“How the Mighty” Chapter 9 — Carrie
Busting Out of Death’s Door
How to blow off the president
Carrie aimed the wheelchair along the park towards the cemetery gate. The seated audience was restless, some standing, looking after the departing president, others rising to join the queues for the toilets. A few were striding out towards the tiny café beside the entrance. Nobody moved to stop a wheelchair warrior and his assistant.
At least until they reached the carpark. A private security guard held up his hand. “Non, M’sieur. Ce n’est pas permis.”
“I need my medicine. It’s in my grand-daughter’s car,” the old veteran wheezed, patting his chest.
The guard shrugged. “Non. C’est impossible.”
They looked at each other. Carrie smiled at how easily this frontal assault had been repulsed.
Carrie patted her own heart. “Pour le couer, M’sieur,” she said, moving her hand over her chest. The guard’s eyes followed with interest.
Carrie gave him a smile. She had melted hearts around the globe with that smile. “S’il vous plaît, capitaine. Pour mon grand-père. La médecine. Pour le coeur. Pour le soldat qui a sauvé la France. Juste une minute, pas plus.” Please, captain, only a minute.
She held up her pass and indicated that of her charge.
The guard considered for a moment, looked around, and waved them through. “Eh bien. Avec vitesse, madame.” Okay, but quick, lady!
Carrie touched her hand to her heart and nodded gratefully. The guard drew himself up as they passed.
“I think the two of us could get anywhere in France today,” the old man said. “You know the language?”
“I have a friend who taught it to me. It’s all in the body language, really. Good thing we’re not in Germany. You wouldn’t be my grand-père, you’d be my gross farter.”
Luckily Carrie’s little grey Opel was out of sight, parked behind a van bearing the logo of a media company. The old man got out of the wheelchair and settled himself in the passenger seat. Carrie pushed the chair to one side. “We’re not going to need that, are we?”
“I can walk. Not far. Not fast. And I can hold onto my granddaughter.”
“Buckle up, Grand-dad.”
She started the car and moved through the carpark, following the signs for the exit.
“What did you say to that guy?”
“Oh, I just told him you needed some pills for your heart, and he should be grateful for you saving his country. And I pointed to my heart. The French react to emotion better than logic.”
Carrie could feel his eyes on her.
“Yes, I can see how that would work.”
She smiled. “Well, it did.”
“Better undo another button. There’s another guard.”
“Oh shit!” Carrie exclaimed. “Um, pardon my French.”
There were two security guards at the exit onto the coastal road, manning a lowered boom gate, and Carrie slowed. Perhaps the truth would work better this time.
But they raised the boom without a word.
“Don’t want anybody coming in with a car bomb,” Carrie suggested, “But we’re good to go.”
“We might have a bit of trouble coming back,” the veteran said.
Carrie’s eyes were on the rearview mirror. “Yeah, could be. There’s one guy talking into a radio. We’d better get ourselves lost. Um, that might happen anyway; all these French lanes look the same.”
“What about your satnav?”
“Good idea. I had an AirBnB in Bayeux last night. It’ll be on the way.” Carrie fumbled with the controls. “No, wait, even better. I did a search for a café and it was close to that. Unless you can remember the way, Sergeant?”
The American Cemetery at Colleville sur Mere has passed beyond a war cemetery. It is now a tourist attraction in its own right, along with visitor centre, cafe, enormous car park, and Instagram-worthy vistas.
The post-war memorial at the heart of the commemorative area looks a bit twee to these later eyes, but doubtless it satisfies the American taste for grandiose sentimentality.
I suspect that security might have been a little tighter than even my tall blonde Aussie photographer could penetrate, and how does an American grandfather get an Australian granddaughter, anyway, but hey, poetic license. It’s my war story, and if the facts get in the way, they get an unmarked grave.
What's going to happen with Carrielle and the veteran from Missouri, whose name I have somehow managed to avoid mentioning so far? Will they evade the French fuzz? Will they catch up with a Norman tart? Will the old charmer persuade Carrie to take him for more than a ride through the hedgerows?
Britni
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