Number 17, Garamond Road

The town hall in Horse-sur-mer was known as La Mairie. One of the first things the leaders had set up when they founded the town, was a place where everyone could come and speak to them and share their thoughts.
Albert Ross, he of the snack van, doubled as Horse-sur-mer’s lead town crier, organising a team of summer students whose job it was to ring a handbell at various times and various places – but most especially in the town square - and proclaim ‘Oyez, oyez,’ followed by a brief account of the Huguenot history in English, and where possible, in French. Albert was a man who thought deeply and sometimes productively about things in general, as was the nature of things in Horse-sur-mer. And so the crier’s spiel reflected both the modern and the traditional.
‘In the year of Common Era 1536,’ Albert and his students were heard to cry, ‘upon hearing that the extermination of Huguenots had been ordered in France, and long before their expulsion in 1585, Baron Guy de Beauvisage and Eléanore de La Rochelle, under the standard of the true white bear – said white bear being quite, quite separate from the polar bear – led a small band of plucky Huguenots from France to England, called here, so it is said, by ancient Celtic forces. The ship, ‘L’ours blanc’, arrived in April of 1536 and the community of Ours-sur-mer was founded.’
There was always a dramatic pause at this point, as the crier unrolled the standard of the white bear, and during the summer, since she or he would be dressed in full regalia, would have to wipe copious amounts of sweat from their brow. Albert had it in mind to abandon the standard town crier costume – which had to be constantly sent to the cleaners – in favour of the simpler costume of a sixteenth century seafarer.
‘The flag of the white bear flew over the town, which prospered. Baron Guy attempted to grow grapes on the slopes of what we now know as the town of Silent-on-the-Hill, but there were already a number of well-established breweries in neighbouring communities, so the first attempt at wine-making was unsuccessful.’ At this point, a leaflet advertising hostelries and restaurants in the area was handed out by an assistant.
‘….it did, however, have the effect of drawing attention to the small town of Ours-sur-mer which grew and became more diverse in nature. Finally, because of mispronunciation of the town’s name by newcomers, it became known as ‘Horse-sur-mer’….’

In the same way, the town hall was known by some as ‘The Mary’, but the signs pointing to it, and outside, proudly hung onto the French spelling. Bunty LeComte’s office was above La Mairie, and accessed by a rather steep staircase to one side of the town hall steps. The staircase was necessarily steep, because the room where public meetings were held had a rather high ceiling. Bunty was pleased that this was so, partly because she kept fit running up and down them, and partly because the weather dog couldn’t climb them. This was doubly important due to the frequency of visits by Horse-sur-mer’s cats, who were not troubled by the weather dog at all, but the weather dog was given to peeing when it saw one of them.
From the window of her office above la Mairie, Bunty was watching Fred, who had finished distributing posters, puff down the street. She shook her head. ‘Fred, Fred, Fred,’ she said aloud. She lost sight of him as he ducked under the striped awning of ‘Fleurs de Lil’. She turned back to her desk, but a few minutes later, she heard the treads of the narrow steps that led to her office, creaking. The door opened and Fred stood there, red in the face and gasping.
‘I….really…..need….to….ask….you….about….something,’ he panted.
‘Hopefully, it’s about how to dress in a suitable manner for summer weather, Fred,’ said Bunty.
‘Standards, Bunty, standards,’ said Fred.
‘You can maintain those without sacrificing comfort. How do you think people dress in India?’
‘Like the servers in ‘The Star of India’ on Bennett Road?’
‘Well that would do, Fred. Those nice white tunics and loose trousers would certainly be more appropriate than Fairisle knitwear and a bowtie in the middle of a heatwave.’
Fred had taken out a handheld, battery-driven fan and was holding it to the side of his right cheek.
‘Where’s Roddy?’ asked Fred. He jumped as Bunty yelled,
‘Roddeeee!’ No-one appeared. ‘He’s at lunch,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘Well, Bunty, since I’m having my own brush with the psychic world on account of the weather dog, I thought I’d push you to tell me more of Roddy’s story.’
Bunty frowned at him. She walked over to the sofa by the window and sat down. She patted the seat next to her.
‘I’m not convinced the weather dog’s forecasts have anything to do with premonitions, Fred, but it’s about time I told you about Roddy. You have to assure me this won’t end up in The Horse Eye. I’m not sure why I’d believe a newspaper owner, but I do trust you, Fred.’
‘I won’t breathe a word, Bunty.’
Bunty glared at him.
‘Or type, or publish,’ he added.