run off with my lady friend’s suitcase. Instead of smacking her bum as punishment, I offered her a job in the café. I don’t know where she acquired the skill, for she is a superb chef, one Claude and I cannot do without.

Sometime later she left the hostel, and moved into my second bedroom. When I’d met her, she was a down and out nineteen-year-old, so I couldn’t bring myself to charge her rent. People say I’m a soft touch—they may be right—though I can live with being a soft touch, as I carry a hard fist.

I said to Claude that with the increase in our customer base, after Louise’s occasional bespoke weekend dinners and my highly regarded Mozi-Art 1.0 exhibition, he should consider buying a dishwashing machine and forego my manual services. I also said he should redecorate the café, as it was beginning to look tardy.

I don’t have the money for another of your crazy ideas!

Taking that as my cue, I took a deep breath and informed him, I’d like to buy a further fifteen percent in the cafe.

Claude stood very still and studied me, assessing whether I was teasing him or not. My request from out of left field had quite an effect on him, for he didn’t run his hand through the non-existent hair atop his head.

From where would you be acquiring the capital? he asked formally and with suspicion.

My Italian aunt is feeling quite generous. There is no Italian aunt. I’m not going to tell anyone about the sale of the diamonds.

Your Italian aunt? he asked surprised, putting his thumbs into his waistcoat and taking up a more familiar pose. Your Czech mate, Milovic, told me she was dead.

She has a sister, I replied immediately, expanding the lie.

As usual, Claude uttered, I’ll think about it. He moved away, avoiding any further discussion.

To tell the truth, I was hoping Claude needed a fresh injection of capital in our business, or he’d be generous enough to want me to have a more substantial investment. I was firmly committed to my meagre share in L’Opera Mozart, for I enjoyed the sense of being a business owner, and I saw a further investment as a solid stake in my future. In two days, I would offhandedly remind Claude of my offer. By the end of the week, after a lot of expectant glances his way, I was hoping he would agree.

I was wiping my dishwasher hands when my mobile rang. It was my best mate and sparring partner, Remy Didion. He’d once been a well-known champion boxer, though like many retired champions, he rarely spoke of it. After one round of sparring with Remy, you knew he had history in the game. You could feel it in your bones.

Are you busy or free? he enquired, with a fake tease in his voice.

Free! I exclaimed. Take me away from this life of misery I live!

Sometimes, Dougay, you’re a real drop-kick! Can you walk over here? He paused, setting up one of his questionable gags. Can you still remember the way?

Who’s the childish one? I asked. He didn’t reply. With concern, I lowered my voice. Is everything okay?

Yes, though I need a second pair of hands and feet. I’ll explain when you get here.

Remy owned a large warehouse full of second hand furniture, bric-a-brac and good old-fashioned junk. If each piece of his furniture could tell its life story, one would never be able to cry again, for one would be forever drained of tears, having listened to the endless stream of misery each piece told.

The warehouse is over in the Le Piol area, near the Russian Cathedral Saint-Nicholas a Nice. It is on the north-west side of the railway line—as the Americans say, on the wrong side of the tracks.

I headed up the hill to the railway station, left along Avenue Thiers to Boulevard Gambetta and into the familiar dark underpass. Ten minutes later, I banged on the metal roller door as it resounded, unlike the heavy steel door next to it, which no matter how hard you hit it, remained stoically silent. The warehouse was solid brick, with a boarded up window on the ground floor. Upstairs at the mezzanine level, where Remy lived, three small windows were covered by rusty prison bars. Down one end of the building was a CCTV camera, which was not plugged in. When it came to security, Remy had spared no expense.

I didn’t get to enter. Remy pulled up the roller door, saying, Wait! as if I was his faithful hound. I did as commanded and he backed out his truck. After he’d rolled down the door and locked it, I climbed in next to him and we drove off.

*

Les Automobiles de Prestige de Nice is an exclusive car dealership. The title does not over-value the merchandise inside. Remy parked his aging, dirty white truck down the street a little from the showroom. Perhaps he had been advised to do so by the dealership, so as not to devalue their product.

You’re not planning on stealing one of these cars in broad daylight, are you? I asked, cheekily.

Remy gave me a withering stare before informing me, Some guy has died and the wife doesn’t want his car. She’s not prepared to keep up the repayments.

Doesn’t the car dealership have a contract? Knowing Remy, I was already doubting the story he was starting to weave.

Of course, with the dead husband, not the living wife. I don’t know what it’s like in Australia, but here in France, the law doesn’t allow you to drive after death. He laughed at his gag.

Okay, okay, I said, waiting for him to settle. So, you want me to drive the car back to the dealership.

No! No way! Do you have any idea how much that car is worth?

No! How could I? I haven’t seen it yet.

I climbed down from the truck and stretched my back. Remy beckoned me to join him behind the vehicle. You’ll be driving my truck. He patted the rear metal door with loving care.

Your truck? I couldn’t believe what he’d said. In the time I’d known him, Remy always drove his precious stagecoach, while I always rode shotgun. You’re going to let me in behind the wheel?

Yes, he conceded. Then he added with comic menace, I’ll be right behind you all the way. I’ll be watching every move you make. He tapped me on the chest, reinforcing his meaning. And remember to drive on the correct side of the road! This is France, not Australia!

We entered Les Automobiles de Prestige de Nice, where Remy shook hands with an immaculately attired gentleman and received repossession papers. I stood by the entranceway ogle-eyed, admiring the cars, as a child stands before a counter of thirty-six flavoured ice-creams. Back in the truck, we headed off to the widow’s place to the west, a little beyond Antibes.

There was no problem with the widow, no ranting and raving, no heartfelt begging, no screaming at us. She was happy to be rid of the sleek red expensive sports-thing. I was genuinely surprised at how smoothly it had transpired, considering my past experience with Remy’s acts of repossession.

When you get to Nice, Remy said, drive along Promenade des Anglais. It’s the shortest way back to the dealership.

It wasn’t. I knew why Remy wanted to drive along the beach front. He wanted all the women to take notice of him. I could just see him sitting in the red phallic machine, revving its engine at the traffic lights, peering over the top of his sunglasses at beautiful women who upon closer inspection of the man behind the wheel would regret their curiosity.

I climbed up into the cabin of his truck and turned on the ignition. I tried not to rev the old engine too much, because I didn’t want Remy chewing me out. I hadn’t told Remy I hadn’t driven in France before. I also had failed to tell him that I didn’t have a driver’s licence. Well, I had an Australian one, somewhere at the