appreciation that only Bruno could hear, and raised his hand in salute.

‘We’ll just be a moment, Bruno. And welcome to your friend,’ called Pamela as

she reined in her snorting brown mare to a quick trot. Christine rode on at

speed, lifting a hand briefly in greeting before bending back over her horse’s

neck and racing on down the slope. Pamela gazed enviously after her, but turned

back to shout, ‘We’ll take the saddles off and change and see you on the court.

You can use the cabane by the swimming pool to change.’

Those last words almost disappeared into the wind as she took off again,

cantering over the turf to follow Christine back towards the house, taking the

long way round the back of the property rather than having to dismount and deal

with gates and fences.

‘Two handsome women riding fast on horseback. Mon Dieu, but that’s a magnificent

sight,’ exclaimed the Baron, and Bruno knew that whatever happened on the tennis

court, the day would be a success.

He had warned the Baron that the two women played in tennis dresses, so both men

wore white shorts and T-shirts. It struck Bruno that their four white-clad

figures looked almost formal as they met on the court and made introductions.

The Baron bowed as he presented Pamela with a bottle of champagne ‘to toast your

victory, Mesdames’. She took it quickly to the cabane, where an ancient

refrigerator purred noisily, and by the time she rejoined them, the Baron had

invited Christine to be his partner and Bruno was sending forehands over the net

to each of them in turn.

‘It looks like you’re stuck with me,’ he said as Pamela came onto the court,

bringing another can of tennis balls.

‘I always prefer to have the law on my side, Bruno,’ she smiled, and they began

to knock up seriously, two balls in play, with Bruno sending his to Christine

and the Baron playing with Pamela. The women played well and with careful

control, placing each ball deep, and Bruno found himself responding in kind and

getting into a rhythm of forehand after forehand. It was a satisfying routine

after his more usual knock-up style that sent half the balls into the net.

The first set went with serve to four all, although Bruno had to fight back from

fifteen-forty down. Pamela and Christine knew the court and the strange ways of

grass, and used their experience to position themselves while Bruno and the

Baron tired themselves scrambling to try and anticipate each wayward bounce. The

women still looked cool and fresh and in control, while the men were mopping

their brows and flapping the fronts of their shirts.

At set point, Bruno waited for the crucial serve, swaying gently on the balls of

his feet, knowing the Baron’s game well enough to expect a slice. But the Baron

fooled him, serving a fast ball to his forehand, and Bruno played it down the

line back to Christine. She returned it to him, and he played the same shot back

to her from the baseline. The rhythm was back. Five strokes, six and then eight,

and the rally was still going strong when Christine suddenly changed tactics and

hit her next forehand hard to Pamela. She played it back to the Baron, and it

was their turn to exchange strokes from the baseline. Then Pamela’s sixth shot

hit some oddity on the grass surface and the ball bounced high and wide. The

Baron barely scrambled it back, saw it hit the top of the net and drop forlornly

onto his side of the court. Game and set.

‘What a magnificent rally,’ called Pamela, with an enthusiasm so warm that Bruno

could not think it quite genuine. ‘Well done, Baron, and hard luck on that very

unfair last bounce. I think you had us but for that.’

‘I need a drink,’ said Christine, running forward to shake Bruno’s hand and then

going back to kiss the Baron on both cheeks. ‘And I need a shower,’ laughed

Pamela, ‘and then a drink. And thank you for the game and that last rally. I

can’t think when I played a rally that lasted so long.’

Bruno admired the easy skill of the women in soothing bruised male egos. He and

the Baron had been outplayed. Dripping with sweat, they looked as if they had

been through a long hard game instead of a single set of mixed doubles. The

Baron, usually grim faced and tight of lip when he had lost a game, was almost

purring with pleasure at their attention.

‘You’ll find a shower and towels in the cabane,’ Pamela told them. ‘We’ll take

our showers inside and see you out here in ten minutes for the champagne.

Meanwhile, there are bottles of water in the refrigerator. Help yourselves.’

Bruno mopped his neck with his towel, and put away his racquet as the Baron

limped up smiling.

‘What charming girls,’ he said.

Bruno grinned a weary assent. They were indeed charming, and yes, they were also

girlish, and if they could twist the cynical old Baron around their little

fingers so easily, they were two very formidable women. After he had drunk a

litre of water, showered and changed, he sauntered out to the table by the pool,

where four champagne flutes and an ice bucket stood ready, beside a bottle of

dark purple cassis. He looked discreetly at the label. It was a bottle of the

real stuff from the Bourgogne, not the industrial blackcurrant juice they sold

in supermarkets.

Pamela and Christine had changed into jeans and blouses when they reappeared

carrying trays – with plates, knives and napkins on one, pâté, olives, cherry

tomatoes and a fresh baguette on the other. The Baron uncorked his champagne,

poured a splash of cassis into each glass and then filled them carefully with

the wine.

‘Next time, you must let me partner you, Bruno,’ said Christine. ‘Unless the

Baron would like to help me take our revenge.’

‘I’m not changing a winning team,’ laughed Pamela. ‘I’ll stick with Bruno.’

‘We are at your disposal, ladies,’ said the Baron. ‘Perhaps we might invite you

to play at our club tournament later this summer. You would do very well,

partnering each other or in the mixed doubles.’

‘Sorry, but I only have until the end of May,’ said Christine. ‘Then it’s back

to England to write up my research before the end of my sabbatical.’

‘Perhaps we could tempt you back for a week or so in August,’ the Baron

persisted.

‘No room at the inn, I’m afraid,’ Christine said. ‘Pamela lives for the rest of

the year on renting out her place in the high season, and August is the busiest

month.’

‘Well, you now have lots of other friends you might stay with. My modest

chartreuse is at your disposal, and since my daughters come down from Paris for

the tournament, you would be well chaperoned.’

‘Chartreuse?’ enquired Pamela. ‘I thought that was a charterhouse, where monks

lived.’

‘That is so, for monks of the Carthusian order. But it has also come to mean an

isolated country house or manor, and in this part of the world it usually refers

to a certain kind of building, rather long and thin, just one room deep and with

a long corridor. Grander than a farmhouse, but not so grand as a chateau,’ the

Baron explained. ‘It has been in my family for a long time.’

‘That’s very kind of you, but I don’t think I shall be able to get away in

August,’ Christine said. ‘I really have to get this book finished before the

next academic year.’

‘That reminds me,’ said Bruno. ‘You know something of the archives here and the

local wartime history. How would I go about researching a soccer team in

Marseilles, around 1939?’

‘Start with the local newspapers, le Marseillais or le Provençal, or the sports