Free Leontyne by Richard Goodwin Page A

back into France without incident. I had decided to donate our coil of manila rope, bought at Chatham Dockyard, to the courageous old schoolteacher, who ran a cultural circle, and had left the huge bundle and a note with the chandler. I hope it was possible to sell it to a passing barge and that the circle could do something with the money.
    Our entry to France was at a charming village called Givet. It looked perfectly French with wide avenues, plane trees and men playing
pétanque
. It was hot enough for the umbrellas to be out on the café tables and the drowsiness of summer in France was just beginning. Jauntily I stepped into the customs post and started speaking to the young officer behind the glass partition who took not the slightest notice of me. He never so much as glanced in my direction until a slightly older and less pimply
douanier
arrived. The less pimply one stroked his bumfluff beard as he examined my passport and the ship’s papers. The more I explained that we had already entered France once, the more inquisitive they became. It was a Saturday morning and I did not want to be stuck here for the long weekend – it was Pentecost and the locks would be shut for forty-eight hours. I started to become less than my usual patient self but it was like grinding mud. More senior
douaniers
were called and it was decided a thorough search of the boat was to be made after lunch, which was at least something, even though it meant waiting another two hours. Ray, quickly assessing the situation in practical terms, suggested that they were causing the delayon purpose so that they could claim Saturday afternoon overtime.
    Ray was clearly cross that the boat should be searched and glowered as the group came on board. The youngest member, who had ignored me when I had arrived at his bureau, had changed into rummage gear for groping around in the bilges. The customs men were obviously hoping that they had stumbled on a major drug-trafficking ring, but became rather unsure of themselves when they got below. Just as they started to take everything apart, their walkie-talkie squawked and they stopped at once, explaining that their big chief was arriving. Fearing the worst, I went up on deck and waited. The chief was a charming man in civilian clothes who told me that he had been pottering around in his garden when the message had come through from these rather over-zealous colleagues that they might have caught a big fish. With enormous Gallic charm he called off the troops and apologized for any delays they might have caused. Hands were shaken all round and we were officially back in France. As we slipped away from the quay, I could almost feel the shrugging shoulders and the gesticulations in our wake.
    I was anxious to get to Fumay for the Pentecost celebrations which started the following morning. We pushed on and made it worth the last lock-keeper’s while to let us through his lock after closing time. He was very sympathetic when we told him that we were passionately interested in their famous cycle race which was being held the next day. This interest was a lucky invention on my part, but most villages have a bicycle race of some sort on these occasions.
    Fumay is famous for its slates and must have been a big centre for barge traffic. It has a superb mooring with a wide grass lawn and the town beyond. We tied up and decided to put the dinghy in the water. This went terribly wrong: we were both very tired and neither of us had checked that the outboard was properly attached, nor that the safety rope of the motor was tied on to the dinghy. The result was that theengine ended up at the bottom of the canal. Depressed, we decided to tackle the problem in the morning.
    The next morning we became the centre of attention and the chief of the fire brigade was sent for. He told us that he could get someone who knew how to use a grappling iron. This infuriated Ray who redoubled his efforts in this direction: within