Anthony 'Tonk-Tonk’ Roberts (Blind Dates OC)
This might be a bit of a cheat @blind-dates-fest (?), as I have written about this character before, and in passing in some of my fic. But here's another whole peice from his perspective.
Late Summer 1945 France
The flat land is plain and simple, smooth fields, distinguised from from England by the beautifully lined trees on some of the roads, otherwise it isn't really that different. Strange how feral and dangerous it had been only two years ago. Music reaches his ears and he realises he's humming again, very softly. Clair de Lune. Well, safer than La Marseillaise used to be, or God forbid, one of the favoured songs from the Mess. How often in the blind terror of needing to be quiet, had those got stuck in his head, and he'd had to swallow them back.
A wall rises in front of them, and the bus draws up. The conductor stands and calls out clearly, "Nouvion, Messieurs and Mesdames, Nouvion."
It's a sudden shock, the word pronounced so clearly, in the French accent. He climbes to his feet and pulls down the haversack, joining the exodus down the centre aisle. He climbs down the steps and stills. I'm here
A French bark of annoyance behind him and an elbow jolts him forwards, so he stumble walks through the arch. this time he stops with his back to the town wall.
It's all here, exactly the same as it had been. The fountain, the spindly trees- those look better than he remembers actually - the shops, that shabby little blue awning over the cafe, even the cobbles have barely changed.
No, there's one different thing. He crosses the square to the statue set in the dip in the wall. It is Him, the cafe owner, as to the very life, even holding out a menu.
'E is Msuir Rene" a woman's voice says in heavily accented English "E 'Nighthawk' in La Resistance in La Guerre. 'E very brave."
"Yes He helped me in the War." He tries to say in French, knows it comes out garbled, more broken than he wants. He can at least ask. Monsieur Rene, is he alive?" He's had one of the exiles drill that question into his head, the sylabelles rote.
The woman nods and waves to the building they are next to "Yes, yes "'E iz alive. 'e run the Café."
He turns with her guesture. The painted name is proud on the front. Café Réné. Here at last.
He bows slightly to the woman "Merci, Madame." Now if i remember, he weaves through the little tables and their woven chairs, then pushes open the door.
The bell clatters it's warning as he steps inside,and the black and white back of the broad man behind the bar turned, revealing Monsuir Rene in his long plainfaced, slightly portly way. Still the same
"Good Afternoon"- the man called in French "You would like a table?"
These phrases he knows easily, knows through the repetition of the months living here, and hearing them day in day out. Even if they are now spoken more quickly -the speed of full french, not dragged out for his or the German's benefit.
His mouth is dry, as if he's been chewing leftover ship-biscuit, "Msuir - je suis un aviator." Was it un?, he racked his mind, it would have to do "un Pilote British." He tapped his chest, waved back towards Rene In La guerre vous-" Oh, what the sod was 'help' in French? he pointed to himself, then the floor "moi hide ici. Je suis RAF. je suis Anthony Roberts."
Monsuer Rene was frowning in concentration as he listened, then his face lit up with a slightly too wide smile. "You (something) here, Welcome, Welcome, Good very good." The man is keeping his French very simple.
"Thank you, Monsieur. Thank You." It's all he can manage suddenly, to repete the words with great fervour, as if that is really enough. They could have been shot for hiding me.
And there's one of the waitresses, the taller dark-haired one he remembers, comes trotting up "What is your name?" she asks in good English "zere were many pilots here."
"Je suis Robert Je suis- he flutters his fingers in the air, at which they both look blank. The piano is still there, he strides over to it, flipping the cover, even as they rush, probably to try and stop him.
Those were the notes. Bent over he begins to play, one of the lead pieces from the Madame's Caberet evenings. He looks over his shoulder towards them, and there is dawning understanding and recognition. He
"Rober, Rober." Yvette claps her hands, "Welcome back."
He grins, sits down and morphs the tune into La Marseillaise. how many times had he wanted to do that, but hadn't dared. Now I can.
5 notes
·
View notes