La Taverne du Voyageur, Brittany, October 1898

JEAN DELAPORTE rang his age-old maritime bell, calling time on the evening’s proceedings as a flickering flame in the hearth drew its last breath of the day. 

               ‘Mesdames et Messieurs, you know the law of the land,’ barked the thickset landlord, delivering his customary monologue. 

                Ezekiel  Levy, a stubble-faced traveller with ruffled, raven-black hair, stirred from his slumber with menace in his eyes.

                ‘I’ve had my fill,’ grunted Ezekiel as he stumbled from his chair. Lurching forward, he crashed into the coat stand. ‘What are you pair of vagabonds grinning at?’ he slurred, his voice gruff. 

                Muted and wary, they turned their gaze back to their beers. Save these two men and the proprietor, there was nobody else to insult.

                ‘When you walk in, my regulars walk out, Levy. You cost me more than you spend,’ grumbled the stoney-faced landlord. ‘Go on, make your way back to your bow-top if you can find it...and don’t hurry back.’

                At the southernmost tip of the Quiberon Peninsular, a fierce westerly gale raged. Volleys of spume whipped off the white-capped breakers littering the beach. Roofs were stripped of slates, limbs were torn from trees, and the tavern’s painted sign, previously fixed to the porch, lay broken in two on the ground.

                Ezekiel clumsily burst out of the bar into the blustery night. Without reason for haste, he was drawn toward the thunderous sound of the sea.

                He staggered through a pine copse, parked his seat on a beachside wall, lit his clay pipe and considered his lot. The combination of drink and fatigue repeatedly roused his demons. Sometimes, he thought of his wife, Isabella, liberally spending his hard-earned silver, or worse, as with this night: he pictured an image of her locked in the arms of her fanciful lover.

'I HEAR HIM; he’s coming,’ whispered Isabella to her two seven-year-old boys. ‘Pretend you’re asleep, bonne nuit, bonne nuit.’

                ‘Bonne nuit, Maman,’  they replied hurriedly in unison.

                Ezekiel greeted his wife with a belligerent grunt, ‘Pour me a Cognac,’ he demanded heavily. ‘We need to speak.’

                ‘Keep your voice down; you’ll wake the twins. Please be quick. I’m ready for bed myself,’ Isabella said anxiously. 

                ‘Your ‘saddler man’ was in the bar tonight. He didn’t dare look me in the eye.’

                ‘No, Ezekiel...not this again. The child kicking inside me is yours. I’ve only ever slept with one man; there could never be another. She swallowed deeply and reached for his knee, but he dispassionately pushed her away. ‘I’ll rephrase my words: I’ve only ever wanted to sleep with one man: you, Ezekiel Levy. You’re the father of all my children. Please see sense. Your jealousy’s an illness; it’ll tear us apart.’

                Ezekiel ignored her plea and carried on regardless, ‘Laughing at me, they were, your silver-tongued lover and that beast of a barman. You’ll see the truth when your cuckoo arrives.’ He paused and gulped down his brandy. ‘And you won’t like my terms when it does.’ 

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