Monsieur Dupont reached out and grabbed the gear stick poking out of the dashboard. He pressed the clutch pedal down with his left foot and simultaneously pulled the stick back, gingerly, to the bottom left side of the H + 1 pattern, as the disproportionately large flywheel in front of the engine spun. It slid into first gear easily enough, and as he lifted the clutch slowly, the car eased forwards.
Once he reached about 20 kilometres per hour, he slowly pressed the clutch pedal again, and pushed the stick back into the dashboard, allowing it to guide itself into the top middle position. Twice more, he did the same thing, pressing the pedal, listening and somehow feeling the flywheel, until it was rotating at the right speed, up until he was cruising along nicely at 80 km/h.
It wasn’t a very warm day, and Monsieur Dupont was pleased he hadn’t yet opened the roof. Mind you, the heating in his little old car didn’t really work until he’d driven for a good half hour, and so he wasn’t really any warmer sitting inside the car than he would have been outside, and every time he exhaled, he could see his breath on the windscreen for a moment.
The engine had now warmed up a bit and was positively purring along. The power of the two horses, uprated from the original 425 cc to the 602 under his bonnet, had made all the difference, and his old friend was now able to get up hills (well, most hills) without struggling.
In no time at all, he had reached his first stop. Andrée came out of her door, clutching a basket containing bread, saucisson, cheese, olives, a bottle of wine, and some water. As she climbed in, he felt the car levelling itself, as her weight compensated for the slight angle it had had with just him in it.
He started the engine again and instinctively, without even really thinking about it, went through the same ritual of pressing the pedal, listening to the noises, sensing the flywheel, and easing the vehicle away from the side of the road.
The road to their next stop took them up a long hill before an even longer descent down into the next village. As they climbed up to the top, he was pleased that the car didn’t have its full complement of passengers yet, since even though he knew his car could reach the summit, he wasn’t sure he’d really want to try anything too challenging.
As they rolled into the next village, slowing to 50 as they drove past the sign, he realised that he was now quite warm and so, when they stopped outside Gilberte and Mauricette’s house, he got out. While Andrée went to knock on the door, Monsieur Dupont got out and rolled the roof open. If he’d been British, he would have thought it looked just like a Swiss roll, but he wasn’t, and had no idea what one of those was. To him, it just looked like an open 2CV roof.
Not a Swiss Roll
He had just finished when their two final companions came out, each clutching another basket with more goodies, which he stowed in the boot alongside Andrée’s. Then everybody got back into the car and off they went to their final destination.
Once there, he pulled up onto the grass by the side of the road. Then once everybody was out, he unfastened the three seats and lifted from the car, carrying them over to the spot where they would enjoy their picnic. Two single seats for him and Andrée, while Mauricette and Gilberte settled down on the same double seat they’d been sat on in the car.
It didn’t take them very long to demolish the contents of their three baskets. Andrée’s was finished first, followed by the two apple tarts Gilberte had made, and the (admittedly somewhat sickly) strawberry tarts Mauricette had bought from her local patisserie.
Monsieur Dupont took a Gitane from the blue packet in his jacket pocket and put it in his mouth. He didn’t light it straight away because he was struck by the similarities between the blue of the packet and the shades of blue he could see as he admired the view of the blue skies over distant cliffs, with the deep blue sea separating them from whatever was on the other side.
As picnic views go, this one, of the South Foreland Lighthouse far across the sea, isn’t bad.
At last, he lit his cigarette and the thick, also slightly blue, smoke curled upwards, before it was caught by the wind and disappeared, travelling to who-knows-where.
He awoke with a start to find his three companions smiling at him kindly. They’d let him snooze while they’d tidied everything away apart from the seat he was still using, but now it was time to make their way home.
After wandering behind a nearby bush for a moment, he reappeared and, picking up his seat on the way past, he headed back to his car, waiting faithfully for him to begin the journey home.
As they headed back, his companions were now chatting about politics and other things like that. Monsieur Dupont didn’t much care for such matters and so, while they spoke about the recent signing of the programme commun, on 27 June, he let his mind drift away again, back to the shades of blue he had seen in his cigarette smoke, in the sky, and in the sea.
The 2CV purred, his friends kept chattering, and Monsieur Dupont smiled. On days like this, he was happy to be alive.
Before you ask, no I don’t smoke, but writing this has brought a long-forgotten smell to mind, and now I’d quite like to smell it, drifting through the air, an echo of an earlier time…
Thank you for reading, and next time you go out for a drive, keep your eyes peeled for M. Dupont.
Not Monsieur Dupont’s 2CV, happily
