Chapter Eight
La Toilette À La Turque
With young Bobby at last now having finished doing what he had been so desperate to do earlier, with their hands washed, moments later, taking Bobby's hand in his own, with his young son firmly in tow, Tom made to leave the foetid, stinking public toilet as quickly as possible. However, as it was, in the event, things did not proceed quite as he had intended.
It was as they passed by the two darkened cubicles, Bobby's eager little blue eyes, ever alert to the possibility of new experiences, noticed that one of the doors stood open. And, it was because of this one simple fact, that being possessed of both an inquisitive nature and an enquiring mind, Bobby now observed something else too; something which would lead to a startling revelation on the part of his father, and was something which he would remember for the rest of his life.
For, glancing into the semi-darkness of the cubicle, much to Bobby's surprise he saw that something which should have been there, most undoubtedly was not. At the sudden dawning of this realisation, the cornflower blue eyes of young Bobby Branson grew round as saucers. The little boy stopped abruptly in his tracks, stood stock still, and tugged hard on Tom's hand to gain his father's full attention.
"Da!"
"What is it son?"
"Da, look!"
"Look at what?" asked Tom and through gritted teeth. The stench of stale urine, and worse, was nauseating, almost overwhelming, and made him want to retch. Accordingly, Tom was doing his very best to keep his mouth firmly closed, to breathe as little as possible, and wondering what on earth it was that could possibly so have engaged his young son's attention in this decidedly dirty, smelly French public convenience.
"Da! Someone's nicked the feckin loo!" Bobby announced loudly and in the most appalled of tones.
Momentarily, Tom's gaze shifted, slid furtively in the direction to where Bobby was now pointing, and seeing what it was that here, and in the most unlikeliest of places, had attracted his young son's attention, a burgeoning grin now twitched at the corners of Tom's mouth, and he surprised himself by suddenly thinking of Mary, his aristocratic sister-in-law, who had such very decided notions as to what she thought to be proper and right.
Of course, both Mary and Tom had come a very long way since the old days, when she considered him to be nothing more than the impertinent, upstart Irish chauffeur who had so dared to presume first to court, and then wed, her youngest sister Sybil.
Now, well over ten years later, while from time to time they would both peck and snipe at each other, they had the utmost respect the one for the other, in fact loved each other dearly, but on seeing the French hole-in-the-ground toilet, Tom all but chuckled. And to think, thought he, that Mary had once considered the Irish primitive!
"Hm! I'll tell you all about it when we're outside", said Tom to Bobby, who, somewhat surprisingly, was exhibiting a marked reluctance to leave and who, it seemed, would much rather have preferred to stay put and investigate the matter of the missing toilet still further. Tom decidedly saw no such need himself and now taking his young son firmly by the hand, all but dragged a reluctant young Bobby out of the public convenience, onto the platform, and into the bracing, clean sea air of the quayside.
At long last, now daring to inhale deeply, oblivious to all the other passengers, Tom Branson squatted down on the crowded platform of the Gare Maritime, placed his hands gently on the little boy's shoulders, and gazed directly into his younger son's adorable little face. Anyone ever seeing the two of them together, as now, would never fail to realise that Bobby was Tom's son; with his blue eyes, his blond hair, and with an infectious, cheeky, lop-sided grin, the little boy was an identical version of his father in miniature.
"Now, son, about in there…" began Tom.
"Should we tell the polees?" whispered Bobby in all seriousness.
"About what?" Tom asked.
Bobby nodded his little head firmly in the direction of the public convenience. He knew that stealing was a bad thing to do, that people went to prison for taking things that didn't belong to them, and that in all likelihood they wouldn't get to go to Heaven either.
"That someone's nicked the feckin loo!" said Bobby earnestly.
Tom smiled broadly, and then slowly shook his head.
"No son, that won't be necessary. You see, that's what some public toilets are like here in France".
"Oh!" replied young Bobby with great solemnity, his impossibly blue eyes now widening in the realisation that he alone, or so he thought, was now privy to a most amazing secret, and one which remained unknown, even to Danny, his adored elder brother.
"And one thing more, about that word you just…" began Tom but then got no further in what he was about to say, for, at that very moment, a man dressed in a grey trilby and dark suit, rounding the corner swiftly from behind the public toilet, in the press of all the other people on the platform, failed until the very last minute to see Tom squatting there on the platform, and all but fell over him, nearly sprawling headlong, and in the process, losing his hat. He was now joined by his similarly clad compatriot, smoking a Camel cigarette. Tom instantly recognised the smell of the Turkish tobacco: Emmet Keogh, who worked in the newsroom at the Indy's offices on Talbot Street back home chain smoked the very same brand.
"Feckin hell! Watch where yous going!" yelled Tom in alarm, instantly pulling Bobby towards him, and with his own body, shielding the little boy from the likelihood of any harm.
Reeking of cheap cologne, the man who had nearly fallen over both Tom and his son recovered himself, was quickly helped to his feet by his friend, reached for his fallen hat, dusted it off, and rammed it firmly back on his head.
"Ficken Engländer!" snarled the man, his hare lip making that snarl seem all the more repulsive. Tom felt Bobby shrink against him, tightened his arms protectively around the little boy. While Tom spoke no German, the mouthed obscenity needed no explanation, merely a minor correction.
"Feckin Irishman actually!" grinned Tom.
The two men glared sourly at Tom, then strode hurriedly away from him away down the platform, and disappeared just as swiftly among the throng of passengers waiting to board the train. Of course, Tom couldn't be certain whether or not the two men were indeed the same ones whom he had overheard talking through the slatted vent at the rear of the public toilet. However, it seemed more than likely that they were, although to be truthful, by now Tom was beginning to doubt if he had even heard the word "Crawley".
After all, he didn't speak German and he could just as easily have been mistaken about what he thought he had overheard. But some innate sixth sense told Tom he wasn't, and that being so, he made a mental note to tell Matthew all about his chance encounter, and at the earliest opportunity too.
"Are you all right son?" Tom now asked, squatting down again.
Silently, Bobby nodded his little head, gazed squarely into his father's eyes, then flung his arms around Tom's neck, and kissed him.
"I love you Da!"
"I love you too Bobby!"
Tom kissed the little boy soundly back, playfully tickled his sides, and made him squirm and giggle with laughter. Both he and Sybil had taught all their children never to be afraid or ashamed of showing love or physical affection. Then, for a long moment, Bobby looked thoughtfully at his father as if weighing something up in his young mind.
"Da?"
"Yes son?"
"What's feckin mean?"
Tom sighed.
"I was just coming to that…"
Author's Note:
The title of this chapter is the French phrase for the type of convenience which so piques young Bobby's interest - literally "Turkish toilet", although they can be found elsewhere in the world too!